FACE TO FACE WITH A GOD
The first arrow split the night with a whistle. Then came another. And another.
In seconds, the sky was alive with them – dozens, hundreds – black shapes blotting out the moon. They fell like divine judgment, fast and merciless, tearing into earth, metal and flesh without care for who stood in their path. Somewhere in the chaos, the thug leader screamed – briefly – before something else silenced him for good.
"Move!" Philip's voice cut through the panic like a blade.
Paul didn't think – he grabbed Grace's wrist and ran. All around them, arrows hissed down, striking the ground with sickening thuds. One slammed into the dirt where Grace's foot had been a heartbeat ago.
Philip's team was already moving, driving the terrified family into the car's backseat. By the time Paul and Grace reached them, the others were piling into the boot, making space where there was none. Paul shoved Grace inside, slammed the door, and turned to face the storm.
His hand flew to his pack, fingers curling around the grip of his shield –
-but before he could draw it, something whirred past his ear. A small, dome-shaped device soared overhead, snapping open mid-air.
"Here!" Philip's voice barked from behind, rough with urgency. He yanked Paul's arm, dragging him under the descending shield.
The dome locked into place with a metallic thrum, sealing them inside a shimmering half-sphere just as the sky crashed upon them. The sound was deafening – iron rain hammering steel. Paul clenched his sword so hard his knuckles went white, as if gripping it tighter could somehow keep death at bay.
Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched, bent, and finally snapped as the last arrow struck.
Silence fell, heavy and unnatural.
Philip retracted the dome. Outside, the world had transformed – the ground bristled with arrows like a field of blackened reeds. The car… was a grotesque porcupine, its frame peppered with steel shafts.
Paul's gut twisted. "No… the car!" He sprinted to it, dread flooding his chest.
The roof was pitted and pierced, but the windows – miraculously – had held. Inside, Grace and the others clung to each other, wide-eyed and pale.
"You're fine," he breathed, opening the door.
"We are," Grace said, but her hands shook as he stepped out. Her gaze kept darting to the sky, flinching at every shadow.
The boot creaked open. Philip's two teammates emerged.
"Woah…" the boy whispered, eyes wide at the arrow-littered ground. "That was –"
A sharp kick from the girl cut him off, leaving him hopping on one leg.
"What was that for?" he hissed.
She didn't answer – her glare was colder than the night air.
"That's enough!" Philip's voice snapped them both to attention. "We don't have time. Prepare for battle."
The wind shifted. Somewhere beyond the arrow field, something moved.
Weapons came free all around, steel whispering against leather. Grace notched an arrow, Paul drew his sword, and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder. The clearing fell into a silence so deep it rang in Paul's ears. His heartbeat was the only sound, slow and heavy, each thud a drumbeat in the stillness.
The ground quivered beneath his boots. Faint at first—just a ripple—but growing with each breath until the earth seemed to pulse under them. Pebbles rattled in the dirt.
And then it stopped.
The silence broke under something else entirely. A wave of force—thick, cold, and sharp with malice—rolled over the group. It sank into Paul's skin, coiled in his lungs, and whispered that standing was pointless. His knees threatened to bend, but he forced them straight.
A demon, he thought, recognizing the taste of it immediately.
"A demon," he muttered aloud, his knuckles whitening around his hilt.
To his surprise, Philip and his team stood firm, their faces unreadable. Grace too seemed untouched, her arrow drawn and steady. For a moment, he wondered if they felt it at all.
From the haze at the far side of the clearing, a man emerged. Thin—almost skeletal—his every movement deliberate. Large, round glasses magnified his eyes into pale, insect-like orbs. In his left hand, he carried a clipboard, absurd in this setting, yet somehow making him more unnerving.
No aura rolled from him. No pressure. Just that stretched, unwavering smile.
"Greetings, General Philip," he said, his voice smooth but faintly resonant, the kind of tone that seemed to vibrate in the bones.
"That's a peculiar way to say hello," Philip replied, his stance unshaken. "I see you haven't adjusted to the times, AgwuNsi."
The name hit Paul like a jolt.
AgwuNsi—the Igbo god of health and divination. Trickster. Sorcerer. A being shaped from belief itself.
"To think they'd send a god after me…" Philip muttered, low and steady.
AgwuNsi chuckled—a sound that began light and human, then warped into something bent and metallic. "You flatter yourself, General. I was merely passing by."
Then, without warning, his right hand rose.
The shift was instant. This was no demonic malice. It was vast, alien, and clean in its terror—a divine pressure that seemed to press against the very frame of the world. It wasn't heat or weight so much as inevitability, as if the air itself had decided to crush them. Paul's vision sharpened to painful clarity, every nerve bristling as if the universe itself had turned to look at him.
"Hold your ground!" Philip's command cut through the swell, firm and unyielding.
Paul gritted his teeth.
This was no ordinary opponent. This was a god.
And whatever happened next, retreat was no longer an option.
…
There were two types of power in the world that Paul had learnt growing up.
As the god's presence pressed down on him, the truth became painfully clear: there was the power you could see, touch, and fight… and there was the kind that could unravel you from the inside. The metaphysical always won.
AgwuNsi raised his hands, and the air buckled as though bowing to him. Pressure crashed over them—thick, suffocating, almost liquid in weight. Paul's ears rang. His vision quivered at the edges, as if the world itself were straining to stay in focus. His chest locked, forcing his breaths into short, ragged gasps.
His knees wanted to fold. His fingers locked tighter around his sword hilt until the leather bit into his palms. Sweat stung his eyes, but he refused to bow.
"Oh… resisting this long?" AgwuNsi's voice was soft, curious—dangerously so.
Paul tore his gaze sideways. The twin-blade users lay sprawled on the ground, weapons forgotten, and muscles twitching in violent spasms. Grace stood, barely—her bow acting as a makeshift crutch. Her face was chalk-white, lips trembling, but her eyes still burned with defiance.
General Philip was unbent. His jaw was a steel trap, his boots rooted, though the tendons in his neck strained like drawn cables.
AgwuNsi's gaze slid back to Paul, dark eyes narrowing. "What are you?"
The words tunneled into his mind, bypassing his ears entirely. Thought itself became slippery. Memories and reason unraveled under the compulsion to speak.
No. He clenched his teeth. Don't—
"Have you had your fun bullying him already?" Philip's voice cracked through the haze like a sword through cloth.
The weight vanished. Paul staggered, gulping air, every muscle trembling from the sudden absence.
"Sorry. I was carried away," AgwuNsi said, his smirk reappearing. His focus shifted to Philip. "Don't worry, General. Your turn is coming."
"Come at me, then." Philip twirled his sword once, the steel flashing in the sunlight.
But before the god could advance, Philip's voice cut in again, cool and sharp. "Wait. Let's make this interesting."
AgwuNsi stilled. "Interesting how?"
"You versus me. All your tricks, except telepathy. If I win, you let us go and call off your soldiers."
"And if you lose?"
"Then we're yours."
For a beat, the god only watched him, glasses catching the light so his eyes were hidden. Then: "I accept."
The air tightened—not with metaphysical weight this time, but with the quiet before a storm.
AgwuNsi's cassock rippled like molten shadow. Philip shifted into a ready stance, sword angled low.
The god struck first—a flick of his hand, and the ground erupted in jagged spikes. Philip moved before they broke the surface, dodging with an impossible swiftness. Glowing shards materialized midair, streaking toward him; his blade caught them in precise arcs, shattering them into harmless sparks.
Space itself seemed to warp around AgwuNsi. Spikes melted into streams of mercury that coiled like snakes. Light bent in shimmering arcs, making his figure blur and ripple like a mirage.
Philip carved through it all—his footwork tight, his strikes efficient, cutting through illusion and substance alike. But Paul saw the tremor in his sword arm, the small, growing delays in each parry.
Beside him, Grace's breathing was steadier now, but her eyes stayed fixed on the fight.
"He's not going to win," she whispered.
Paul didn't answer. His own thoughts were a war zone. Was Philip buying time? For what? For who?
Running was tempting—anything would be better than staying in the god's shadow—but there could be an army waiting outside. If AgwuNsi caught them mid-flight, it would be over.
So Paul stayed. Watched. Waited. And prayed Philip's plan, whatever it was, would work.
…
The duel between Philip and AgwuNsi had changed.
The god was done toying with him.
For the first time, AgwuNsi moved from his rooted position. One step—and he vanished.
Philip had been dodging the earlier barrage with sharp, economical movements, but this sudden disappearance left him seemingly exposed.
The air behind him warped.
AgwuNsi reappeared, palm outstretched for the kill. The strike that followed wasn't just force—it was annihilation. Trees splintered like matchsticks, the ground tore open in a jagged trench, and the shockwave punched the air from Paul's lungs even at a distance.
Philip rolled away a fraction of a second before impact, the heel of AgwuNsi's hand missing him by inches.
If he'd been any slower, there wouldn't have been a body to bury.
"Oh? You avoided that?" The god's voice carried a note of genuine surprise.
Philip didn't answer. He raised his sword, shoulders squared, his grip like iron.
AgwuNsi tilted his head—like a predator deciding whether its prey was worth finishing.
"Let's see how long you last."
He came at Philip again—faster this time. His strikes blurred into streaks of silver and shadow, each one precise enough to end the fight. Steel screamed as Philip blocked, parried, or barely slipped aside. The ground buckled beneath their feet, dust swirling in violent eddies around them.
Philip wasn't as fluid, but he was precise—every movement born of skill, instinct, and sheer refusal to yield. Still, Paul could see the cost in his uncle's shoulders, in the split-second delays creeping into his defense.
A hand clamped onto Paul's arm, dragging him back from the sight. Franklin.
He looked pale, still recovering from the earlier oppressive force, but they were moving.
"We need you," Franklin rasped, pointing toward the treeline.
Grace and Nessa emerged, each dragging a bundle of long wooden pegs, the surfaces etched with intricate Latin prayers that glimmered faintly in the moonlight.
"It's a sealing formation," Franklin explained between breaths. "Only chance we have to trap him."
Paul's stomach tightened. Their father had taught them about formations—ritual tools for bending the supernatural—but the craftsmanship on these pegs was far beyond anything he'd handled before.
"There are four pegs—one for each quadrant. You need to plant them at the cardinal points and recite the prayer carved on them. Can you read Latin?"
"Yes," Paul and Grace answered in unison.
"Good. Do it fast, do it quiet. If he catches on before it's ready…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Paul grabbed one peg and broke into a crouched run, keeping low, forcing his steps to stay quiet despite the drumbeat of his heart. Behind him, the clash of steel and the roar of air from AgwuNsi's strikes made the night feel smaller, more fragile.
He reached his quadrant—then froze.
The pressure in the air shifted. The other presence—the one they'd almost forgotten in the chaos—was back. Stronger.
It was here.
A shadow moved between the trees, warping the darkness around it. This was no divine aura—it wasn't majestic or commanding. It was raw, chaotic, and steeped in venom.
The demon.
Paul's breath hitched. The air felt thick, pressing down until it seemed his ribs might crack. His fingers clenched hard around the peg, splinters biting into his palm.
Grace's head jerked toward the same point in the forest, her bow drawn. Franklin and Nessa stiffened, lips pale and dry.
The demon emerged—towering, shoulders hunched, a shifting mass of shadow with eyes that burned like molten glass. Its presence radiated rage so intense it almost had weight.
Paul forced himself to kneel. The earth felt cold beneath his fingertips as he drove the peg in and began the prayer.
The Latin spilled from his lips, shaky at first, then steadier. The carvings glowed brighter, their light pushing back at the darkness pressing in.
Across the battlefield, Grace's voice joined his. Then Franklin's. Then Nessa's. Four prayers, four voices, weaving together over the chaos.
A faint shimmer rose between the pegs, like moonlight catching on invisible glass. The barrier wasn't complete, but it was growing.
The demon's head turned toward him. Slowly. Deliberately.
Its roar tore through the trees, rattling Paul's bones.
His body wanted to give out, but he stood up, his feet rooted.
For Grace.
For Philip.
For all of them.
…
The barrier stood firm, golden light flickering under the weight of AgwuNsi's gaze. He halted his assault, his eyes scanning the glowing cage surrounding him and General Philip. Raising a hand, he unleashed a colossal blast of energy—far stronger than the ones he'd aimed at Philip earlier. The collision rattled the barrier violently but failed to bring it down.
"Ah…" AgwuNsi's eyes gleamed behind the lenses of his glasses, the faintest twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "So you monkeys did have a plan. Predictable." He pivoted toward Philip, his tone a mockery of curiosity. "Tell me – was this your hail mary?"
Philip kept his blade angled low, the point glinting in the barrier's golden light. "Yes."
AgwuNsi's grin sharpened, thin as a knife's edge. "Then I overestimated you. Do you truly think this little dome will keep me here for long?"
"Especially with Squamura out there"
"I felt it moving long before you arrived," Philip said evenly, though a muscle in his jaw betrayed him. "It won't stop them"
AgwuNsi's smile widened into something unnatural, too broad for a human face. "Are you certain?" His voice dipped into a silky mockery that made the air feel colder.
The earth trembled outside the barrier.
The air thickened, a heavy, cloying weight that clung to every breath. Out of the dim haze lumbered a figure—eight feet of coiled muscle beneath a hide of scaled, bruised-purple flesh. The ground cracked beneath each clawed step, deep furrows scoring the dirt. A low rumble issued from its chest, almost felt more than heard. Hawk-like eyes glowed amber in the gloom, fixed unblinking on Philip, and when it smiled, the expression was a stretched, bone-deep wrongness—rows of teeth too sharp, too many, glinting wetly in the light.
Paul's stomach knotted. A voice—dry, rasping—slid into his mind, the sound like splinters dragged through silk.
Hmm… what a scent you carry, child.
His grip tightened on his weapon. "Stay back."
The creature's gaze cut to him, a slow, deliberate turn. Brave, it hissed. But that scent… so sweet… so ancient.
Energy flared around Paul, a faint ripple distorting the air. "One more step and I'll strike you down."
It stopped, tilting its head in a jerky, bird-like motion, studying him. The grin never faltered.
Powerful, are you? Its voice curled around his thoughts, invasive, amused. You reek of the messengers of the Ancient. Who are you, half-breed?
Paul's breath caught, his fingers tightening on the hilt. The insult hit like a stone dropped in deep water, its ripples sinking through him.
The demon's laugh rasped through the air—grating, metallic, like metal dragged across glass. Interesting… perhaps I'll take my time with you—
A sudden flare tore through the barrier's haze. One corner blazed gold, the flash so bright it carved hard shadows into the ground. The demon flinched, eyes narrowing against the searing light.
Paul didn't waste the opening.
He moved—low, fast, a surge of motion before thought. Energy bled from his skin in visible waves as he lunged, every muscle coiled for the strike. Whatever this thing was, whatever it wanted—he had no intention of letting it take the first blow.