Chapter 27: The Weight
UNIBEN 7:00 AM
The sky was grey, heavy with the kind of clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. David walked across campus with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a smaller bag in his other hand, and a third bag—this one plastic, the kind you get from the market—tucked under his arm.
He had spent money.
Not responsibly. Not carefully. Happily.
Three hundred thousand naira extra sat in his account. Hazard pay for the Scotto fight, Jaron had called it. " The mission escalated too much. You earned it."
David had earned it.
And he had spent it like someone who had never had money before.
Clothes for his roommates. A necklace for CJ. A leather-bound journal for Israel—philosophy students loved that kind of thing. A new sketchbook for himself. This one was just paper.
And for Jane?
He had found a scarf. Deep blue, soft, the kind of fabric that felt expensive even if it wasn't. He didn't know why he bought it. He just saw it and thought of her.
He was in trouble.
FACULTY OF PHARMACY- The Pharmaceutical Lab.
The smell hit him first.
Smoke. Drugs. Chemicals. Loss.
David stopped walking. The laboratory —or what used to be the laboratory —stood before him, its windows blackened, its walls streaked with soot. Students gathered outside, some crying, some just staring. Lecturers in lab coats shouted into phones.
"What happened?" he asked a girl nearby.
She didn't look at him. "Fire. Last night."
"Anyone hurt?"
"No. But..." She gestured at the building. "Everything's gone. The labs. The equipment. The exams."
The exams.
David felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
Jane's project. The all-night experiment. The one she had been preparing for weeks.
"Which lab?"
"All of them."
300 LEVEL PHARMACY CLASS
He found her on a bench outside the class.
She was sitting alone, her lab coat still on, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The white tips caught the grey light. Her hands were folded in her lap. She wasn't crying.
That was worse.
David walked toward her slowly, the bags rustling.
"Jane."
She looked up. Her eyes were red, but her face was calm. The kind of calm that comes after crying, when there's nothing left.
"David." Her voice was flat. "You're back."
"I'm back."
"Where did you go?"
"Ekpoma."
"Ekpoma." She blinked. "The city with the gang violence?"
"The same."
"Why?"
"Work."
She stared at him. Then she laughed—a short, hollow sound.
"You disappear for days. You show up with bags. You tell me you went to a city that's been on the news for all the wrong reasons. And you say 'work.'"
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you?"
"I'm sorry."
David sat beside her on the bench. The duffel bag hit the ground. The plastic bag crinkled.
"The lab," he said.
"Burned."
"Your project?"
"Gone."
"The exams?"
"Also gone." She pressed her palms against her eyes. "We're going to have to retake everything. Everything, David. Weeks of work. Months of preparation. And now—"
Her voice cracked.
David didn't say anything. He just sat there, beside her, letting her feel it.
He saw it then.
A small thing. Grey. Shapeless. Clinging to her shoulder like a second shadow. It pulsed slowly, feeding.
He knew what it was.
Not a Phobia like Axum or Rebar or Scotto. Something smaller. Something quieter.
The fear of weight. The fear of burden. The fear of not being able to carry what life puts on your shoulders.
It was small now. But it would grow.
"Jane."
She looked at him.
"Please come here."
She frowned. "What?"
"Just... come closer please."
She hesitated. Then she leaned toward him.
David reached out. His fingers didn't touch her shoulder—they passed through the grey thing, green light flickering at his fingertips.
CRACK.
Not a Communion. Not even close. Just a slash. A correction.
The Phobia dissolved.
Jane gasped.
"What—" She touched her shoulder. "I feel... lighter."
"Yeah."
"David, what did you do?"
"Small trick." He put his hands in his pockets. "Learned it from consulting."
She stared at him.
"You're a terrible liar."
"So I've been told."
"David."
"Jane."He said as he smiled
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head and leaned against his shoulder.
"I'm too tired to argue."
"Good."
"I'm not going to forget this."
"I know."
"But I'm too tired."
He put his arm around her. The scarf—the blue one—was still in his bag. He would give it to her later.
"You should rest," he said.
"I can't. There's too much to do."
"The work will still be there tomorrow."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
They sat there, on the bench, as the grey sky refused to rain.
The Phobia didn't come back.
HALL 4 9:00 PM
CJ and Israel were already in his room when he got there.
They sat on his bed, on his roommate's bed, on the floor—wherever there was space. His roommates—Chuka, Tolu, and the quiet one whose name David always forgot—were there too, sprawled across the remaining furniture.
David walked in and dropped the bags.
"You're alive," CJ said.
"Obviously." He chuckled
"You were gone for days."
"I was working."
"In Ekpoma."
"Yes."
"The city that's been on fire?"
"Not literally."
"People died there, David."
David was quiet for a moment.
"I know."
The room shifted. Something in his voice. Something in his eyes.
Israel spoke first.
"You're not going to tell us what happened."
"I can't."
"Are you in trouble?"
"No."
"Are you in a cult?"
David laughed—a real laugh, tired and warm.
"No, Israel. I'm not in a cult."
"Then what are you in?"
David looked at his friends. At CJ's worried face. At Israel's calm eyes. At his roommates, pretending not to listen.
"Something I can't explain yet."
He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out gifts.
Clothes for Chuka and Tolu. Sneakers for the quiet one. A necklace for CJ—silver, simple, the kind of thing David would never buy for himself. A leather-bound journal for Israel, blank pages waiting for philosophy.
"I brought gifts though," he said.
The room erupted.
"David, what—"
"This is too much—"
"Bro, this is expensive—"
"Just take them."
They took them.
And for a few hours, David was just a student again. Not a Vanguard. Not a monster hunter. Just a friend, eating snacks, laughing at bad jokes, watching CJ try on the necklace in the mirror.
Israel pulled him aside before he left.
"David."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're in... be careful."
"I am."
"No. You're not." Israel's calm eyes were sharp. "You're reckless. You always have been. But now you're reckless with something real."
David didn't answer.
"Just come back," Israel said. "Whatever happens. Just come back."
He left.
David sat on his bed, alone, the room empty.
The green light flickered under his skin.
Not yet, he thought. Soon.
ON THE ROOFTOP OF HIS HOSTEL. 1:17 AM
The world was quiet.
David sat on the edge of the rooftop, his legs dangling over the side, the university spread out before him like a sleeping beast. The lights flickered. The stars hid behind clouds. The air was cool.
He held out his hand.
Then a green sketchbook manifested first—leather-bound, pages thick, the cover embossed with lines that seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them. It floated beside him, open to the first blank page.
The pen manifested in his right hand. Green. Sleek. The ink flowed without him shaking it.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's see what you can do."
He drew.
Page 1
A sword. Simple. Elegant. The kind of blade he had drawn a thousand times in his sketchbooks.
He reached into the page.
His hand sank through the paper like water.
He pulled out the sword.
It was real. Green ink trailed from the blade, fading as it caught the air. He swung it once—felt the weight, the balance, the truth of it.
He touched the page. The sword dissolved, flowing back into the ink.
Store.
He drew again.
A bird. Small. Detailed. Every feather rendered in perfect green lines.
He called it.
The bird lifted off the page, flapped its wings, circled his head once, and perched on his shoulder. Its feathers were warm. Its heartbeat was real.
He released it.
The bird dissolved, returned to the page.
Store.
He drew a shield. A chain. A rope. A key. A ladder. A door. All on the same page, all densely packed, all rendered with the precision of someone who had been drawing his whole life.
He called them one by one. Tested them. Released them.
Page 1 was full.
And it was active.
Page 2
He drew creatures.
A wolf, mid-run. A snake, coiled. A hawk, diving.
He called the wolf. It stood before him, green ink shimmering along its fur, its eyes bright with something that wasn't quite life but wasn't quite not.
"Good boy," David said ruffling it's fur.
The wolf tilted its head.
He released it.
Page 2 was full. Active.
Page 3
He drew Jane.
Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to.
Her face. Her hair. The white tips. The way she smiled when she wasn't thinking about it.
The drawing came to life—a small, green-ink version of her, sitting on the page, looking up at him.
"You're beautiful," he told the drawing.
The drawing didn't answer.
It just smiled.
Page 3 was full. Active.
Page 4
He turned to a fresh page.
He drew a flower. Simple. Small. One line for the stem, a few more for the petals.
He called it.
Nothing happened.
"What?"
He drew another flower. Called it.
Nothing.
He drew a sword—the same sword from Page 1. Called it.
Nothing.
David stared at the page.
Three pages.
He could only summon from three pages at a time.
Page 4 was drawn. Page 4 was stored. But it wasn't active.
He would have to choose which pages to activate each day. Page 1, 2, and 3 were active now. Page 4 would have to wait. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after.
He could draw on the other pages all he wanted. But until he activated it—until he chose it as one of his three for the day—the drawings would stay on the page, sleeping.
"Three pages," he said to the night. "I hope it resets tomorrow."
He closed the sketchbook. It dissolved, along with the pen, fading into green light that swirled around his hands and disappeared.
He would have to choose carefully.
5:21 AM
He kept drawing.
Not with the Gift. Just with paper. Just with ink. Just with his hands.
Page after page. Panel after panel. A girl running through a forest. A hunter following. Moonlight. Shadows. The first chapter of Shadow of the Sun had been good.
The second chapter would be better.
He drew until his hand ached.
He drew until the sun started to rise.
7:05 AM
"Class," David said, looking at his phone.
8:00 AM. Engineering mathematics.
He hadn't slept.
He didn't care.
He gathered his things—the new sketchbook, the pens, the bags of gifts already delivered—and walked toward the stairwell.
Behind him, on the rooftop, the green light faded.
Pages 1, 2, and 3 were full. Active. Ready.
The rest of the pages were waiting.
And David Osayi, for the first time in his life, felt like he had something to fight with.
Not just something to fight for.