Demas_Richardson

ZION
He woke in a broken world, carrying the soul of another… and the memories of gods long forgotten.

The tribe is scattered. The warriors are dead. But as Zion rises in a new body, ancient spirits stir—and a lost people begin to believe again.

They don’t know who he is.
They don’t know what he carries.
But the gods are watching… and so is the enemy

BATTLE GROUND OF THE Gods

It started like any regular day in Nouvo Lakay. The sky was clear, the fishmongers were shouting louder than the blacksmiths, and everything smelled like roasted plantain and purpose.

Then the guards arrested a half-naked old man yelling about smoke, rum, and "who stole his fire."

He looked like he'd fallen out of a volcano, crawled through a swamp, and then lost a fight with a hurricane.

"He was climbing the temple wall," said one guard.

"And shouting at the sun," said another.

"He slapped a goat," whispered the third, still visibly traumatized.

By the time they got him to the palace, the whole capital had gathered outside, pointing, gasping, and laughing.

When Zion saw the man, his heart nearly stopped.

He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just stared at the scorched, grinning prisoner who was somehow melting the stone floor even while tied up in chains, barefoot, and missing most of his shirt.

"Sweet Papa Legba… that's Tijan Petro…"

One priestess leaned over. "What was that, my king?"

Zion gulped. "Nothing! Just… uh… tie him tighter?"

But it was too late. The people had questions. Loud ones.

"This strong old man tried to kick my stall over!"

"He screamed at my baby and the baby screamed back!"

"He stole three sweetbreads and said the gods owed him!"

And Zion—sweating bullets—stood there with a frozen smile like someone trying not to faint during a hurricane.

"My people, please… I… we must be merciful."

"He cursed my cat and now it walks backwards!"

"He said he'd set the ocean on fire!"

Zion cleared his throat and tried to sound royal.

"Look… he's just… misunderstood. Possibly confused. Very strong… old… man."

Tijan Petro raised his head slowly, eyes glowing like coals in a forge.

"I cursed your cat because it looked at me funny."

"I slapped the goat because it knew what it did."

"And I stole the sweetbreads because they were dry!"

He smiled, revealing a full set of very sharp teeth.

"Now, where is the rum? The dancers? The fire?! This is a nation, is it not?"

The crowd gasped. A child shouted, "He's nuts!"

Zion finally stepped forward and took a deep breath.

"Alright. Everyone calm down. I have to tell you something."

"This man… this strong old man… is not just a strong old man."

"My cousin beat him with a broomstick!"

Zion raised both hands. "No really. He's Tijan Petro. Fire. Rage. Madness. Chaos."

Then everyone turned slowly to look at the old man… who had somehow burned his way free of the chains and was now eating roasted corn someone left too close to him.

He waved. "Still waiting on that rum."

Zion sighed the sigh of a man who knows he can't win.

"Alright. Nobody whip the god, please."

"We will… honor him. With a temple. Eventually."

"And try not to anger him. Ever again."

Tijan Petro belched, then sat down cross-legged in the middle of the room like it was his house.

"Don't worry, child," he said with a wink. "You amuse me. You've got fire. I'll stay. For now."

The people left the palace slowly. Confused. Slightly singed. Extremely skeptical.

And Zion sat back down, hands over his face.

"Next time," he muttered, "we ask who the old man is before we chain him up."

The Strong Old Man in Chains