Chapter 26: The Black King Waits
The return to Ikemba Corporation Tower was quiet—too quiet.
After the ambush and the Soul Reapers' ruthless intervention, the group's mood had shifted from casual awe to heavy tension. Karen glanced back at the busy streets of Lagos through the bulletproof car window. What had once seemed vibrant now felt like a theater set hiding death behind the curtain. Even Cassandra, who usually radiated untouchable confidence, stared ahead, arms folded, lost in thought.
Sia met them at the entrance, arms behind her back, as always immaculate in her tailored grey suit. Her expression betrayed no concern, no irritation, just a tightness around the corners of her mouth.
"I instructed you not to wander," she said with clipped calm, as two Soul Reapers materialized behind her.
Jim raised a hand sheepishly. "To be fair, we were just—"
"—Being hunted," Sia finished coldly. "Three Veil operatives, all Soulbound Enforcers, ambushed your position. Were it not for Shadow Unit 3, you'd be rotting in some ritual pit by now."
Karen flinched.
Joshua, who had silently followed the group back from another rooftop, walked forward and gave Sia a long, measured look. "It won't happen again. They just needed air."
Sia exhaled sharply and gestured for the guards to stand down. "Lady Rose requests your presence tomorrow morning. Until then, do not leave the premises. Veil activity has escalated."
As the group ascended the elevator back to their assigned rooms, a dark wind stirred far away—one no one in the building could feel.
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From a high tower half-shrouded by veiled reality, Cirth the Black King stood atop an incomplete radio mast overlooking the oceanside slums of Makoko. Tall, adorned in regal shadow-thread robes, his face was hidden behind a sleek obsidian mask crowned with ancient gold. He did not blink. He did not breathe. He only watched.
Where his gaze landed, street lamps dimmed.
Behind him, his entourage of silent disciples—hooded, bound by Soul Chains—knelt in a ring. One of them dared to whisper, "The attempt failed."
"I am aware," Cirth said.
His voice was a serrated whisper—like dry leaves rustling over a tombstone.
"The Reapers are well-trained," the disciple continued. "We underestimated their presence."
Cirth raised a gloved hand, fingers tipped with arcane sigils.
"Their presence," he said slowly, "was expected."
He turned slightly, lifting his mask just enough to reveal a single eye—jet black, streaked with glowing red lines like cracks in a volcano. "What interests me is the girl… the one who shimmered."
"Karen Lockwood," another murmured.
"A blooming Proto Domain not born of ritual or training. That is not something the Spirit Tribunal predicted." Cirth smiled beneath the mask. "Which means… neither did the Ikemba."
He looked south, toward the ocean where the towers of Banana Island gleamed under the setting sun like polished ivory spears.
"Let them rest," he said, voice like a curse. "Let them think they are safe in Rose Ikemba's shadow. Let them find comfort."
Cirth turned, and shadows curled tighter around his figure like loyal dogs.
"When I strike again," he whispered, "there will be no Reapers. No mercy. No more time."
And in that moment, every bird within a mile of the Black King's tower fell silent.
The hunt was far from over.