Zion Before the Fire

The ground split beneath their feet.

The sky cracked like shattered glass.

The Hive was not a wave.

It was a storm of extinction, screaming across the land.

And at the head of the 99 warriors of Zantrayel and the five priestesses, stood Zion, the Chosen of Ginen, the man who was once boy and memory, but now—king.

His armor bore no crown.

His eyes bore no fear.

Only flame.

"Hold!"

The Hive came like madness made flesh. Wings. Horns. Teeth. Some walked. Others crawled on limbs not meant for mortals to understand. The world trembled.

Zion raised his hand—not in fear, not in warning—but in absolute command.

"Form the Ninth Fang!" he shouted.

Immediately, the 99—each trained, evolved, and tested—fell into a battle formation unknown to the Hive.

Crescent offense. Tower defense. Multi-tiered counter.

Ayola stood behind him, the first of the Five Priestesses, her hands raised, light weaving barriers between ranks.

She did not blink.

"Cover the rear flank," she called to Ayomi, whose voice summoned earth to rise like a fortress.

Sael invoked ancestral fire.

Thalia became wind incarnate.

And Elis, the youngest, invoked a river to bend like a serpent across the battlefield, sweeping Hive creatures into the air.

Their combined chant shook the battlefield.

"In the name of Ginen. In the name of the sleeping ones. In the name of the flame, the root, and the crown!"

The 99 followed suit, no longer simply warriors—but legends in motion:

One wielded blades etched with the names of forgotten storms.

Another danced as he fought, every step a death knell.

One whispered, and Hive soldiers fell asleep, never to wake.

One opened her mouth and sang, and the Hive's darkness split open like silk.

Each one bore a sigil of a god, a Lwa, a spirit, or a force too old for names.

Zion Led from the Front

He did not hide behind banners.

He walked between the lines.

When a warrior of Zantrayel fell, he caught them.

When panic rose, he crushed it with a word.

His voice wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It rippled across the minds of those who followed him.

"You are not alone."

"They will break before we do."

"Hold the line."

He fought alongside them—not with arrogance, but with purpose. His blade was not the sharpest, but his presence was unshakable.

When the Hive's shadow beasts surged forward, Zion stood before them and whispered:

"Let Ginen remember."

And the very earth beneath his feet burned with ancestral power, pushing the Hive back.

The Army of the Chosen

They came from every pantheon.

Yoruba Orisha. Norse Aesir. Kami from the East. Spirits of the steppe. Djinn of the old sands.

Each brought their best. Each stood under their own banner.

Each pantheon had its leader, a warlord or chosen, each commanding with pride and fire.

But all turned, even if just for a moment, toward Zion.

Not as a ruler over them—but as a king who stood shoulder to shoulder.

Together, they were more than a force.

They were the Answer to the Hive.

And the Hive Began to Falter

It was subtle at first.

The frontlines of the Hive began to stall.

The flying beasts hesitated before diving.

The black tendrils turned aside before reaching the light of Ayola's walls.

The Hive could not understand unity.

The Hive could not consume purpose.

And Zion stood at the center of it all, drenched in sweat, blood not his own, holding his warriors not with power—but belief.

"We are the flame," he whispered.

"And this is not the end