Now Or Never

The atmosphere in the new lecture hall was thick with despair. What used to be a lecture room now felt like a place of waiting—waiting for something to end.

Students sat stiffly on benches, faces blank, eyes glazed. Fear hung in the air like heat. No one spoke. No one cried. They were too stunned for that.

Among them were staff members, scattered between rows, just as lost. They sat with sunken shoulders, eyes fixed on nothing. They brought no authority, no comfort. Just bodies, waiting like everyone else.

Ms. Aisha Chama sat near the front, arms crossed, face still. There was no panic in her eyes—only silence. She wasn't detached, exactly. She was thinking. Calm in a way that made her seem untouchable.

Mr. Godfrey Mukuka stood up from the far side of the room and slowly approached her. His movements were slow, uncertain, like someone half-awake. His skin was pale, his lips dry. When he finally reached her, he didn't sit.

"Aisha," he said, voice thin and shaking. "Have you given your life to our lord and savior?"

She didn't answer right away. Just glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Godfrey, what now?"

"We're going to die," he whispered. "God is judging us. I feel it. And we have to save as many as we can—right here, right now—before it's too late."

"Godfrey," she said, her voice low and even, "I get where you're coming from. But what about the students who believe in something else?"

He looked away briefly, then back at her. "Then their gods will answer for them. But I saw something, Aisha. A vision. I know what's coming. Aisha, are you saved?"

She looked straight ahead. "I don't know. But I'm not dying here today."

"Heh" Godfrey stared at her like she'd slapped him. "Are you serious? Look around you. These kids—they're terrified. And you're sitting here saying death won't touch you? Who do you think you are?"

Aisha stood slowly and she remained silent. Something changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But for a second—her eyes shimmered red.

Godfrey blinked. His breath caught. One hand went to his chest.

"What is this?" he gasped as his knees buckled. A second later, he hit the floor.

A few students looked up, startled, but no one really understood what had just happened. The room stayed mostly still, drowning in its own dread.

But two girls seated near the side had been watching closely.

"Muna did you see that?" one of them whispered, tugging on her friend's sleeve.

"What? Serah What?" she replied, eyes darting nervously.

"Mr. Mukuka. He just collapsed. Right after she stood up."

"Exe what are you saying?"

"I don't know. But she did something."

"Keep quiet. She's coming."

Ms. Chama walked past them without saying a word. But just as she passed, she cast a brief side glance at them—cold, sharp, unreadable.

Muna gasped as they shrank back without meaning to and suddenly, she begun convulsing.

"Muna!" Serah shouted in a panic, as Ms Chama walked on. Then she was gone, walking out of the hall as silently as she had sat.

Back in the cafeteria…

"Alright, one last time—this is the plan," Dante said, standing before his classmates with a steady voice. His face was calm, unreadable, but his eyes were locked in—sharp, focused, like a drawn blade. He didn't blink as he started, "First, we wait until—"

A deafening roar cut him off. Jets screamed overhead, followed by an explosion that cracked through the air and shook the ground like a violent tremor. The windows buzzed in their frames and the sharp, metallic scent of burning fuel rushed in through the vents.

"Fuck! It's too late!" Dante shouted.

In one swift motion, he drew his knife—the silver blade catching the flickering light of the lounge. Without hesitation, he slashed across both wrists, deep and clean. Blood poured between his fingers as he pressed them together, his breathing steady despite the pain. His voice dropped into a low, powerful chant.

"Mfinzi."

Blackness bloomed from his blood—thick, swirling, alive. It spread in a slow spiral, crawling across the floor and up the walls. At the center, a shadowy portal took shape, hissing and pulsing like it had a heartbeat. The air around it grew heavy, warped, as if reality itself was bending to let something through.

Taonga shrieked, stumbling backward. "Eeee! What is that?!" she cried, grabbing Natasha, both of them trembling. Their eyes were wide, faces pale with shock.

"Taonga! Focus!" Anne snapped, pushing forward, her stance shaky but determined. She wiped a smear of dust off her cheek, heart racing.

"The courtyard," Demetrius muttered under his breath as he sprinted out of the lounge. His body moved with purpose, every step thudding hard against the tile.

Mandamus and Watson were right behind him, their faces hard, eyes straight ahead.

"Girls, go! It's now or never! Use what I taught you—don't you dare die!" Dante called out, standing firm as the shadows behind him twisted wildly. The girls didn't hesitate—they ran in one by one, swallowed by the dark.

Dante let the shadows swallow him whole, his body fading into the darkness with a whisper of smoke. In an instant, he was gone—drawn through space, pulled toward the courtyard where the battle was waiting

Demetrius sprinted toward the front gate.

Watson and Mandamus were right behind him—but not for long.

"Meech! Fuck the gate man!" Mandamus yelled, skidding to a stop. He turned and slammed his foot into the concrete fence with a loud grunt. The wall cracked, then crumbled as a chunk of it broke open, sending dust flying everywhere.

Mandamus didn't waste a second. He jumped through the hole and kept running. Watson followed right behind him, coughing as dust hit his face.

"Nigga! Let's go!" Watson shouted.

"Sharp!" Demetrius called back turning. He threw a heavy punch at another part of the fence. The concrete shattered under the force, pieces falling away as he made his own path into the courtyard.

A thick fog had already started to spread across the courtyard from the fog decomposition ritual. It moved low, hugging the ground like a creeping ghost. It was getting harder to see.

But it wasn't just fog. Black smoke was rising into the air from the burning Land Cruisers nearby—blown apart by a missile strike. The smell of fire and fuel filled the air. It stung noses, and left a sharp, bitter taste in mouths.

Up in the sky, the jets flew overhead with a loud roar.

"Jones boi, do you copy?" a voice asked over the radio.

"Albert chikala, I can hear you," Jones replied, looking down at the smoke below. "These guys are crazy. What the fuck is this even?"

"Suzy, you copy?" Albert asked.

In her jet, Suzy looked out her window at the chaos below. Her jaw was tight. "We have to go back to base," she said. "We can't shoot into all that smoke, and flying over it feels risky."

"Right. Copy that," Albert said.

The jets turned around and flew off, leaving the smoke, the fog, and the chaos below.

"Not this shit again," Demetrius muttered, eyes locked on the thick fog coiling around them like cold smoke. The mist grew heavier with every breath, wrapping the battlefield in a damp, choking haze.

Above, the sharp screech of jets sliced through the sky, their roar echoing in his ears. He glanced up at the dull gray clouds, then looked forward, heart pounding, mind racing.

"Think, Demetrius. Think. Okay, what if I spin my arms, maybe create some wind to clear this up a bit?"

He swung his arms fast, cutting through the heavy air—but nothing happened. The fog stayed dense and stubborn.

"Well, that was pointless." Demetrius muttered in a low tone.

Watson doubled over laughing, hands on his stomach. "Meech, you're a fool Chikala. You think this is the flash exeh?"

"Fuck you Chikala," Demetrius shot back with a crooked grin.

"Bafikala jokes aside. Yazanda sichu (The situation isn't good)," Mandamus said grimly, clenching his fists, eyes narrowing as he focused on the threat ahead.

Then, without warning, a shadow flickered beside him. Dante appeared on the battlefield like a phantom.

"Fuck," Dante muttered, voice low and tight. "Ohns, forget everything I said."

And just like that, he vanished—racing forward at breakneck speed. His fist collided with a ritual soldier's jaw, the impact so violent it sent the man flying backwards through a tree. Branches snapped and splintered like dry bones as the body crashed through. But Dante didn't slow down. He launched into three more soldiers, striking with ruthless precision. Each blow sent bodies hurtling into the mist. His Ndembo power blurred him into near-invisibility—just flashes of movement on the rain-darkened battlefield.

But not all the soldiers were blind to him.

Some sensed him through the fog and peeled off to intercept. The rest turned on the group behind him.

Then more soldiers began flooding onto campus—duffel bags slung over their shoulders. The same kind of bags used in the East Park massacre. Something worse was coming.

Watson's eyes snapped toward the gate, chaos erupting before him.

"Iwe!" he shouted, locking on to the soldiers leaping over the fence.

He stomped his right foot into the ground—hard. Dirt and stones burst into the air. Without looking away, he flicked his fingers, launching the pebbles like bullets.

They hit with sniper-like precision. One soldier dropped instantly, his duffel bag falling open beside him. Out spilled dozens of severed crow heads.

Watson's chest tightened. "That's the same Black Magic they used at East Park," he thought. "Meech! The duffel bags, exe... We can't stop this!" he yelled as more soldiers stormed through the perimeter. They just kept coming.

"What's in the bags?!" Demetrius yelled back, dodging a charging soldier.

"Charms!" Dante's voice cut through the chaos as he teleported near them.

Demetrius's started to process Dante's response himself. "Wait, does he mean like severed heads, animal parts, bones? That must be how they spread madness, create illusions and cause terror. It's how they took the mall without a real fight!" His thoughts were all over the place. He's eye's met the fog rising from a fallen body. "So then this fog... it's must be some kind of forbidden Juju. They're using our own dead against us to create cover. These guys are diabolical and clearly skilled. And how the fuck are we even able to breathe in this mist? This is insane."

Demetrius stood frozen at the sight, heart racing as the scale of what was coming sank in. "I need to get to the girls. Anne…" he turned, ready to sprint back into the campus.

But then, a cold wave rolled over him. Thick. Heavy. Familiar. Bloodlust. His jaw ached—the memory of Bill Tendai's uppercut flashing back like a slap. He turned toward the field… and froze.

There he was. Tall. Masked. Eyes locked on him. Boneface. There was no mistaking that presence. Stronger than before. More focused. His aura bled danger.

Demetrius's breath hitched. "He's stronger now," he thought, jaw tightening. "Too strong." "Mandamus!" he shouted. "Help the girls!"

Mandamus looked over, catching sight of Boneface standing before Demetrius. His face hardened. "Don't tell me what to do, chika—" he snapped, cutting himself off mid-sentence as he clenched his fists.

Boneface moved faster than Mandamus could finish. His fist hit before anyone could react. Demetrius didn't see it coming.

The blow slammed into Demetrius's face like a truck. It sent him flying through the mist and crashing onto Leopards Hill Road.

He hit the ground hard, his body skidding until it crashed through a car on the road. Pain shot through his ribs as he tried to breathe.

Before Demetrius could get up, Boneface was already there, grabbing his collar like he was a toy, blood running down his face.

"Let's take this somewhere else, shall we?" Boneface said with a cold smile.

He grabbed Demetrius by the leg and, with a burst of power, leapt high—clearing trees and rooftops—before landing hard on the gravel road near Temweka Village.

Without a moment's pause, he swung Demetrius overhead and slammed him into the gravel. The impact cracked the ground, dust and stones flying as Demetrius's body bounced off the surface with a sickening thud.

Demetrius coughed up blood, his vision swimming. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears as he looked up at Boneface.

Still gripping his leg, Boneface took off, sprinting down the gravel road at breakneck speed, grinding Demetrius's body along the rough stones without mercy. Nearing the end of the road, Boneface hurled him toward an oncoming oil truck along New Kasama Road.

Demetrius crashed through it—triggering a massive explosion.

Still airborne, the flames scorched most of Demetrius's clothes, leaving only his underwear and a few threads clinging to his body. The wind, fueled by his motion, extinguished most of the flames. When he hit the ground, he bounced violently, skidding across the earth until he finally stopped.

Barely conscious, Demetrius forced himself to sit up. Blood trickled from his mouth as he looked forward—and saw Boneface lunging at him at terrifying speed.

Demetrius raised a hand, turned his head aside, and closed his eyes. "Wait!" he screamed with all the strength he had, before coughing up more blood.

Boneface stopped mid-lunge and landed, creating a burst of wind that scattered dust and gravel everywhere. He stood in front of Demetrius and removed his mask.

"You idiot. Why the fuck should I wait?" he said with a cold smile. "I'm actually enjoying this. I haven't cut loose in a long time."

Without warning, Boneface grabbed Demetrius's neck and slammed him onto his back, pinning him to the ground.

Demetrius coughed up more blood. Both his eyes were bruised. He stared up at Boneface, choking.

Boneface leaned in close, his breath hot against Demetrius's ear, and let out a soft, almost snake-like hiss.

"I'm so lonely…" he whispered.

"The other soldiers fear me. No one talks to me—no one wants to be my friend. They say I'm unstable. They ship me from province to province, making me do their dirty work. And the better I get at it… the more they fear me."

He sighed, still squeezing Demetrius's throat like a vice.

"I'm a victim of my own success. 'Second Lieutenant.' That's all they call me. I deserve more. I am more. But here I am… just another shadow in their war."

His grip didn't loosen. If anything, it got tighter.

"I could do great things—terrible things—but no one sees it. Some days I feel so alone, I could cry. But I don't. I never do. Because who would care? No one. Not in this universe."

Boneface stared down at him, hollow eyes unblinking.

"Take it to your grave."

He tightened his grip.

Demetrius gagged, his fingers clawing at Boneface's arms, heart racing, each beat heavier than the last—

Back in the courtyard…

Watson leapt backward, putting distance between himself and Second Lieutenant Beef Jiggies as her body began to shift.

Watson heard a series of wet, snapping sounds. Horns burst from her skull. Her feet twisted and elongated, snapping her boots apart with a sharp tear of leather. A low, guttural growl rumbled from her chest, deeper than a human voice. She was no longer just a soldier. She was a monster.

"Walah… what the hell," Watson thought, regaining his footing.

She charged him at full speed. In the blink of an eye, she was upon him.

A shape exploded from the mist. Watson had no time to react. A hoof, not a foot, slammed into his stomach. The force wasn't just a push; it was a blunt, sickening impact that felt like it had shattered his ribs. He flew backward, the air stolen from his lungs. He crashed hard against the perimeter wall, the rough concrete scraping his back. He coughed, and the hot, coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed at him.

"I can't predict these attacks," Watson muttered, his voice a ragged gasp. He tried to use his future sight, to see what she would do next. But there was nothing. The fog was the reason. It was thick and unnatural, blocking the sun. His Ndembo needed sunlight to see the future. Without it, he was blind.

He looked up. Beef Jiggies was charging again, her new horns aimed straight at him. She was a runaway truck. He had no time.

Just before she struck, Watson dove to the right. He felt a rush of displaced air and the rumble of her impact as she tore through the wall behind him. Rubble and dust rained down. She had smashed straight through the building. Screams erupted from inside.

Watson stared through the gaping hole. His eyes locked on the chaos inside. Students scrambled over shattered desks. Blood was everywhere. In the center of it all stood Beef Jiggies, soaked in the blood of the innocent, her eyes wild with rage.

"Run for your lives!" a student shouted.

Watson took a steady breath. He closed his eyes, shutting out the noise of the panic. He shut out the fear. He reached deep inside himself, not for the power of sight, but for something else. Something hotter. He focused on the burning vehicles nearby. He could feel their heat on his skin, a distant warmth. He pulled at it.

The flames answered.

He felt them coming. It started as a tingling warmth in his feet, then a rush of heat up his legs. It was not a painful burn. It was a feeling of pure, controlled energy. The flames slithered toward him from the wreckage, not like fire, but like loyal snakes. They coiled around his chest. His shirt sizzled and turned to ash, but his skin was unharmed. A massive ring of fire formed across his torso, pulsing with a deep, silent hum that he felt in his very bones.

With one explosive leap, Watson launched himself forward. He shot through the hole in the wall like a human cannonball. He landed in the blood-soaked classroom with a fiery crash, the impact sending a wave of heat and flame washing across the room.

He stood there, the ring of fire around his torso burning bright, pushing back the shadows and the fear. He was no longer just a student. He was a wielder of the Ndembo of Chibolya. And he was ready to fight.

Inside the new hall…

Students' bodies twisted unnaturally as chaos took hold. They turned on each other without reason, like puppets yanked by invisible strings. Severed crow heads littered the floors, still pouring in through shattered windows. Panic erupted.

Students attacked students. Staff turned on staff. Screams echoed through the halls. Blood hit the walls. It was no longer a school—it was a slaughterhouse.

Only three remained untouched.

Anne Whiteman. Taonga Nakaundi. Natasha Malambo.

Their charms held back the madness, shielding them from the spell infecting everyone else. But the protection didn't make them invisible—and it couldn't save the others.

Then, it hit.

A possessed girl lunged at Taonga, tackling her hard to the ground, snarling like a wild animal. She tried to sink her teeth into Taonga's neck.

Taonga screamed, barely holding her off, eyes wide with panic, tears spilling.

Anne snapped out of her shock. With a sharp, brutal kick, she crushed the attacker's skull.

The girl's body flew, slamming into a group of students like a bowling ball through pins.

Anne stared at the chicken-bone charm tied to her ankle.

"So this is witchcraft," she muttered.

Taonga was still crying, frozen, her body trembling.

"Taonga, get up!" Anne shouted, grabbing her by the arm. "These charms are all we've got. We can't save anyone—it's just us now!"

"Okay… okay, okay," Taonga whimpered, trying to pull herself together.

Suddenly, a boy's body whipped past them, arms limp, legs flailing like a ragdoll.

They spun—just in time to see Natasha standing tall, her foot still raised from the kick that had launched him across the hall like he weighed nothing.

There was no time to catch their breath.

A horde of students came at them—eyes glowing, mouths twisted, rage spilling from every step. No warning. No mercy.

The girls fought. Every punch. Every scream. Every kick. A war for survival, second by second. No plan. No weapons. No superpowers. Just instincts—and the strange skills they'd unlocked minutes before hell broke loose. Three first-year law students. And the end of the world on their shoulders.

Outside the New Hall, Mandamus skidded to a halt beneath the towering windows, his chest heaving with each breath. The soldiers hurling crow heads spotted him and charged—but they didn't stand a chance. One by one, he took them down, swift and merciless. When it was over, he shook the blood from his hands, then raised his eyes to the hall above.

"Okay, Skiide. You got this," he muttered.

He bent his knees and jumped—clearing the height and landing hard on one of the two balconies. The metal rail groaned beneath him. He didn't hesitate. One punch and the door in front of him blasted inward, flying off its hinges like paper.

"Management will pay," he hissed under his breath, stepping into the mess.

The classroom was a war zone. Blood smeared the walls. Chairs and desks were overturned. Students tore into each other, possessed and snarling.

Flattening a crows head beneath his first step, Mandamus surged forward, eyes locked on one of the many moving figures. He wound up his fist—heavy like a loaded hammer—ready to drop someone in one clean hit.

But then, before he could land it, he realized the figure he was about to hit was Taonga. His eyes widened.

Taonga spotted him—and screamed. He was hurtling straight toward her, like a bullet with eyes.

Mid-motion, Mandamus twisted his body to stop, but the momentum was too much. As a result, he flew sideways, crashing into a row of desks with a loud bang.

"Ahh, my head," he groaned, pulling himself out of the broken wood and metal, dizzy but still standing.

Back in the courtyard-

"I'm not done, motherfucker!" Bill yelled as Dante leapt back, trying to put distance between them. But Bill didn't wait. He was already on him.

Dante stepped back again—then the ground suddenly grew heavier. Bill was shifting gravity. His punches came fast and brutal. Dante dodged one by a hair, then vanished into shadow, reappearing a few meters away. But Bill was already airborne, reading the move before it even finished.

A heavy blow slammed into Dante's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He was sent flying, skidding through the mud-ridden gravel, but his time, he didn't black out from the hit.

He rolled to his feet just in time—barely dodging a stomp that cracked the ground, sending ripples through the muck like a wave. Then he vanished again. This time, he appeared behind a soldier aiming blindly through the fog. In one motion, Dante drew a pocket knife from his tracksuit. Shadows wrapped around the blade, stretching and shaping it. He drove it through the man's spine—and disappeared once more.

Bill rushed to the spot. "Stand still, chikala!" he shouted.

Dante's voice echoed, low and calm. "Make me."

Another soldier opened fire. Dante blinked into place beside him, slipped behind, and slit his throat. The body collapsed silently.

Bill crouched low like a predator. Breathing steady. Eyes locked. Every sense on edge. He could hear Dante's breath—somewhere close. Then Bill shifted gravity again. Dante suddenly felt heavy. His feet seemed stuck to the ground. The air thickened around him, making it hard to breathe, like the air was turning to water.. The fog dropped lower.

Dante appeared just outside the gravity field, crouched on the hood of a burnt Land Cruiser, watching.

Bill looked up at him. "Wasiliza mwaiche (are you done kid)? Is that it? Youngster, come on. I'm having the time of my life here. Make this more interesting for me."

Dante's eyes flared. "Fuck you!" He teleported—this time not to run, but to strike. He reappeared above Bill and dropped both feet into his back.

Bill stumbled forward—but caught his balance mid-step, twisted, and used the gravity around him to launch backward. His elbow crashed into Dante's chest, folding him and hurling him into a signpost with a bone-rattling thud.

Dante crumpled, coughing, ribs on fire. But he lifted his arms and summoned a wall of shadow. Bill's fist hit a heartbeat later—shattering the wall like glass and driving Dante behind to his knees.

"Respect your elders, mwaiche," Bill growled.

Dante stood up, blood in his mouth, shadows coiling around his arms. "Suck my dick chikala."

Bill let out a deep growl and charged.

As his feet hit the ground, the gravity beneath him collapsed—sending a wave through the courtyard that launched mud, stone, and even nearby soldiers into the air.

Dante vanished again. Reappeared behind Bill. Quiet. Steady. Hidden in the fog.

One hand slid into his tracksuit pocket. He pulled out his knife—and opened it. Shadows wrapped it again, reshaping it into his signature blade. Then he struck—aiming straight for Bill's back.

Bill twisted just in time. The blade still landed, slicing deep into his side.

He roared in pain, spun, and grabbed Dante by the wrist—then hurled him over his shoulder like dead weight.

Dante crashed through the door of a damaged Land Cruiser. The metal shrieked and buckled.

He lay there, motionless—then rose slowly, tracksuit torn, blood dripping from his brow. Behind him, his shadow moved with a mind of its own.

Across from him, Bill stood tall, chest heaving. Blood steamed from the wound in his side.