Chapter 13: Acknowledged

We left Umuezike at dawn, the first rays of sunlight cutting through the morning mist.

The villagers watched us go expressionlessly. Even now, after earning their acknowledgement, I couldn't tell if they viewed me with respect or simply curiosity.

It didn't matter. The Akaibute elders had spoken. That was enough.

The journey back to Ndiagbo was quiet.

Ekene, who always had something to say, was uncharacteristically subdued. Nnamdi kept stealing glances at me, as if trying to figure out what had changed. Even Ikenna seemed unusually thoughtful.

But the one who stood out the most was Onwudiwe, the young man who had guided us to the shrine.

He was an Akaibute initiate, sent by the elders to travel with me—to teach me the ways of the spirits when the time came.

I had expected a spiritual guide to be some frail, old man with white markings and riddles for speech. Instead, Onwudiwe was young, around my age, with the steady presence of someone far older.

He walked a few steps behind me, silent, his eyes scanning the path ahead.

He was quiet, but not in a way that made him fade into the background. No, it was the kind of silence that settled into a space rather than disappearing from it.

I had thought I understood power.

Not physical strength, but influence—the ability to make people listen, to push them toward something greater.

But now I knew there was something beyond that.

Something that couldn't be argued with.

[DING]

[EXTRA MISSION:

[Test of Wisdom] → Gain the trust of the elders of Akaibute.

Requirement: Successfully gain the recognition of the Spirits.

Reward: Clan Recognition, +2 Wisdom

[STATUS: COMPLETE]

The words had appeared the moment the Akaibute elders had acknowledged me.

I hadn't paid much attention to it at first. The system had given me quests and objectives, but this one had felt different. It wasn't just about persuading men, it was about being recognized by something beyond men.

The Spirits.

And I had done it.

A part of me had expected to feel something dramatic the moment it happened. A wave of enlightenment, maybe, or some grand realization.

But there had been none of that.

Just a quiet certainty.

And the notification.

[+2 Wisdom.]

That was what stood out to me now.

Wisdom.

It wasn't Intelligence. It wasn't just knowing things.

It was something deeper.

So I did the only intelligent thing to do. I pulled up my stats.

[System Interface]

[Wisdom: 18]

Before, my Wisdom had been 16.

Now it was 18.

It didn't seem like much. Just a small number change.

But somehow… it felt different.

Like my thoughts had gained an extra layer, an added depth I hadn't even known was missing.

I could see things more clearly. Not just in the literal sense, but in the way pieces connected. The way people's words carried weight beyond their surface meaning.

Even now, I was noticing the shifts in my companions' behavior in a way I hadn't before.

Ekene's silence wasn't just tiredness—it was processing.

Nnamdi's glances weren't just curiosity—they were measuring.

Ikenna's lack of teasing wasn't boredom—it was wariness.

And Onwudiwe…

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

He hadn't spoken once since we left Umuezike. But it wasn't because he had nothing to say.

He was watching me, too.

But what was more interesting was something else entirely.

[System Interface]

[Spirit]: 20

For the first time since coming to this world, I had a clear understanding of what this meant.

It was presence.

It was the weight of a person's being. Their essence.

Most people didn't even have a Spirit stat.

Not because they were weak, but because Spirit wasn't about strength.

It wasn't about charm, persuasion, or force of will. That was Charisma—the ability to move people with words, to bend their thoughts, to inspire or manipulate.

I had that too. I could speak, plan, persuade. I could shape the minds of those who listened to me.

But Spirit wasn't about moving people. It was about presence.

Most people existed only in the physical world. They lived, breathed, and died without ever touching anything beyond flesh and earth.

But those with Spirit?

They existed beyond themselves.

When an elder spoke and people obeyed, it wasn't because of respect alone. It was because their presence made it so. The world itself recognized them. Their words carried weight, not because they were loud, but because they could not be ignored.

And now… I had that too.

I breathed in slowly.

I was no elder. No spirit-touched priest or warrior.

But compared to most?

I was something different.

Even before I knew, people had felt it.

That was why they listened, why they followed—not just because I had a plan, not just because my words made sense.

Because my existence demanded to be acknowledged.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't forceful.

It simply was.

It wasn't dominance or fear. It was something subtler. A weight. A certainty that had settled within me, making my presence harder to ignore.

And if 20 was enough to do this…

What about the elders?

I glanced at Onwudiwe.

If I had 20 Spirit, how much did he have?

I focused, half-expecting the system to give me an answer, but nothing happened.

Of course. If it were that easy, I'd have seen the Akaibute elders' stats the moment I stepped into the Obi.

But now that I understood Spirit better, I didn't need numbers to guess.

The elders of Akaibute? They must have been at least 50. Maybe higher.

Their presence was like standing before an ancient tree—rooted, vast, and unmoving.

Onwudiwe, though?

I wasn't sure, but he wasn't normal.

Not just because of his knowledge, or the way he carried himself, but because of the way the air seemed to bend subtly around him.

He wasn't an elder, but he wasn't ordinary either.

His presence wasn't rooted like theirs—it was shifting, like mist, like water slipping through fingers.

Yet, it felt like the space he occupied was more solid than everyone else's.

Maybe 30?

I'd have to test it.

…

We arrived at Ndiagbo by late afternoon.

The village was the same as we had left it—children running, traders shouting, the scent of roasting yams drifting through the air.

But I had changed.

And soon, everyone would see it.

"OBINNA!"

…

Days Before

Normal POV

The news had spread like wildfire across the villages.

Another raid.

Another group of people stolen in the dead of night, bound and taken to be sold off to distant lands.

It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

But this one had been different.

This time, it had been closer.

Too close.

Nneka had been in Obimo, a village not far from Aku, when it happened.

She had been trading cloth and pottery, speaking with fellow merchants when the first cries had sounded.

It didn't take long for another breathless messenger to arrive, this one from one of Aku villages.

And his words had shaken her to the core.

Obinna led the men to stop them.

She hadn't stayed to wait out the aftermath.

She hadn't needed to.

She knew what raids looked like. She had heard enough stories, seen enough families torn apart, to know what came next.

And she had known, in that moment, that she couldn't be away from her family any longer.

So she had left.

Abandoning trade deals and unfinished business, she had traveled back to Ndiagbo with urgency in her steps and a sick feeling in her stomach.

Before she reached Akutara, word came from a town crier that Obinna was dead.

Nnenna frozen where she stood as the words fell. Some men and women nearby called it bravery. Some called it recklessness.

All she had known was grief.

But before that grief could settle, before she could even comprehend the depth of her loss, the town crier continued.

Obinna was alive.

Alive.

And returned to the village as if death had not touched him at all.

Something was not right.

And when she had arrived—when she had seen her daughter but not her son—her heart had clenched with something close to fear.

Where was Obinna?

She had felt her heart clench even tighter as the villagers had spoken of his journey to Umuezike, of his boldness in seeking the elders of Akaibute.

They had spoken of it with admiration, some even with pride.

But all she had felt was dread.

Because she knew, better than anyone, that boldness did not stop a blade.

That ambition did not stop a rope from being tied around one's neck.

And that no matter how clever her son thought he was—he was still her son.

And he was out there.

Somewhere.

So when she saw him now, standing at the edge of the village with his companions, she didn't hesitate.

She called his name.

And she watched his head snap toward her.

…

The first sign that something had changed was the way people looked at me.

Not just my friends—Ekene, Nnamdi, and Ikenna were still watching me like I was a puzzle they hadn't figured out—but the villagers.

They didn't bow or step aside like I was some titled elder, but their gazes lingered on me. Their eyes turned toward me more than once, even when they weren't speaking to me directly.

It was subtle.

The kind of thing I wouldn't have noticed before.

But now, I did.

I knew because I could feel it.

Wisdom and Spirit weren't things you turned on or off. It wasn't something you used. It simply was.

And now that I had acknowledged it, I could no longer ignore it.

We passed a group of elders sitting in the shade of a large udala tree.

They weren't the kind of men to waste words on youth, but as we walked by, one of them—Okafor, a man known for his silence—hummed in thought.

His eyes met mine for a brief second.

Then he nodded.

It was small. Almost nothing. But Nnamdi noticed.

"…Did Okafor just nod at you?" he asked under his breath.

I didn't answer.

Because before I could, another voice cut through the air.

"OBINNA!"