Chapter Twenty-Seven — Judgment of the Chidawo

The chamber beneath Murenga's heart was not built by hands.

It had grown — roots of ancient trees curling into arches, stone shaped by the breath of spirits long since devoured by time. The air hummed, heavy with the weight of ancestral memory, a place where totems themselves had once gathered to speak before they were bound to flesh.

Six figures stood within the circle.

Each one radiated power — not the raw, untempered force of totem warriors, but something colder. Older. These were the Chidawo, Murenga's living gods.

The Falcon of the Eastern Winds stood with arms folded, feathers winding up his skin, the faint scent of storm air clinging to him. His eyes glowed skyfire blue, but they rarely blinked.

Beside him, the Serpent of the Roots was half-merged with the ground, his body shifting between flesh and gnarled bark, his breath slow, ancient. His fingers tapped the stone, feeling the pulse of ley-lines shifting far beyond the chamber.

The White Jackal lounged against a pillar of twisted bone, fingers playing with a string of teeth pulled from defeated warriors. His smile was too sharp, too wide, and the air around him smelled faintly of rot.

The Iron Bull stood near the center, a walking wall of flesh and spirit-forged metal. The ground shuddered faintly under his weight, as though even the earth feared his step.

The Moon Spider perched above, half-hidden in shadows near the ceiling, her fingers weaving unseen threads, her presence more felt than seen.

The Black Sun Lion's place was empty.

It always was.

The Falcon's voice cut through the silence. "The Bloodbound breached the Cursed Curves and entered our outer lands. They survived the Hunters. And they woke something in the water."

The Serpent's voice was like earth grinding against itself. "Manjuzu."

Even the Jackal stopped smiling at the name.

"They were supposed to be dead." The Iron Bull's fists clenched, the skin along his arms rippling like molten iron. "Erased before the first totems even rose."

"They were." The Moon Spider's voice drifted down, smooth and silken. "But some spirits don't die. They sink."

"And now they walk with the Bloodbound." The Falcon's feathers shivered, spreading slightly. "They are no longer just outlaws. They are a breach in the cycle itself."

The Jackal chuckled softly. "Good. It's been too long since we hunted something worth fearing."

The Serpent's eyes narrowed. "We may all have something to fear, Jackal. If the Manjuzu wakes fully, the Totem Network itself could unravel. We become nothing more than loose spirits, devoured by whatever comes after."

"Then we strike before that happens." The Iron Bull stepped forward, voice a low rumble. "We gather the Circle and wipe them out. Not just the Bloodbound — Vhuramu too. They've harbored this rot long enough."

The Moon Spider's fingers twitched. "The Falcon and I already scouted Vhuramu's western front. They're mobilizing — they plan to push into our forests under cover of the Bvuri disturbance."

The Falcon's wings flared slightly, wind curling around his ankles. "If we break them now, we crush two threats at once."

The Serpent's roots flexed through the floor. "We break them now."

The Jackal's smile returned, sharper than before. "I'll collect their teeth."

The circle shifted — not with footsteps, but with intent. They were no longer debating.

They were hunting.

—

Vhuramu's Western Front - Moments LaterThe air turned still.

Vhuramu warriors, marked with their own twisted totem sigils, felt the shift before they saw it. Some turned, backing away from the trees. Some raised spears, spirit energy flickering like candlelight.

None of it mattered.

The wind struck first — a wall of sky-fire slicing through the treetops, shredding branches and banners alike. The Falcon descended, his wings leaving trails of silver mist, his talons striking the ground hard enough to shatter stone. A Vhuramu scout lunged, spear glowing — but the air itself betrayed him, turning solid and crushing his throat mid-step.

The Serpent of the Roots emerged next, the earth splitting open beneath the Vhuramu vanguard. His hands pulled vines that were not vines — they were spirit veins, pulling energy straight from the totems bound to the warriors. Those who resisted found their feet sinking into the ground, their spirits dragged down, screaming.

The Iron Bull charged — not at warriors, but through them. His steps cracked the ground, his armor reflecting every spirit blast back at its source. One Vhuramu shaman tried to summon a protective barrier — the Bull's fist shattered it, and the shaman's bones followed.

From the shadows, the Moon Spider's web unfurled, strands of spirit silk catching the ankles, wrists, and throats of fleeing warriors. Each thread pulsed with ancient law, and those caught within felt their own totems bound, locked inside them like caged animals.

The White Jackal danced between the chaos, his fingers tracing runes in the air. For every Vhuramu that died, a pale ghost rose beside him — not to fight, but to whisper their secrets directly into the Jackal's ears. His grin stretched wider with every death.

"We should have done this years ago," the Jackal purred.

The Vhuramu war-leader stood at the rear, his Crocodile Totem flaring around him, jaws wide, spirit scales gleaming — but even he stepped back, breath coming faster as the Chidawo Circle closed in.

"You… you're not supposed to interfere directly!" the war-leader shouted, spirit glyphs flaring along his arms. "The treaty—"

The Falcon's talons flashed, cutting through the glyphs like paper. His voice was cold wind. "The treaty was made between men. We are not men."

The war-leader screamed as the Serpent's roots coiled around his legs, dragging him under — not into earth, but into something deeper, a spirit wound between realms. His scream cut off halfway.

Vhuramu's western front was gone.

Not defeated. Erased.

The Chidawo stood in the silence, the only sound the crackle of wind and the faint whisper of retreating ghosts.

The Iron Bull exhaled. "One threat down."

The Serpent's voice was lower, troubled. "Not the real threat."

The Falcon's gaze lifted toward the north, toward the river where the Bloodbound moved — where Liora's Manjuzu blood still flowed through the earth.

"She's waking," the Falcon murmured. "And she's watching us."

For a moment, none of them spoke. Even the Jackal's smile faded.

Then the Moon Spider whispered, almost reverent:

"Let her watch."

The Chidawo turned, stepping into the air itself, vanishing into the fold between realms — not retreating, but preparing.

Because the next hunt wasn't for Vhuramu.

It was for the Bloodbound.

And for whatever Liora was becoming.