CHAPTER 6: NIGERIA AMBUSH 2

Continuation...

And as I catch up, I wonder if this night just got a little harder to recover.

The moment we step inside R.S.V.P, it hits me—this place is art.

The soft hum of clinking glasses, quiet laughter, and that golden amber light wrapping everything in a warm hug… yeah, it's the kind of spot that makes you forget you ever had a rough day. The chandeliers above look like they were made to impress royalty, and the way the polished herringbone floor catches the light—bro, it's like the place is smiling at us.

Chioma stops walking, takes it all in. Her lips part a little, like she's breathing the whole place in through her mouth.

"Oh, my, God" she murmurs.

I nod. "I know. You feel classier just standing here."

She smirks. "Speak for yourself. I already came classy."

Fair. I'll give her that one.

We're barely three steps in before Chioma grabs my arm, eyes widening.

"Look who's here," she says, nodding toward the far side of the room.

I squint past the velvet booths—and sure enough, there he is: Desmond. Clean fade, agbada looking sharp like it just got ironed by angels. Sitting across from him is Susan Storm, the lights kiss her skin like morning dew on porcelain. Her jet-black bob, parted slightly to the side, frames her face with sharp precision, drawing attention to her high cheekbones and sculpted jawline.

Her makeup is subtle yet striking—smoky eyeshadow deepens her gaze, full lashes curve upward, and her brows are neatly arched. A warm nude gloss sits on her lips, and a soft blush gives her cheeks a natural glow.

She wears a silver statement necklace with a round pendant that catches the light, paired with matching earrings that sway gently. Then there's the dress—a rich, bold red, smooth and form-fitting, with an off-the-shoulder neckline that reveals her collarbones. The sleeves run sleek to her wrists, and a soft twist at the waist enhances her silhouette. A high slit along one leg adds a quiet edge of allure.

Metallic silver stilettos complete the look, reflecting the shimmer of her jewelry. Her nails are manicured in soft tones, and every step she takes is fluid—confident without effort. Uche doesn't need to speak. Her presence alone commands the room.

"No way," I say, already smiling. "Should we go say hi, or—?"

But Chioma's already halfway there.

I jog to catch up. Desmond sees us first, grins, and stands up just as we reach the table.

"Ah! My people!" he booms, pulling me into a hug that nearly cracks my spine.

Susan rises and hugs Chioma tight. "Look at you two. Matching energy already."

Chioma laughs. "Same here, sweetheart. I love your earrings."

"Awwn. Thank you so much. I love yours too."

"Look at you, Man of machines." I protest.

"If I'm a man of machine, then what will I call you? King of Tech? Keeper of Time?" he laughs and shoots back.

We all laugh and slide into the extra seats at their table like we'd been invited all along. The waiter appears, all polite smiles and crisp white shirt, and we order like seasoned foodies. Desmond goes for his usual—egusi with pounded yam, talking about how no other meal reminds him he's a real man like that one. Susan picks seafood okra with the confidence of a woman who knows what she wants. Chioma, naturally, chooses jollof rice with goat meat and plantain—as if there was ever a doubt.

And me? Ofada rice with pepper sauce, fried plantain, and a bottle of chilled zobo. Because sometimes, a man needs spice and regret in the same spoon.

Once orders are in, the gist starts.

Desmond turns to me, grinning like a big brother who caught you sneaking into the fridge at 2 a.m. "So, Time Manipulator… still avoiding your destiny or have you finally embraced your grey hairs?"

"First of all," I say, holding up a hand, "it's not grey. It's wisdom struggling to manifest."

Chioma laughs. "Struggling is the word."

Susan joins in. "He's just jealous of Desmond's beard."

I nod solemnly. "That man's beard has a retirement plan. Mine barely survived its NYSC year."

Desmond throws his head back. "Samuel, you looked like a teenage pastor going through spiritual warfare!"

I clutch my chest. "This attack is personal."

Chioma smirks. "You tried to grow a beard with baby oil and determination. What did you expect?"

Susan nearly snorts out her drink. "Baby oil?!"

"I Googled it!" I protest. "There was a blog. It had five likes!"

Desmond raises his glass. "To the blog that lied, and to men who believed."

We clink glasses, laughter bouncing off the glass walls like echoes of a good life.

The food arrives, steaming and bold. Just the smell alone could make an atheist speak in tongues.

We dig in. Desmond's chewing like it's a competition. Susan's delicately separating her prawns like a scientist in love. Chioma... well, she eats like someone who knows she can burn it all off with one workout. Meanwhile, I'm halfway through my plate and sweating happily from pepper sauce heat.

"So," Desmond says with a mouthful, pointing at Chioma, "how's life married to Lagos' most dramatic genius?"

Chioma wipes her mouth, smirking. "It's like living with a human alarm clock. He wakes up thinking in slow motion and talks like he's narrating a movie trailer."

I shrug. "Time manipulation comes with monologues. It's part of the package."

Susan grins. "Next thing we know, you'll be narrating dinner."

"In a world... where egusi reigns supreme," I say in my best deep movie voice.

Desmond almost spits out his drink. "Please! Don't kill me tonight!"

Chioma laughs, hand over her mouth. "This is what I signed up for?"

"No refunds," I wink.

For a second, everything slows down—not because of my powers, just naturally. The way the city glows behind us, the sparkle in Chioma's eyes when she's mid-laugh, the comfortable silence between each burst of joy. Even Desmond's ridiculous laugh adds to the background music of the moment.

And for that brief pause in time, I forget about suits, missions, timelines, or saving the world.

Tonight, I'm just Samuel. Friend. Husband. Guy-who-shouldn't-have-tried-beard-oil.

And that's enough.

A low vibration rumbles in my pocket, then my phone lets out a sharp buzz that cuts into the soft music of the restaurant.

"You have somewhere else to go tonight?" Desmond asks, chewing like he's trying to savor every bite.

I smirk, pulling out my phone. "Of course not."

But the second I glance at the screen, my heart skips. It's not a name or a number. It's a code. Eddie 101. My AI assistant. Eddie never calls unless something's wrong.

"Erm… sorry, I have to take this." I rise.

Desmond raises a brow and flicks his eyes toward Chioma.

I turn to her. "It's important."

She gives a slight nod. "Go ahead."

I step away from the table, slipping past smiling couples and waiters juggling plates. The soft clinks of cutlery fade behind me as I push through the restaurant's front doors and answer.

"Eddie. You're interrupting dinner—what's so urgent?"

"My apologies, Mr. Vincent," the AI says calmly, too calmly. "But this can't wait. Please, just listen."

I step away from the entry, tension crawling into my spine. "Okay. What's going on?"

"First—do you trust me?"

"What?" I blink, confused. "Yes, obviously. Why are you asking that?"

"Because your peace is about to be replaced by chaos. I need you to do exactly as I say, without question."

My chest tightens. "Go on."

"You must evacuate the restaurant. Now."

I freeze. "Why? What the hell is happening?"

"Two hostile, enhanced entities—non-human—are approaching. Their mission is lethal. They're thirty seconds away."

I suck in a breath. "That's insane."

"It's real. I'm tracking them in real time. If you delay, people will die."

Click.

I don't wait. I sprint back inside.

But I don't make it all the way—my eyes catch something out the window. A black mass floats in the distance, suspended in the air like a shadow with intent. It hums, low and dangerous.

I mutter, "What the hell is that?"

Then the shadow moves. Fast.

The black vehicle—or whatever it is—shoots toward the building like a missile.

I run.

"Desmond! Chioma! GET OUT NOW!"

Heads turn. Forks pause midair. Someone mutters, "Is that Samuel?"

I don't stop. "Everyone—GET DOWN!"

Then the wall explodes.

BOOM!

Concrete erupts, bodies fly. A massive black car slams into the side of the restaurant, smashing through tables, chairs—and people.

I hear screams. Metal screeches. Wood snaps like bones.

Desmond's eyes widen. "TAKE COVER!"

He grabs Susan and Chioma, dragging them low just before a second wave of debris tears through the air like shrapnel.

The black car doesn't stop. It barrels through the restaurant like a beast, chewing up couples in its path and slamming into the far wall, leaving fire and rubble in its wake.

Smoke fills the air.

Someone's crying. Others are coughing, bleeding, crawling.

I reach Chioma, grabbing her face, checking her for cuts, bruises—anything. "Are you hurt? Talk to me!"

She coughs, clutching my arm. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Who the hell did that?!" Susan screams.

Before I can answer, a new sound slices through the chaos—a whistle, high-pitched, fast.

"GET DOWN!" I yell.

WHOOOSH!

Another black vehicle shoots in from the other side—this one sleeker, deadlier, and silent until impact. It misses us by inches and detonates against the bar, sending flames and wood flying.

The blast knocks me back. I slam into a chair. I barely hear Desmond yelling through the ringing in my ears.

"Samuel! What do we do?!"

I stagger to my feet. "GO! NOW!"

"What?!" Chioma shouts.

"You need to leave, all of you! NOW!"

"What about you?!" Susan grabs my arm.

"I'll handle this. Get them to safety!"

Chioma stares at me, trembling. Her eyes gloss over as she turns away, Susan holding her. Desmond stays behind a second longer.

"You sure?"

I nod. He nods back—and they're gone.

Then I hear it.

A voice. Cold. Mocking.

"Rejoice, human… for you are about to be erased by the assistants of Erebus."

And just like that, the flames flicker out, the air drops ten degrees colder, and I feel it—one presence.

She steps through the second broken wall like a storm wrapped in steel.

Tall. Unshaken. She doesn't walk in — she arrives, like a sentence of war cast in metal and silence.

Her armor doesn't gleam — it absorbs the light. A rich, battle-hardened forest green hugs her form from neck to shin, segmented with matte black and framed by polished silver — not for decoration, but deflection. It's armor designed for movement, made to flow with her strikes like a second skin.

Her arms are wrapped with plated gauntlets, steel bracers that glint across her forearms and shoulders like restrained power. They're not smooth — they're ridged and layered, like scales forged in discipline. Every inch of her gear speaks of command, of experience, of brutal precision.

Dark trousers tuck neatly into tall armored boots, reinforced with steel guards around the shin and knee — the kind of build that says she's ready to take impact and return it tenfold. A long split tunic drapes around her legs like a battle skirt, its flow balanced perfectly between grace and aggression. A wide metallic belt cinches her waist, holding her form firm — no weakness, no wasted movement.

Across her chest sits a single silver emblem: geometric, centered, cold. It doesn't boast, it warns.

But it's her eyes that stop me.

Dead calm. No mercy. Her braid falls over one shoulder like a coiled whip, thick and ready to lash. This isn't some overpowered villain. This is an apex predator wearing discipline like a crown.

I clench my fists, forcing my voice not to shake.

"Who are you?"

She doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.

"I am Agrona," she says, her voice cold, clean. "Goddess of death. Second in command."

My jaw tightens. "Death?"

Her head tilts slightly — not curious, not confused. Assessing.

"Relax, human," she says. "I shall spare your life... if you hand over the Time Cube."

My heart skips.

"Who told you about the Time Cube?"

"I'd love to explain," she says with a dry smirk, "but there's no time for that."

Her hands twist through the air like a silent invocation — and snap, two swords erupt into existence. Ulfberhts — forged in ancient steel, glowing faintly with god-killing malice. She hurls both before I can even curse.

CLANG! One slices past my ribs. The other embeds into the wall behind me with a growl.

She's already moving — conjuring more. Three, four — blades forming mid-stride.

I sprint, ducking low. Another sword whizzes past my ear, shaving air, slicing concrete behind me. I grab the edge of a heavy steel table, flip it upright just in time as two more blades slam against it, ringing out like war drums.

BOOM. I stagger, grip tightening on the edge of the shield.

"EDDIE!" I shout, pressing my weight into the metal. "Send this location to Alvin — NOW!"

His voice crackles in my earpiece. "What about me? I can help."

"No. Not now. This one's way out of your league."

Silence. Then:

"Got it. Alvin activated."

I nod — barely. Because the table shudders again.

Another sword punches halfway through the steel, stopping inches from my head.

She's not slowing down.

I can hear her footsteps — calm, steady. Not rushing. Not wasting energy. She's hunting.

I take a deep breath, sweat dripping into my eyes.

I know one thing — she's not bluffing.

And if I don't outthink her in the next thirty seconds... I'm dead.

I click a button on my wristwatch to activate it's own transformation into a nanotech gauntlet swiftly and I shoot a laser quickly.

The laser beam scorches through the air, clean and fast — but she doesn't flinch.

Agrona raises a single hand. The shards surrounding her twist, form a shield in midair — and my beam crashes into them with a blast of sparks. No dent. No burn. Just deflected like it meant nothing.

She steps through the smoke, her eyes locked on me. Calm. Annoyingly calm.

"You call that power?" she says, tilting her head. "You're wasting my time, human."

Before I can respond, her hands flick out. With a hiss of air, two glinting Ulfberht swords form — not drawn, but forged mid-motion, like the steel obeys her will.

She hurls both at me.

I dive sideways — the first blade slices past my shoulder, embeds itself in the wall behind me with a thunk deep enough to split brick. The second misses by inches. Too close. I scramble, my boots skidding across dust and rubble, and raise my wrist.

Nanotech hums.

"Let's talk after you're unconscious!" I shout, blasting toward her with a high-frequency pulse from my gauntlet.

She's already moving. Gliding. Effortless.

I charge in, heat building in my gloves, and throw a right hook charged with kinetic force.

She catches it with one hand. Bare-handed. Stops it cold.

The impact should've shoved her back — should've cracked bone — but she absorbs it like a wall, her fingers tightening around my fist.

"You're strong," she says, voice low, steady. "But strength alone won't save you."

She yanks me forward — fast — and I barely twist in time to dodge the elbow aimed at my jaw. Her knee crashes into my side instead. Armor softens the hit, but it still rattles me. I stagger back, coughing.

That's when I see the Ulfberht swords again.

Dozens of them now. Floating in the air around her like metallic vultures circling their prey.

"You're not walking out of here with the Time Cube," I growl, activating my second gauntlet.

"Then die with it," she replies.

The blades shoot toward me all at once — fast, vicious, no pattern.

I dive, roll, activate the magnetic barrier from my left gauntlet. It shimmers into life just in time to catch three of them. The others slam into the floor, walls, table behind me — tearing through everything like razors.

I grab a flipped table, drag it in front of me like a shield, crouch behind it.

"Okay, okay…" I breathe, heart pounding. "Smart, fast, and overpowered death goddess. Think, Sam. Think."

She's circling now. Calm steps. Hands behind her back.

"You're outmatched, Samuel," she says.

"And you talk too much," I mutter, locking a hidden missile in my gauntlet.

I pop up, aim for her chest — and fire.

The missile screams toward Agrona, trailing fire and fury.

She doesn't flinch.

Her right hand lifts—a casual flick of her fingers—and one of the floating Ulfberhts whips around in midair, slicing the warhead in two before it even gets close. The explosion ignites behind her, painting her in a storm of flame and shadow. Her figure walks out of it like a myth come alive. Not running. Not worried. Just walking.

The glow dies.

And all I hear is the cold hum of blades.

Dozens now. Maybe more. Her swords hover around her, spinning, tilting, orbiting her like a metal halo gone mad. The air crackles. The pressure builds.

Then her arms rise—like a conductor conducting death.

The blades respond.

They spiral out.

And they come for me.

I dive, rolling hard, but I'm too slow. One blade shreds through my shoulder—hot, searing. Another carves across my thigh like it's peeling meat off bone. I hit the floor hard. Pain explodes in my limbs, and my breath runs from my lungs like it's trying to escape the slaughter.

She walks toward me.

Slow. Measured. I see it in her eyes—she thinks I'm done.

I grit my teeth, one palm pressed to the bloodied floor, and try to push up.

Then—

BOOOOOM!!

The roof erupts.

Glass, steel, and concrete burst down in a thunderous explosion as a black and deep blue blur crashes through the ceiling. The shockwave rattles the walls. The lights flicker.

And then he lands.

One knee bent, one fist buried into the floor. The other arm cocked back for balance. Head down. Smoke and dust swirling around his armored frame like a storm.

When he looks up, the blue visor flickers like lightning.

Desmond.

"You picked the wrong day to play god," he says, voice distorted through the mask—metallic, low, angry.

Before I can even blink, he rockets forward—propulsion bursts under his boots. He crashes into Agrona like a human warhead. The bar behind them erupts into splinters, bottles explode, glass rains down like a storm of daggers. Her orbiting swords scatter like startled birds.

Agrona flips mid-air, twists, and lands in a crouch. Smoke trailing from her armor. A long gash across her side.

She wipes blood from her lip with the back of her hand and smirks.

"Another one," she murmurs, summoning her blades back with a twitch of her fingers. "This is getting fun."

Behind her, the swords scream back into formation—dozens of Ulfberhts circling like vultures, faster now, sharper, angrier.

I fight to my feet, body shaking, blood soaking through my ripped sleeve.

"Des," I rasp, "you're late."

He doesn't take his eyes off her. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

Before we can regroup—

The air pulses.

A sound like reality tearing.

A deep hum vibrates in my spine.

Then he lands.

Another ripple. Another force. Another monster joins the war.

Jabez.

Metal twists around his boots as he hovers down on a magnetic wave, cloak trailing behind him like smoke. His body is steel and fury. His eyes lock on Desmond.

"I see a bug," he says, voice heavy as a war drum.

He touches down.

Everything metal shudders.

My systems are almost fried. One more hit and I'm out.

Then a roar cuts through the chaos.

A red-gold-blue blur punches through the upper window—shards scattering like stars.

Alvin.

It just slams me into my chest.

And everything shifts.

The nanites burst on my dress like a living flood—metal and light crawling up my torso in swirling streams of liquid engineering. First, a deep sapphire-blue mesh wraps my body, dense and textured like ballistic fiber, hugging tight against every muscle. Red and gold veins ignite across the suit, racing like fire through circuitry, locking into place with every heartbeat.

My chestplate forms next—a radiant crimson center, sharp and angular, trimmed with golden armor lines that curve around it like a lion's ribs forged in precision. The surface glows faintly, matte in some places, sleek and gleaming in others, as if it's alive and breathing.

Gold plating cascades across my shoulders in layered arcs, edged with deep grooves that catch the light like blades. Each plate locks in with a low metallic hiss. My arms follow—blue underlay reinforced with scarlet armored bands twisting diagonally down to my gauntlets, where the metal folds over my hands with surgical elegance, fingertips glowing faintly red.

The helmet climbs last—sliding up my neck and over my head like molten chrome. Blue on the crown, red around the jawline, the eye sockets light up in a furious crimson glare that cuts through the smoke.

No cape. No theatrics.

Just raw design. Bold. Angular. Built to command and dominate. The whole suit glows in controlled pulses—a trinity of blue, red, and gold, masterfully balanced. The gold doesn't shout—it frames. The red doesn't scream—it slices. The blue doesn't hide—it anchors.

I flex my fingers. The armor responds like muscle.

Time slows… and I feel the charge build in my core.

I'm no longer exposed. I'm no longer a target.

I'm a weapon.

I stand.

The Time Manipulator is online.

Desmond forces himself to his feet, blood trailing down his chestplate. He grins at me through cracked lenses.

We don't speak.

We charge.

Agrona meets us first.

Her sword cuts the air and splits a booth in two. Desmond blocks with a shoulder, his cannon arm blasting her into a wall. I dart right, unleash twin repulsor blasts at Jabez.

He absorbs them.

Magnetic fields shimmer around him as he raises both hands. The ground beneath my feet lifts. Tiles spin. Screws unscrew. My own armor trembles—he's trying to rip it off me.

I counter with a time-slow burst—everything freezes for a heartbeat—and I slam a red-hot fist into his gut.

He doesn't budge.

His eyes narrow. I feel pulled. Not physically— atomically. My gauntlets groan as he starts tearing the electrons from their orbits.

Agrona screams. Her blade impales Desmond through the shoulder and out the back. He roars, launches a point-blank missile into her ribs.

She absorbs it with dark mist and laughs.

Desmond drops. Bleeding. His suit flickers.

I scream and rush to him—but steel wraps around my legs like snakes. Jabez lifts me off the ground and slams me against a pillar. Again. Again. My HUD flickers.

He walks toward me slowly, lifting a sharpened beam like a divine executioner.

"This ends now," he says.

He raises it over my head.

I grit my teeth, ready for the end.

To be continued....