"In the remote, peaceful Clan of Ndigwe," Chidi began his story, "deep within the dense, untamed forests of Igbo Dynasty, somewhere in West Africa, our lifestyle was simple. Our villagers lived in quiet isolation, where each day unfolded in gentle circles. Our concerns were basic: the harvest, the hunt, and the sacred traditions passed down through generations. In Ndigwe, unfamiliar technologies were nonexistent."
He paused, searching the face of Lù-Qímiào to determine if she was bored. Or interested.
She was curiously intrigued. True, from the way he was narrating his story, she knew his wouldn't be as exciting as hers. But it wasn't the "excitement," or lack of it, that intrigued her. It was the way he was telling the story. Like a true storyteller. Like an orator.
"But Ndigwe wasn't devoid of civilization," Chidi continued, pleased that she wasn't bored. "Only 'civilization' in Ndigwe was perceived differently. Our idea of civilization defied the modern mold. To us, civilization meant leaving your store open and unguarded while attending to another task, knowing that no one would steal a thing. If someone needed an item while the shopkeeper was away, they would take it and leave the exact payment on the counter. The money would sit there, untouched by anyone else. In that sense, civilization was trust, honesty, and goodwill."
"No way!" Lù-Qímiào exclaimed excitedly. "We have a similar culture in my mother's clan in Japan."
"Good to know," Chidi smiled. "Our philosophy echoed a golden creed: If my brother is in trouble, so am I."
As he narrated, his memory darted back in time. He narrowed down his story to the events that led to his leaving his village in search of an uncommon adventure which brought him to the Academy of Bullet Benders: where he eventually met Lù-Qímiào.
And this was how it started...
~~~
Fifteen-year-old Chidi Ebube blinked into the morning light as a rooster screamed from the yard. Another day had begun. He sat up slowly on his bamboo bed, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. His blanket had half slipped to the floor. He didn't reach for it. His head still felt heavy with fragments of last night's dream. Or maybe it was a memory: one he didn't invite.
In it, he had been running. Not just running: fleeing. There was something behind him, hidden in the mist of trees and fear. But just before it caught him, a strong voice cut through the silence.
"Pay attention to where you're going, boy!"
Chidi looked around, wide-eyed. It was his father's voice. But Okoli had been gone five years. Dead. Buried.
Chidi exhaled. Slowly. He rose to his feet and stepped out of his room into the corridor of their modest clay house.
His mother, Adora, was already awake. She never slept past the rooster. She worked as if the gods were watching her every move.
"You're awake," she said as she stirred the morning porridge. "Good. We go to the farm today."
Chidi nodded and reached for the clay cup on the table. The water was cold, even though the sun had started warming the land.
Outside, he could hear his older brother Eze sharpening a blade against stone. Eze always made himself known. Broad-chested, smooth-faced, confident. He walked like he belonged to the gods, and maybe he did. Everyone admired Eze. Everyone expected Chidi to grow up and be like him.
But Chidi was not Eze.
He was smaller. Pale-skinned. Quiet. He didn't enjoy farming or hunting. He didn't dream of carrying pans of mud for building bricks either. But he had other gifts. If your basket tore, Chidi mended it. If your flute cracked, Chidi sealed it. He saw the insides of things; how they fit, why they broke, what they needed to work again.
The villagers respected that. Quietly. From a distance. But they didn't celebrate him. Not the way they did Eze, who was built like an ox: broad-shouldered and burly.
Chidi finished eating the hot yam porridge his mother placed in front of him. It was good, and she didn't ask if he liked it. She didn't need to. She knew.
Afterwards, Chidi's gaze drifted past the house's doorway, past the village boundary, to where the forest loomed. A place both forbidden and fascinating. The unknown.
A part of him yearned for something more. Prowess. Power. Purpose.
"On a second thought, you'll follow your brother today," his mother said without looking up.
"I always do," he muttered.
Eze was the pride of Ndigwe: the dream of every maiden. Chidi, on the other hand, didn't quite fit the mold. Not that he lacked respect entirely; he was known for fixing broken things, a skill the village appreciated. But in Ndigwe, true honor belonged to those who wielded brute strength: those who could farm, hunt, and wrestle nature to its knees.
Chidi simply wasn't that kind of man. While others hunted and toiled, he preferred mending tools, tending animals, and helping elders with odd tasks. His hands knew the shape of hammers and twine, not machetes and bows. But inwardly, Chidi often felt like an outlier.
Outside, Eze appeared in the doorway. "He always follows, but never leads," he said, grinning as he tossed Chidi a coil of rope. "Come on, lazy legs."
Chidi caught the rope and stood. They walked through the clearing, past the chicken pens and plantain groves, toward the tree line. The morning sun slanted through the high trees like golden spears. Birds sang above them, hidden in the canopy. The path under their feet had been walked for generations.
The forest loomed ahead. Chidi's feet slowed slightly as they reached the outer branches. He remembered this part. Five years ago, this was where it happened.
Okoli had brought him out for training. Not with Eze. Just him. Chidi had been thrilled at first. His father had placed a carved spear in his hands and said, "Today you learn what it means to be a man."
Then the shadow came.
Chidi remembered all the details like it happened just yesterday. His falling down while in training. His father scolding him for not paying attention. The shadow sneaking behind them as they sensed its presence. Himself freezing, then fleeing at seeing the shadow: a beast.
The way his father bravely fought the beast was something he didn't get to see. For as he ran, he didn't look back. His fear wouldn't let him.