The sun blazes over Lagos, Nigeria, a city alive with chaos and color. Horns blare from danfo buses weaving through traffic. Street hawkers shout, waving trays of puff-puff and sachet water in Oshodi's crowded market. Amid the bustle, a lanky 15-year-old boy, David Adebiyi, darts through the throng, his worn-out sneakers slapping the cracked pavement. His dark eyes glint with mischief. "Move, abeg!" he snaps, dodging a motorbike. In his hand, a crumpled naira note—his last from odd jobs at the orphanage. "If I no buy this bread, Sister Grace go vex," he mutters, weaving past a woman balancing a basket of yams.
(Panel: A wide shot of Lagos' skyline—high-rise buildings clash with shanties, neon signs flicker, and a strange, faint crack shimmers in the sky, unnoticed by the crowd. David's narration: "Lagos never sleeps. Neither do I. Name's David Adebiyi. Been on my own since I was a kid. Parents? Don't remember 'em. The orphanage is home, but I'm no ordinary orphan… or so one mad oga says.")
At the Blessed Hope Orphanage, a rundown building with peeling paint, David slips through the gate, clutching a loaf of agege bread. Kids chase a deflated football in the yard. Sister Grace, a stern but kind matron, spots him. "David! Where you dey since morning?" He grins, tossing her the bread. "Hustling, ma. You know me." She sighs, muttering about his stubbornness.
Inside, David's bunk is a corner of chaos—comic books, a cracked phone, and a small carved scorpion pendant, his only keepsake. He flops onto his mat, staring at it. "Who were you, Mum? Dad?" His thoughts are cut short by a deep voice. "David Adebiyi?" He jolts up. A tall man stands in the doorway, draped in a flowing agbada that shimmers oddly, like woven starlight. His eyes, sharp and knowing, lock onto David. "I am Chika, the greatest wizard of all time."
David snorts, leaning back. "Oga, wetin be this? You dey play juju for small pikin?" Chika's smile is cryptic, unfazed. "Mock all you want, boy. Your destiny is no child's game." Sister Grace enters, papers in hand. "David, this man… he's adopting you." David's jaw drops. "Adopt? Me? Wetin dey happen?"
Minutes later, David's in the passenger seat of Chika's battered Toyota, bouncing through Lagos' pothole-riddled roads. Traffic crawls—okadas zip by, a street preacher shouts about salvation. David clutches his pendant, eyeing Chika warily. The wizard's agbada seems to glow faintly, and his staff, propped in the back, hums with strange energy.
"You are special, David. Do you know that?" Chika says, glancing at him. David scoffs. "Special? Oga, you dey talk nonsense." Chika chuckles, weaving through traffic. "You are a Zodiac Warrior. The best of the best." David's mind races. "Wetin dis man dey talk?" He laughs it off, but a chill runs through him. The air feels heavy, like a storm brewing.
After ten minutes of gridlock and pothole jolts, Chika speaks again, eyes on the road. "David, I go train you to your full potential, my son." David freezes, shocked. "Son? Oga, you just adopt me, you no be my papa!" Chika glances at the rearview mirror, his gaze piercing. "Why you dey look me like that? I adopted you, remember?" David's heart pounds. Something about Chika's voice—ancient, commanding—makes his Scorpio pendant pulse faintly, warm against his chest.