A long time ago—
"The village never offered me much… What am I saying? The village offers me plenty," Chibuzor mutters to himself as he walks through the grand halls of the royal palace.
He is young—about twelve years old—shining with an unspoken light, the glow of destiny not yet realized.
Outside, the village bursts into glorious chorus to celebrate the New Yam Festival. Colorful cloths flutter in the breeze, and ancestral spirits walk the earth, bringing blessings and joy to the people.
One such spirit glides through the palace hallway where the royal family—king, queen, and young Prince Chibuzor—awaits at the entrance. The air shifts. Noticing the presence of power, the royal family bows their heads in reverence as the spirit gently pats their backs before continuing on its path.
"They're all so beautiful," Chibuzor says in awe, eyes wide.
"Yes, my son," the king replies, his voice filled with pride. "And someday, all of this will be yours. But first, you'll need to be fierce in battle."
"In this boring old place?" Chibuzor scoffs. "The only warrior-worthy thing we've done is stop a chicken thief."
The king chuckles softly. "Oh, but my son… the time will come. And when it does, we will win it—you will win it." He places a firm, proud hand on Chibuzor's shoulder.
Five hours later, the celebrations have faded. Villagers have returned home, and palace maids begin tidying up—sweeping the grounds, collecting leaves used to wrap food. The king and queen sit together, watching.
In front of them, Chibuzor is deep in an imaginary battle, kicking and punching at invisible foes, commanding unseen soldiers, waging a war only he can see.
The king laughs, amused. "Yes, that's my son! Don't let that one escape! Get them, boy!"
"You've always encouraged his antics," the queen remarks with a fond smile. But then her face darkens. "My king… are you certain about this war? Is Oshimili really a place you wish to challenge?"
"Do not worry, my love," he replies, his tone resolute. "They may be strong, but our army is vast. And they do not know we're coming. We'll crush them before they even raise a sword."
But just as he finishes, as though the heavens mock him, a fiery ball crashes down from the sky, landing just outside the palace with a deafening roar. The shockwave sends tremors through the royal grounds.
Before the king can react, ten more fireballs fall from the sky, this time striking terrifyingly close. One crushes the palace gates. The blast throws Chibuzor across the courtyard. Maids scream, silenced as they're consumed by the flames.
"Chibuzor!" the king yells, rushing to his son's crumpled body.
"Chibuzor! Chibuzor!" he calls out again and again until a faint cough escapes the boy's lips. Relief floods the king's face—his son is alive.
His wife runs toward them. "Get down!" she screams.
But it's too late.
A rain of arrows falls from the sky.
She collapses mid-stride, pierced by dozens. The king looks up—more arrows descend like a storm. With no other choice, he shields his son with his own body. Blood paints the ground as everything fades to black.
Two Months Later—
A tall general escorts a fearsome new king through a line of captured villagers, their hands bound and heads covered with rough sacks. They kneel before a crowd, their fate sealed.
"I will read the decree of the king," an elder announces, unrolling a scroll made of goatskin. His voice cuts through the still air: "By the king's decree, all who resist his rule or show allegiance to the former reign are sentenced to immediate execution."
The general steps forward. "These kneelers are traitors. Let their end be a warning to all who defy the new throne."
The king gives the signal. The sacks are removed.
One by one, the villagers are beheaded. The crowd gasps in horror as blood soaks the ground. Palace guards begin dragging the bodies away without ceremony.
Among the crowd, a pale boy watches with burning eyes beneath a cowskin cloak.
It is Chibuzor.
He glares with quiet rage, his soul set alight by grief and fury.
He returns to a small, humble hut—a far cry from the palace he once called home. He storms inside, heading straight to his chambers.
Nne Oluchi, the hut's caretaker, rushes in after him.
"What's the matter this time, my king?"
"Don't call me that," Chibuzor snaps. "King of what kingdom?" His voice cracks, and then the tears come. "My father's legacy is being crushed out there… and I'm here, hiding. I watched another execution today. I wanted to move, to stop it, but my body wouldn't listen. I just stood there. I'm a coward…"
"But you are still our rightful king," Oluchi whispers, holding him. "And what would I do if I lost you, my king? It would break me." She hugs him tightly as he cries into her shoulder.
Later That Day—
Chibuzor is gathering firewood, still lost in thought. His slow pace allows Oluchi—struggling with a calabash of water on her head—to catch up.
"See? I told you I'm made for war," she jokes, panting.
Chibuzor raises an eyebrow. "As if a woman belongs on the battlefield. You should stick to making meals and raising children."
"Your mouth is still as bad as ever," she huffs in mock offense.
They both laugh.
Then Chibuzor sighs, the laughter fading. "Thank you, Oluchi. I always appreciate your company. But it doesn't change the fact that we're still in this mess."
"Hmmm," she hums thoughtfully. "Come with me after this."
They make their way deep into the forest, both cloaked. The air grows cold, eerie. Trees tower above, blotting out the moonlight.
"Where are we?" Chibuzor whispers, wary.
"Shhh," Oluchi hushes. She lets out a strange bird call.
Suddenly, masked men descend from the trees, surrounding them in tense silence.
Chibuzor instinctively prepares to fight.
"He's with me," Oluchi says, stepping in front of him.
A masked man steps forward, yanking down Chibuzor's hood. His identity revealed, the air thickens with surprise.
The masked men shift positions, forming a line. They bow deeply, and in one powerful voice, they chant:
"Igwe."