Falling should have ended him.
Instead—
It delivered him into silence.
Adéọlá hit the ground hard with nothing to slow down his descent.
Air burst from his lungs as his body slammed against cold, fractured stone. The impact sent a violent jolt through him, tearing a cry from his throat as his wounded shoulder reignited in pain.
But that pain—
It was nothing.
Compared to what came next.
The moment he inhaled, the world forced itself into him. The moment his body crossed into the new world, the air itself turned violent.
Energy surged through his mouth, his nose, his skin—invading without restraint, without mercy. It burned as it entered, carving through his body like molten iron poured into fragile clay.
"A—Aghhh!"
He convulsed violently, fingers clawing at the ground as his back arched unnaturally.
Something inside him was being rewritten.
Paths—unseen, unknown—were forced open.
Widened.
Perfected.
His veins felt like they were splitting apart.
His chest tightened as if his heart would rupture under the pressure.
Blood spilled from his lips.
"Stop—!"
But it did not stop.
The world did not care.
It pressed deeper.
Stronger.
Until—
Suddenly—
It rushed into him.
Not as breath—
But as force.
He gasped instinctively—
And immediately regretted it.
Energy flooded his lungs like fire.
It tore through his chest, spread into his veins, and forced its way into every part of him without permission.
"Agh—!"
His body convulsed violently as he hit the ground, clutching at his chest, his wounded shoulder forgotten in the face of something far more unbearable.
This was not pain alone.
This was reconstruction.
His meridians—though he did not yet know the word—were being carved open.
Expanded.
Perfected.
Against his will.
He screamed.
A raw, broken sound that echoed across a world that had long forgotten noise in eons.
The energy did not stop.
It forced pathways through him—clean, precise, absolute.
Burning away imperfections.
Reshaping him into something that could contain it.
Blood spilled from his lips.
His vision blurred.
Then—
Silence.
Adéọlá lay still, trembling, his breath shallow and broken.
"…I'm…"
Alive?
The word felt uncertain.
Foreign.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
And saw the sky.
Cracked.
Like shattered glass frozen mid-collapse.
"No…"
His voice trembled.
"This… isn't real…"
He forced himself up, legs unsteady, vision swaying.
The land stretched endlessly before him.
Ruined.
Craters tore through the earth like scars left by gods at war. Entire sections of land had been obliterated, reduced to jagged emptiness. Broken structures stood in the distance—massive, ancient, now hollow and in ruin.
Everything was still.
Too still.
No wind.
No sound.
No life not considering him per se.
Adéọlá took a step back.
"I died…"
The thought settled heavily.
"This is death…"
A weak laugh escaped him. He thought after all the struggles he still dead.
"…this is a terrible afterlife."
Then—
Something moved.
At first, it was faint.
A shimmer in the air.
Then another.
And another.
Adéọlá's breath caught as the distortions sharpened—
Into forms.
Figures.
Floating.
Watching.
He froze.
"…no."
They were everywhere.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Countless.
Layered across the sky, drifting through the ruins, standing where no ground remained.
Transparent.
Faded but seems solid anyway.
But present.
Eyes—if they could still be called that—turned toward him.
All at once.
The contradiction evident on his face, he has never seen anything like this in his life.
"Alive…"
The voice was soft, uncanny, eerie sending chills down his spine.
Fragile.
It echoed inside his mind like a whisper carried through water.
Another followed.
Stronger.
"He breathes…"
A third—
"…warmth…"
Adéọlá's heart began to pound violently.
"They're… talking…"
The realization struck him with cold clarity.
"…they're looking at me."
Panic surged.
He turned and ran.
His feet pounded against broken earth as he fled blindly, stumbling over debris, slipping across fractured stone. His breath came in ragged bursts, every step sending pain through his body.
"I'm dead—this isn't real—this isn't real—"
He tried as hard as he could to convince himself it was an illusion, but his legs never stopped moving.
The air behind him shifted.
They were following.
Not with footsteps— at least that would have been better than being chased by "Eboras" he thought panic was creeping in.
But with presence.
Faster.
Closing.
A faint cry echoed behind him.
"Wait—!"
Another—
"Don't let him disappear!"
A sharper voice cut through—
"Seize him!"
Adéọlá pushed harder.
"I'm not staying here—!"
His legs moved before thought could catch up.
He ran across broken ground, stumbling over debris, slipping on ash and fractured stone.
He did not look back.
He did not want to.
Because something deep within him told him—
If he did—
He would see them closer.
Too close.
He had no way of dealing with some that mystical
The air shifted behind him.
They were following.
Not with footsteps.
But with presence.
Faster than he could run.
Adéọlá's chest tightened.
"I'm dead…"
The thought repeated.
Desperate.
"If I'm dead—why does it hurt?!"
His shoulder throbbed violently.
His chest burned from the forced energy.
His lungs ached.
This was not death.
It was worse.
"STOP."
The word struck him like a command carved into his bones.
His body froze mid-motion.
His legs refused to move.
His breath halted.
Slowly—
He turned.
They had surrounded him.
Now, he saw them clearly.
Not just shapes.
People.
Or what remained of them.
A woman stood closest—her form faint, her expression weary but kind. Her clothing suggested something regal once, now tattered even in death.
Beside her, a man with hollow eyes clutched what looked like a broken spear.
Further back—
A child.
Small.
Silent.
Watching him with something dangerously close to hope.
Adéọlá's chest tightened. Words stuck his throat, he had a smile that looked like he was crying
"…you're… all…"
"Dead," the woman finished gently.
The word settled heavily.
Not what he was expecting. He had expected an introduction, but this was fine too
Their forms flickered, unstable but unmistakable.
Adéọlá's breath came in shallow bursts.
"…what do you want from me?"
No answer came immediately.
Instead, they watched him.
Studied him.
Then—
A single figure moved forward.
Human.
Old.
Calm.
"You are not dead."
Adéọlá laughed weakly. Genuinely happy he made it through at the same time worried about his recent situation.
Before he could respond—
A darker presence pushed forward.
The air grew heavier.
Colder.
Demonic forms emerged—larger, more distorted, their outlines unstable, their presence oppressive.
One of them spoke.
Its voice deep.
Resonant.
Hungry.
"…alive flesh."
Another followed, sharper.
"…fresh breath."
The human souls reacted instantly.
"Stay back!"
"You will not touch him!"
They immediately formed a formation around him. Adeola was stunned how fast his life is crumbling before he could blink.
"He is not yours!"
The demonic presence surged forward.
"And you will not claim him."
The tension snapped.
The air erupted.
Souls clashed—not with bodies, but with will.
Invisible forces collided, distorting the space around Adéọlá as pressure built rapidly.
The woman stepped in front of him.
"We protect what remains!"
The demonic figure laughed darkly.
"You protect weakness."
"We preserve legacy!"
"You hoard ashes!"
Fragments of memory flickered around them.
Brief.
Unstable.
A battlefield—
A burning sky—
Massive figures clashing—
Cities collapsing—
Screams.
Adéọlá staggered.
"…what is this…?"
"Memory of what the world was before they burnt it," the woman said, strained.
"Remnants of what was," the demon added.
The conflict intensified. Totally getting out of hand. The whole thing is turning into a slugfest causing destruction a rocket would. He could see the memories merged with what is happening, showing what happened before. Adéọlá is done having it
"Enough."
The word did not come from him.
But it echoed through him.
Through the Àṣẹ within him.
And for a brief moment—
The chaos paused.
The souls recoiled.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
Adéọlá's breathing slowed.
Something clicked into place.
Not fully understood.
But undeniable.
They could not ignore him.
Not anymore.
He steadied himself, forcing his voice to hold.
"If you will destroy me if this continues…" he said, his tone low, strained but deliberate, "then this world remains dead."
Silence followed.
The truth of it settled over them.
The human souls shifted first.
"He speaks truth, even after all these years we still yet can't see the truth…"
The demonic ones hesitated.
Their hunger remained.
But so did something else.
Awareness, wanting, they do not want to disappear without a legacy. The world they once loved is gone any longer they will be gone with it too.
Adéọlá swallowed, his mind racing.
Opportunity.
Even here.
Even now.
"If I live," he continued, "then your knowledge lives."
A pause.
Long.
Heavy.
"I will learn."
His gaze hardened.
"From all of you."
The tension thickened.
"…then stop acting like you learned nothing."
A long pause followed.
Then—
The demon scoffed.
"…bold coming from an ant."
The woman smiled faintly.
"…necessary."
They looked at each other nodded; they cannot pass on the deal he was making. Letting them fulfill their wish.
Adéọlá ran his good hand through his hair, exhaling.
"…now can someone explain what actually happened here?"
The tension shifted again.
This time— pride, arrogance and nostalgia
Into something almost… familiar.
The woman straightened.
"We built a civilization that rivaled heaven. Built the best world the entire universe has ever seen"
Pride lingered.
Even now.
A demonic voice cut in.
"And wasted half its potential."
She turned sharply.
"We preserved balance. And don't talk like your race are not the problem."
"You feared growth. We could easily raise the whole world to another level surpassing even heaven, but you weak humans hold out to some weak moral base line. All it need was some sacrifice"
"We respected limits! We are not killing half of the population for your sacrifice, we of the righteous dao"
"You hid behind them! And don't call yourself righteous, we know what you guys do. Even we demons are that despicable."
Adéọlá blinked slowly.
"…they are arguing"
Neither stopped. He looked confused; he had never seen souls bickering before they looked like two villages boys arguing on whose mother's food is the best.
"You consumed worlds!"
"You buried power, resources!"
"You destroyed everything!"
"You started it!"
"I escalated it!"
"…you both ended it," Adéọlá said flatly.
Silence.
Then— they both looked embrassed at being pointed out
"…yes."
"…yes. Have a problem with that ant?"
"... don't intimidate the child if not, look at this sword"
"... you can't scare me with a broken artifact, look at my undisputed tyrant mace"
He stared at them.
"…that's embarrassing."
A faint ripple passed through the souls.
Even now—
Even here—
They felt it.
A figure stepped forward from the human side.
Older.
More composed.
"I am Elder Afoláyan."
From the demonic side, a towering presence followed.
"I am Varkhul the Devourer."
"You would carry what remains of us?" they looked at him
Adéọlá met their gaze.
"I will carry everything."
A ripple spread through the gathered souls.
Not agreement.
Not yet.
But interest.
The first shift.
The first fracture in their endless conflict.
Adéọlá exhaled slowly.
He had survived the fall.
But this—
This was something else entirely.
A dead world.
Endless knowledge.
No rulers.
No limits.
His gaze moved across the ruined landscape.
The craters.
The broken structures.
The silent sky.
Resources.
Forgotten power.
A foundation.
Something stirred within him.
Not grief.
Not fear.
Something colder.
Clearer.
Purpose.
"If this world is empty," he said quietly, "then I will build in it."
The souls watched him.
Human.
Demon.
Enemies.
Teachers.
All tools he will use.
Adéọlá's eyes hardened.
"The crown did not fall."
His voice carried now.
Not loud.
But certain.
"It was only removed."
And in that dead world—
For the first time since its destruction—
Something began again.
Afoláyan studied him.
"You will learn from me."
Varkhul crossed his arms.
"You will survive, prepare yourself for some training boy."
Adéọlá frowned.
"…both of you?"
They answered instantly.
"He is mine."
"No—mine."
They turned.
Locked eyes.
And glared.
Adéọlá sighed.
"…again."
After a long pause—
Afoláyan spoke stroking his exceptional white beard.
"…we will share."
Varkhul exhaled.
"…temporarily."
Adéọlá rubbed his temple. He saw them play rock, paper, scissor to determine his fate
"…I don't have a say in this, do I?"
"No."
"No."
"…great."
Afoláyan stepped forward, raising a hand.
"First—we stabilize you."
Before Adéọlá could react—
Warmth spread through his shoulder.
The pain vanished instantly.
Completely.
Adéọlá gasped.
"…what—?"
"Basic application of Àṣẹ," Afoláyan said calmly putting one hand behind his back assuming a pose he thought looked cool.
"Basic," Varkhul echoed with mild disdain. Indignant on embarrassing his lifelong enemy or partner for now
Adéọlá swayed slightly.
"…what now…?"
Afoláyan's voice steadied.
"There are ten stages of cultivation."
His vision blurred slightly.
"…ten…"
"Each divided into four phases—Early, Middle, Upper, Perfect."
Varkhul added grinning as if it was something that could be done easily
"Climb them—or perish."
Adéọlá gave a weak, tired laugh.
"…you both need better speeches…"
The world tilted.
The strain caught up.
The pain.
The transformation.
The shock.
Afoláyan frowned.
"…his body is failing."
"Not failing," Varkhul said.
"…adjusting."
Adéọlá tried to respond—
But darkness crept in.
Slow.
Heavy.
The last thing he felt—
Was warmth.
And the faintest echo of voices—
"…we begin when he wakes."
Then—
Nothing.