The world contracted to the space of a single, dust-choked breath. For a timeless second after Adekunle landed, the only sound in the candlelit room was the soft patter of debris raining down from the gaping, impossible hole in the ceiling. He stood in a low crouch amidst the wreckage of their feast—a splintered table, overturned cups, a puddle of spilled gin reflecting the flickering candlelight like a pool of liquid gold. The rich, greasy smell of roasted meat was now thick with the chalky scent of pulverized concrete.
Five pairs of eyes were locked on him, wide with a mixture of disbelief, raw terror, and dawning, drunken rage. He saw the scene not as a single picture, but as a series of distinct, hyper-focused vignettes. He saw Small-Boy, the nervous one, scrambling backward on his hands and knees, his mouth open in a silent, unending scream. He saw the two nameless thugs, frozen mid-motion, their faces slack with incomprehension. He saw Ikenna, the rat, already halfway under a chair, his eyes darting frantically between Adekunle and the door, his mind consumed with the geometry of escape.
And he saw Jago.
The gang leader was the first to recover, his shock instantly curdling into a furious, guttural roar. His scarred face, illuminated by the guttering candles, was a mask of pure, murderous indignation. This boy, this shadow from upstairs, had not just attacked them; he had insulted them. He had violated the sanctity of their den, shattered the illusion of their power. Jago's pride, the very foundation of his brutal authority, had been fractured as surely as the ceiling.
"Kill him!" Jago bellowed, the command breaking the spell of paralysis that held the room. He snatched up the heavy machete that lay on the floor beside him. "Kill the ghost!"
The room exploded into motion. One of the nameless thugs, the one with the thick beard, lunged forward, a heavy iron pipe gripped in his hands. He was the closest, and his drunken mind could only process the simplest equation: an intruder must be met with force. He swung the pipe in a wide, clumsy arc aimed at Adekunle's head.
In the old world, Adekunle would have tried to dodge. He would have been too slow. The blow would have crushed his skull. But he was not in the old world anymore. Time seemed to stretch, to become thick and malleable. He watched the pipe swing toward him with a strange, detached clarity. He didn't see a weapon; he saw a trajectory, an arc of metal moving through space. He felt the power inside him, the quiet, waiting storm, respond not with a surge of panic, but with a cold, terrifying efficiency.
He didn't dodge. He simply lifted his left arm.
The impact was not the wet crunch of bone he had expected. It was a solid, resonant CLANG, as if the iron pipe had struck an anvil. The shock of the impact traveled up the thug's arms, and the pipe flew from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor. The man stared at his hands, then at Adekunle's arm, his face a perfect mask of bewildered pain.
Adekunle did not give him time to recover. He moved. The power in his legs propelled him forward, not in a run, but in a single, fluid, impossibly fast step that closed the distance between them. He struck with the tyre iron he still held in his right hand. He didn't aim for the head. His aunt's voice echoed in his mind: "A clear path." He needed to neutralize, not necessarily to kill. He brought the heavy steel bar down in a short, brutal arc against the man's knee.
The sound was a sickening, wet crunch. The man's leg buckled instantly, and he went down with a high-pitched, piercing shriek of pure agony, clutching the ruined joint. One down.
The second thug, seeing his companion fall, hesitated for a fatal second. That was all Adekunle needed. He was already moving, flowing around the fallen man like water around a stone. This second man held a length of wood, a splintered two-by-four. He thrust it forward like a spear. Adekunle sidestepped the clumsy attack, his movements unnaturally fluid. He brought the tyre iron around in a backhanded swing that connected solidly with the man's ribs. There was a dull, heavy thud, like a hammer hitting a side of beef, and the man crumpled, the air leaving his lungs in a desperate, wheezing gasp. He curled into a ball on the floor, momentarily out of the fight. Two down.
The entire exchange had taken less than five seconds. It was a brutal, efficient ballet of violence that his mind could barely keep up with. He felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were a passenger in his own body, watching a stranger perform these terrible, graceful acts.
He turned his attention to the main threat. Jago.
The gang leader had used the brief, violent distraction to his advantage. He had circled around, his machete held in a two-handed grip, his eyes burning with a cold, murderous light. He was a different breed from his men. He was not just a thug; he was a killer. He saw the impossible thing that had just happened, but it did not frighten him. It enraged him. He saw a challenge to his throne.
"You have some devil in you, boy," Jago growled, his voice a low rumble. He began to circle Adekunle, his movements cautious, testing. "But I have sent many devils back to hell."
Behind Jago, Adekunle saw a flicker of movement. Ikenna. The rat was not joining the fight. He was slinking toward the front door of the flat, the one that led to the main stairwell. He was abandoning his king. It was a cowardly act, but it was also a dangerous one. If Ikenna got out, he could run, he could bring back others, he could block their only planned escape route.
Adekunle had to make a choice. The immediate threat of Jago's machete, or the strategic threat of Ikenna's escape.
He chose both.
With a roar, he charged past Jago, directly toward Ikenna. The move was so unexpected that Jago was momentarily frozen, his own attack thwarted. Adekunle covered the ten feet to the door in two impossibly long strides. Ikenna shrieked as he saw the ghost-boy bearing down on him, his hand fumbling with the doorknob.
Adekunle didn't slow down. He kicked. His foot connected with the center of the solid wood door. The alien strength surged through his leg. The door did not just open. It exploded from its hinges, the frame splintering, the wood itself shattering as if hit by a cannonball. The entire wreck of the door flew into the stairwell, taking a terrified, screaming Ikenna with it. There was a crash of splintered wood and a final, choked-off cry as Ikenna and the door remnants tumbled down the first flight of stairs. Three down. The path was clear.
But the move had left Adekunle's back exposed.
"Die!" Jago screamed behind him.
Adekunle spun around just as the machete swung down. He brought the tyre iron up to block, the two pieces of steel meeting with a high-pitched, ringing CLANG that vibrated through his bones. The force of the blow was immense, far greater than the pipe had been. Jago was strong, his rage giving him a brutal power. The tyre iron was knocked from Adekunle's numb fingers, skittering away into the darkness. He was disarmed.
Jago grinned, his teeth yellow in the candlelight. He raised the machete for a final, killing blow, a downward chop aimed at Adekunle's exposed neck.
There was no time to think. There was no time for anything but instinct. As the heavy blade began its descent, Adekunle reacted. He drove his left hand forward, not as a block, but as a fist. The power, raw and untamed, roared through him. His fist connected not with the blade, but with the flat of Jago's own chest.
It was the same sensation as when he had pushed the demon, but this time it was focused, concentrated into a single point of impact. It was like detonating a small bomb.
Jago's eyes went wide with a final, ultimate shock. The air was driven from his lungs in a single, explosive gasp. His feet lifted from the floor. He flew backward, not in a clumsy tumble, but in a straight, horizontal line, as if yanked by an invisible cable. He slammed into the concrete wall at the far end of the room with a sound that was deep, wet, and utterly final. His body slid down the wall, leaving a dark smear, and crumpled to the floor in a boneless, unnatural heap. He did not move again. Four down.
The room fell silent once more. The only one left was Small-Boy, who was still huddled in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, his body shaking uncontrollably. He was weeping, his face buried in his hands. He was no longer a threat. He was just a terrified boy who had chosen the wrong king.
Adekunle stood in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving, his fist tingling with a strange, cold fire. The silence was broken by a soft thud from above. It was his aunt, giving the signal. The battle was over. It was time to go.
He looked around the room. At the groaning man with the shattered knee. At the other, gasping for breath with broken ribs. At the unmoving form of Jago, crumpled against the far wall. And at the ruin of the doorway where Ikenna had disappeared. He had not just cleared a path. He had brought the storm.
He felt a wave of nausea. He looked at his hands, the instruments of this terrible, efficient violence. They were his hands. This power was his power. There was no denying it anymore. He had crossed the threshold. He had killed. A part of him, the quiet student who loved philosophy and the logic of machines, had died in this room, along with Jago.
He pushed the feeling down. There was no time for an autopsy of his own soul. He went to the ruined doorway and looked down the stairs. Ikenna was a groaning heap at the bottom of the first flight. The path was clear.
He looked back up at the hole in the ceiling, the source of all this terror and all this hope. "Auntie!" he called, his voice a ragged command. "It's time! Come now!"
He had won. He had cleared the castle. But as he stood there, amidst the wreckage and the smell of blood and spilled gin, he felt no triumph. He only felt the profound, chilling weight of the monster he had just unleashed.