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

The war had ended—not with a scream, but with silence.

The gods stood still, their eyes glowing dim in the shadow of Ginen's final breath. The Hive—once endless, devouring, unyielding—was no more. Every soldier, general, and drone had been dragged into the abyss behind Baka la Kwa. And what he did with them, no one asked. No one wanted to know.

Papa Legba closed the gates of Ginen with a snap of his fingers, a cork sealing a bottle filled with storms. He looked over the battlefield and nodded once. The sky, long stained with the blood of ancient beasts and divine fury, began to clear.

The priestesses—Ayola, Ayomi, Sael, Thalia (wounded but alive), and Elis—stood shoulder to shoulder. Their dresses soaked in ichor, their eyes gleaming with the fire of the gods they served. The 99 warriors of Zantrayel stood behind them like statues of vengeance, breathing heavy, but still ready.

Zion stood atop the tallest shattered hive structure, still dripping with the blood of the second-born generals. His voice was quiet:

"Leave nothing behind. Not even memory."

The earth was scorched, the air cleansed with sacred fire and rum.

Baron Samedi himself walked the fields, laughing as he gathered the lingering souls of the foolish who chose to align with the Hive.

Ogou Feray dragged twisted blades across the charred ground, slicing into dimensional scars the Hive had left behind.

Maman Brigitte danced among the dead fields, whispering to the forgotten. "Go now, nothing follows you anymore."

The other pantheons, with their remaining warriors, began ritual cleansings. Every battlefield was purified, every drop of hive corruption burned under celestial fire.

And above them all, Twaile, barefoot and smiling, threw the last of the hive bones into her cooking pot. She murmured to herself as the steam rose:

"It's always better with rum and dry peanuts

After the Feast: Cleansing the Battlefield