The church was quiet, too quiet. The pews were stained with blood that would never wash out. Survivors huddled together, whispering prayers under their breath.
Uncle Tunde's body lay wrapped in torn cloth near the altar. There was no burial, no ceremony. In Lagos now, the dead stayed where they fell.
Ngozi sat by him, silent tears rolling down her face. Amara clung to her side, trembling. Mela stood apart, staring at the iron scars carved into his arm. They glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He hated them.
"Why him?" he muttered. His voice cracked. "Why not me?"
Ngozi lifted her head, weary. "Because God — or Ogun, or whoever dey hear prayers now — chose different. Tunde fought because that's who he was. You no fit carry his death like curse."
Mela said nothing. The words felt hollow.
Later that night, while most survivors slept, the radio crackled. A broken transistor one of the men had been guarding suddenly picked up a signal. Static. Then a voice — distant, urgent, cut with interference:
"—world governments collapsing—… emergency protocol—… rifts detected in multiple cities—London, São Paulo, Johannesburg—unconfirmed reports of… portals…—"
The radio died.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Amara whispered, "Brother… what's a rift?"
Mela didn't answer. His stomach sank. He thought of all the manga and manhwa he had devoured late into the night. Rifts. Dungeons. Monsters. Was that what this was?
Ngozi's barrier flickered faintly. "Whatever it is… it's not stopping in Lagos. The whole world is breaking."
Outside, in the ruins of the city, survivors swore they saw strange lights in the sky — faint, geometric, like cracks in glass. Whispers spread: gateways, doors, holes to other worlds.
Some said they led to salvation. Others said they led to hell.
But all agreed on one thing: something was coming through.
And far beneath Lagos, deep in the cracked foundations of the earth, a jagged cavern pulsed with light. Symbols etched into the walls glowed — alien, divine, unknown.
The first dungeon was waking.