Chapter Seven: When the Watchers Drew Near
The night Stephen realized he was being watched again, there was no vision, no voice, no dramatic manifestation.
There was only silence.
A heavy, unnatural silence that pressed against his chest like an unseen hand.
The campus had grown quiet after midnight. The laughter, the music, the careless freedom of youth had faded into darkness. Stephen lay awake on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, heart alert. He had learned to recognize this feeling. It was the stillness that came before an attack.
KOA was near.
He sat up slowly, his breath controlled. The charm around his neck felt colder than usual, as though iron had been dipped in night itself. He did not touch it. He had learned that fear fed it.
Instead, he prayed.
Not loudly. Not desperately. But firmly.
"Lord, You are my refuge. I will not be moved."
The air shifted.
Shadows gathered at the corners of the room, stretching unnaturally, bending against the walls. Stephen's heartbeat quickened, but his spirit stood firm. He had faced this before. What frightened him now was not their presence—it was their patience.
They were no longer rushing him.
They were studying him.
The Watchers
In the spiritual realm, KOA had advanced to a new phase. The elders no longer sent messengers to intimidate. They sent Watchers—silent, observing entities tasked with learning Stephen's weaknesses, patterns, and moments of vulnerability.
They did not speak.
They did not attack.
They waited.
Stephen sensed them even during the day. In lecture halls. In crowded walkways. In moments of laughter. Always watching. Always measuring.
It was exhausting.
Favour noticed it before he said anything.
"You're tired," she said one afternoon as they sat beneath the familiar mahogany tree. "Not physically. Spiritually."
Stephen nodded slowly. "They don't attack anymore. They just… observe. It's worse than before."
Favour's expression hardened. "That means they're preparing something bigger. Darkness never watches without intent."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Stephen, listen carefully. When the enemy stops roaring, it's because he's stalking. This is the most dangerous phase."
Pressure from Home
The call came that evening.
Stephen stared at his phone as it vibrated on the table. The name on the screen made his chest tighten.
Baba Dagunduro.
His father had not called in months.
Stephen hesitated, then answered.
"Ogundare," the voice said, cold and controlled. "You've grown distant."
Stephen closed his eyes. "My name is Stephen."
A pause. Then a low, dangerous chuckle. "You can rename yourself a thousand times. Blood does not forget."
Stephen said nothing.
"I hear you pray now," his father continued. "I hear you resist. Do you think that makes you strong?"
Stephen felt the watchers stir.
"I know what you carry," Baba Dagunduro said softly. "I know the charm still rests on your chest. I know you feel it at night. You cannot escape what you are."
Stephen's voice was steady. "I belong to God."
Silence stretched between them.
Then his father spoke again, slower, sharper. "Then prepare yourself. Because God does not protect cowards forever."
The line went dead.
Stephen remained seated long after the call ended, his hands clenched, his spirit burning. This was no longer indirect warfare. His father had stepped closer.
The First Fracture
That night, the pressure became unbearable.
Stephen tried to pray, but the words felt heavy. His thoughts wandered. His focus fractured. Doubt crept in—not loud, not dramatic, but subtle.
How long can you keep fighting?
How many nights can you endure this?
Wouldn't surrender be easier?
He fell to his knees, gripping the edge of his bed.
"Lord," he whispered, voice breaking, "I am tired."
The shadows stirred.
A whisper crept into his thoughts, smooth and persuasive.
Rest, Ogundare. Stop resisting. Just listen.
Stephen felt something crack inside him—not his faith, but his strength. For the first time, tears streamed down his face.
And then—
A warmth.
Not sudden. Not blinding.
Steady.
Grounding.
He felt it settle into his chest like a hand placed gently over his heart.
My grace is sufficient.
Stephen inhaled sharply.
The shadows recoiled.
The watchers withdrew, not defeated, but unsettled. Something had shifted.
Stephen rose slowly, wiping his face. He was still tired—but he was not broken.
KOA's Council
In the depths of the spiritual realm, KOA convened once more.
"The boy bends but does not break," one elder hissed.
"He is shielded," another spat. "Not by ritual. Not by blood. By conviction."
Baba Dagunduro stood apart from them, his expression carved from stone.
"Then we stop watching," he said. "And we begin harvesting."
The room darkened.
"We move against his foundation," he continued. "Not him. His support. His faith. His discipline."
A pause.
"And soon," he added quietly, "we send what he will not resist."
The council murmured in approval.
The next phase had begun.
A Call to Arms
Favour gathered the fellowship leaders two days later.
"This is no longer theoretical," she said, standing before them. "There is active spiritual warfare on this campus. We have been too comfortable."
Stephen stood beside her, silent but resolute.
"We fast," Favour continued. "We pray. We intercede. Not for ourselves alone—but for those who don't know they're under attack."
Eyes widened.
Fear stirred.
But so did resolve.
That night, Stephen felt something new awaken within him—not power, but authority. He did not yet know how to use it. But it was there, waiting.
The Closing Sign
As Stephen returned to his room after prayers, he stopped suddenly.
On his door, carved faintly into the wood, was a symbol.
Old.
Iron-bound.
Unmistakable.
KOA had crossed a line.
They were no longer observing from afar.
They were at his door.
Stephen placed his hand over his chest, over the charm, and spoke aloud for the first time without fear.
"You will not have me."
The symbol darkened—then faded.
The war had entered a new stage.
And Stephen Dagunduro was no longer just defending.
He was being prepared.
"No weapon formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn." — Isaiah 54:17