The machete gleamed under the dim warehouse lights, its edge hovering dangerously close to Mela's throat. The lieutenant's hand was steady, his eyes bloodshot, the madness of survival burning in them.
"Dis one quiet too much," the man growled, his voice raspy, heavy with suspicion. "Na spy him be. If I kill am now, everybody go dey safe."
Mela froze. His body felt weak, still aching from hunger and fear. Ogun's whispers were gone, his power silent. For a moment, he was just a 17-year-old boy trapped among killers.
"Kill am!" a gang member shouted, laughing. Others joined, pounding their weapons against crates and barrels.
"Stop!" Amara's voice cracked as she shoved her way forward. "Leave him alone! He hasn't done anything!"
The lieutenant's grin widened. He dragged the machete slightly away from Mela's neck and turned his attention to Amara. His eyes traveled over her in a way that made Mela's stomach twist.
"Ohhh… so na your sister, eh? Pretty one," he sneered. "Maybe we go use her for something better."
Mela's vision blurred red. Rage and fear battled in his chest. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms until they bled. Tiny specks of iron dust shimmered faintly around his skin, like glitter in the air.
Their mother stepped forward, desperation in her voice. "Ẹ jọ̀ọ́… ẹ má ṣe!" (Please… don't do this!) She reached out, but the lieutenant shoved her violently. She crashed against a wall of crates, blood trailing down her temple.
"Mama!" Amara screamed, rushing toward her.
Something inside Mela broke. His chest tightened, breath ragged. His vision tunneled.
No. Not again. I won't lose them.
The faint iron dust around him thickened, spiraling into jagged shards that fused clumsily over his arms. It wasn't smooth, wasn't polished — it was raw, crude armor, wrapping his skin in pain. His muscles screamed as though burning from the inside.
The lieutenant blinked. Then he grinned. "So you dey hide power? Oya show us!"
He swung the machete. Mela raised his arm, the iron coating screeching as it caught the blow. Sparks flew. The sound echoed through the warehouse.
The crowd roared. Some cheered. Some screamed.
The fight was ugly. The lieutenant was stronger, more experienced. Every swing rattled Mela's bones, sent shocks of pain tearing through his body. His makeshift blade cracked, splintered, then re-formed with agonizing effort. His breath came ragged, blood dribbling from his mouth.
"Ẹ̀mí rẹ̀ yóò parí ní òní!" (Your life will end today!) the lieutenant roared, driving the machete downward.
Mela blocked, but his knees buckled. The iron shattered again. His arms trembled. His strength was failing.
Their mother screamed. Suddenly, light burst around her, forming a shimmering barrier between the lieutenant and her son. The gang gasped, staggering back. Even she looked at her glowing hands in disbelief.
The barrier shimmered, holding for only a few seconds before cracking under the lieutenant's brute force. With a furious snarl, he smashed through and slammed the flat of his blade against her chest. She was thrown aside, coughing blood.
"Mama!" Amara's voice tore the air.
Mela's world tilted. His iron crumbled into dust. His body collapsed onto one knee. He could barely lift his head.
The lieutenant raised his blade. "Na here your story end."
Mela closed his eyes.
And then — the voice. Heavy. Metallic. Ancient.
"Iron is born in fire. Will you be consumed… or will you endure?"
Ogun.
His veins ignited. His body seared with unbearable heat. The dust surged back, not forming just a blade this time, but wrapping his chest, shoulders, and fists in jagged, uneven armor. Not beautiful. Not smooth. But solid.
Mela roared. His punch met the lieutenant's chest. The crack of breaking ribs echoed. The older man stumbled, coughing blood, his grin faltering for the first time.
The crowd screamed in shock. Some shouted for blood. Others began to back away.
But Mela was collapsing from the inside. His skin blistered where the iron touched. His breaths were shallow, his muscles shredded. He staggered, swaying on his feet.
The lieutenant, though injured, spat blood and grinned again. "You tink you be hero? Boy… you still go die."
Before he could strike, a sound shook the walls.
A deep, guttural roar. Stone grinding against stone.
The floor trembled. Survivors clutched the walls, eyes wide.
A dungeon was forming nearby.
And in the corner of the warehouse, where shadows clung unnaturally, something darker stirred. Oily black mist curled, whispering like voices from another world.
Someone gasped. "…Sanni."
The real nightmare was only just beginning