The departure terminal at the Benin Rhines Hub was a cathedral of cold steel and vibrating glass, a place designed to make the individual feel as small as a grain of sand before the monolithic power of the organization. For Me, the air felt heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of ozone and the unspoken grief of a thousand goodbyes. The morning was grey, a thick mist clinging to the ancient red earth of Edo State, as if the land itself were reluctant to let go of the warriors it had birthed.
The transport bus sat idling at Gate 4 was a matte-black, forty-seater leviathan. It wasn't a civilian vehicle; this was a Rhines-class "Shuttle," armored with reinforced graphene plating and equipped with internal Yami-ebhi dampeners to ensure that the volatile powers of the recruits didn't accidentally tear the cabin apart during transit. Its engine didn't roar; it hummed with a low-frequency throb that Yoru could feel in the marrow of his bones.
Beside the boarding ramp, the moment of separation arrived. It was a scene of quiet, agonizing fractures.
Koji stood there, his pack slung over one shoulder, his posture already hardening into the rigid discipline of a Zamfara-bound defender. To the north lay the dust, the heat, and the brutal frontline of the Sahelian anomalies. To the south, where I was headed, lay Lagos, the Maw, the coastal heart of the Rhines' political and technological soul.
"Don't get soft on me" Koji said. His voice was steady, but l, tuned as I was to the subtle shifts of Kanjōkhō, could sense the jagged edges of My sorrow. It was a dull, leaden weight, the color of wet ash.
"I won't," I replied, my own voice sounding thin against the hum of the bus. "Just make sure the desert doesn't swallow that cheeky attitude of yours."
We didn't hug. We were Rhines now, Beyonds and Enhancers, tools of a greater design. But as Koji turned away toward the smaller, ruggedized transport marked for the North, I felt a literal tug in my chest. It was the "family" bond being stretched across hundreds of miles of Nigerian terrain. Pencil, Sweet, Zara, they were the anchors that had kept my soul from drifting into the abyss of my own power. Now, the anchors were being lifted.
I have to get better, I thought, my hand tightening around the strap of my bag until his knuckles turned white. I have to master this. Not for the Emblems, not for Ziv Bazuaye, but so I can protect the ones I love. So I never have to stand on a platform and watch them walk away again.
I boarded the bus. The interior was a tunnel of dim blue LED strips and the scent of sterile recycled air. He found a seat. Row 12, a window spot, and sat down. The seats were deep, bucket-style chairs designed to lock the occupant in place during high-speed maneuvers.
The pneumatic hiss of the doors sealing shut felt like a guillotine blade dropping on my past.
The journey began.
As the bus cleared the perimeter of the Benin base, the world outside transformed. Through the tinted, blast-resistant glass, I watched the city of Benin fade. We drove past the great Moats, the ancient defensive earthworks that had stood for centuries, now repurposed with glowing Rhines sensor towers that pulsed with a rhythmic indigo light. The red dust of the city kicked up in the wake of the bus, a swirling crimson ghost that seemed to chase us toward the highway.
We hit the A1 expressway, heading West. The transition was a masterclass in the geography of a world reshaped by energy.
First came the deep, primeval forests of the Ovia region. The trees here were behemoths, their canopies so dense they blotted out the sun, creating a world of eternal twilight below. I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the emerald blur. Occasionally, I saw the "Wraith-lights", wisps of uncontained Yami-ebhi that danced between the massive trunks, glowing with a sickly, ethereal green. This was the wild energy, the stuff the Rhines sought to domesticate.
As we crossed the bridge over the Ovia River, the water below looked like liquid obsidian, shimmering with the reflection of the heavy clouds. I felt the bus accelerate, the graviton-stabilizers kicking in as they reached speeds no civilian vehicle could dream of.
To drown out the silence of my thoughts, I reached into the mesh pocket of the seat in front of me. There, I found a pair of sleek, over-ear headphones, standard issue for long-range transport. I slid them on, and the world of the bus vanished.
I scrolled through the pre-loaded audio files on the seat-back tablet until he found a folder labeled 'Retro-Groove & Funk.' I pressed play on a track with a heavy, syncopated bassline.
Suddenly, the grey world outside was infused with color. A slap-bass rhythm, thick and oily as engine lubricant, began to thump in my ears. The "chack-a-chack-a" of a wah-wah guitar, the synth and vocals cut through the gloom. It was Funk, vibrant, defiant, and deeply human. I felt my Kanjōkhō react; the swirling, anxious energy in my gut began to settle, aligning itself with the four-four beat of the music. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the groove anchor my wandering mind.
Feeling a bit more centered, I reached into the small refrigerated drawer beneath my knees. Inside sat a single, silver foil bag. Potato chips.
I tore the bag open with a satisfying pop. The scent of salt and sunflower oil filled my small bubble of space. Ipulled out a chip, thick-cut, golden, and perfectly seasoned. As I bit into it, the sharp crunch resonated through my jaw, a mundane, wonderful contrast to the high-stakes espionage and ancient bloodlines that usually dominated his life.
I sat there for an hour, a lone Beyond in a 40-seater bus, vibing to the funk and eating chips while the world sped by.
We passed through Ore, the great crossroads. The town was a chaotic hive of activity even from the highway. Huge cargo-hulks, laden with Yami-ebhi canisters, were being escorted by Rhines "Defenders" on Lynxx bikes. The air above Ore was thick with the smoke of a thousand roadside kitchens and the shimmering heat-haze of industrial refineries. It was a place of transit, a place where paths crossed and diverged, the perfect metaphor for my life.
Further west, the landscape flattened into the rolling hills of the Ondo-Ogun border. Here, the "Grazen Towers" began to appear. These were colossal, needle-like structures that harvested the energy of the atmosphere, glowing with a constant, low-level amber light. They stood like silent giants across the horizon, marking the approach to the most electrified region in the world.
I was deep into a second track, a high-energy horn section of "Montagem Aquilma" blaring through my headphones, when I felt a shift in the air.
The Kanjōkhō is an instinctual thing. Even through the music, I felt a presence. It wasn't the sharp, jagged spike of a threat, but something immense, like the gravitational pull of a planet suddenly entering his orbit. It was a "Heavy" energy, grounded, dense, and warm.
Tap. Tap.
Two firm knocks on the plastic shell of my headrest.
I turned my head to the right. My headphones slipped slightly, the funk music leaking out into the quiet cabin like a tinny heartbeat.
Sitting in the aisle seat next to him was a guy who seemed to defy the dimensions of the bus. He was gargantuan, his shoulders nearly touching the seat across the aisle. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, so dark it seemed to absorb the blue LED light of the cabin. He wore his hair in thick, intricate dreadlocks that were pulled back, several of them tipped with silver rings engraved with the "Dragon" emblem of the Beyonders.
But it was his face that arrested my attention. Despite his massive size, the guy had an almost delicate quality to his features. His eyelashes were long and curved, "lady-like" in their elegance, framing eyes that were currently hooded in a look of casual, dangerous amusement. On his right cheek, a single dark mole sat like a mark of distinction.
The giant waved a massive hand through his hair, the silver rings clinking softly, and leaned in. His voice was a deep, resonant rumble that I felt in my chest, a bassline more powerful than the one in my headphones.
"I heard you are part of the Beyonds," the guy said, his eyes finally meeting mine. He didn't look at me with the fear or suspicion that most recruits did. There was a look of recognition there, as if he were seeing an equal.
He offered a hand that looked like it could crush a brick into powder, yet he held it with a surprising, light grace.
"Names Bolaji," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Nice meeting you, Kuro."
*What do you mean kuro*