The Crossroad Claims the Five Armies

Ayola stood trembling.

The silence around her had shattered into a storm of divine pulses and ancestral echoes. The Crossroad—her domain, her charge—was no longer listening.

It was acting.

"Come back," she begged, summoning her sigils, shaping the winds, invoking Papa Legba's name, calling each priestess by heart.

But nothing obeyed.

Instead, the ground pulsed beneath her like a heartbeat made of thunder.

Her staff cracked, the crystal atop it flickering wildly. The sigils on her body flared—then sputtered.

"No… no—this wasn't the plan—"

Then, it began.

The Crossroad screamed.

A wave of energy burst outward from Ayola's chest—not of her making. It moved through worlds, across continents, through battlefields and war camps, strongholds and temples, mountain passes and blood-soaked valleys.

It didn't ask.

It claimed.

In the northern steppes, a horn had just been blown.

In the eastern skylands, an arrow had just been loosed.

In the jungle cities, a battle cry had just risen.

In the drowned coast, a sword had just struck shield.

In the ash-covered fortress of the fifth army, a silent march had just begun.

And in that same moment—they were all ripped away.

The Five Armies, whether preparing, marching, fighting, or meditating, were swallowed by light shaped like crossroads. One by one—no matter how far—they vanished.

Every warrior capable of fighting—anyone with will, power, or wrath in their blood—was taken.

Drawn into Ginen.

Ayola fell to her knees.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

But it wasn't her.

It was Ginen.

The Crossroad had become a gate of war, and the world had just been dragged into it.

All across the planes of existence, quiet fell.

The battlefield had changed.

And no one—not even the gods—knew what came next