Mama Ajike's hands rested in her lap, her eyes tracing the invisible horizon of Isare Hill.
"The morning for Akami and the survivors did not come with celebration for their success," she said, her voice low and tinged with grief. "The dead littered the hill, their eyes painfully open, staring at a sky they would never see again.
Akami felt his heart burn. In his intention to protect, he had caused the death of these young mortals, hundreds of lives lost to his blood and his dream. The hundred and twenty-three, once mortals, now Orisa, wept for their peers. Training together for five years, they had formed a strong bond, a family forged in sweat and struggle, and now that family lay broken."
She gestured slowly, as if gathering the fallen into her arms. "Akami made them gather the corpses, and with a dirge—a song of loss and farewell—he burned their bodies. The flames rose high, swallowing the dead in a shroud of smoke, and the skies grew heavy. Rain poured, as if the heavens themselves mourned, washing the ash into the earth. The dead could not be mourned forever, though, life had to go on.
Akami turned to the survivors, assessing their bodies and abilities. He discovered, though they were not as powerful as the Primordials, they were not far off. Their strength was something new, something alive. Their abilities stemmed from their souls, for each one of them had unique powers born from their personalities, gifts as varied as the winds that swept the hill."
The children shifted slightly, their eyes bright with curiosity as Mama Ajike's tone lifted, negotiating hope into the tragedy.
"A few months after they had become Orisa, they finally left the hill, descending back to the world below. Their mission was simple, to protect and lead the mortals to a greater age. No longer were they mere subjects to be trampled by the Primordials. They were something more—guardians, guides, born of sacrifice. The rain had stopped by then, and the earth lay quiet, waiting for what these new gods would bring."
Mama Ajike leaned forward, her voice softening as if sharing a secret. "And so they walked among the people, their powers a quiet flame within them, ready to light the way or to burn, should the need arise." The children held their breath, sensing the tale's end drawing near, yet feeling the stir of something immense and unbroken taking root in the night.
"The news about the Orisa spread faster than expected as they went around," she said, her tone steady but edged with foreboding.
"Soon, the Primordials came to hear of it. Oh, were they enraged. They stormed Isare Hill, their fury shaking the stones beneath their feet. Akami, expecting them, stood calm but said little to appease their anger. The Primordials could only lash out with words, bound by their covenant not to strike him, before they turned and stormed back to their golden abodes, their wrath simmering like a pot ready to boil over."
Mama Ajike's hands clenched slightly, as if feeling the tension of that moment. "Then, one day, it happened. In a village nestled between the Asadi River and Katoto Forest, two of the new gods, blood brothers, Oba and Esule—were feasting with the villagers. Laughter rang out, and the air was rich with the smell of meat and wine. But then came a very unexpected guest. The Primordial of wine and meat, Adidi.
Adidi was always drunk, his mind a storm of chaos. His unstable nature made him the deadliest of the Primordials, with the highest mortal kill count. He would crash festivities, gorge himself on their food, and then, in his madness, rape and kill the villagers. Even among the Primordials, he was the most hated."
The children's eyes widened, a few clutching each other as Mama Ajike's voice darkened. "The brothers asked him to leave, their voices firm but calm. Adidi, drunk as usual, ignored them, stumbling through the feast with a slurred laugh. But Oba and Esule were persistent. Oba grabbed Adidi by the arm, hoping to drag him out of the village and spare the people his ruin. It was then that hell broke loose."
She paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. "The Primordials already hated the Orisa, and Adidi was no different. He turned on Oba with a blow so powerful it sent him flying, bouncing across the ground like a stone skipped over water. Then, a battle began. The brothers joined hands and fought, their powers flaring to life. Oba with the strength of the earth in his fists, Esule with the speed of the wind in his steps. Adidi roared, his drunken rage a force of destruction. Some of the villagers, caught in the crossfire, died on the spot, their cries swallowed by the clash of gods."
Mama Ajike's hands swept through the air, mimicking the chaos of the fight. "The battle stretched on for days. What started in Osoko village spilled beyond its bounds, tearing through fields and rivers until it finally ended on the sixth day in Katoto Forest. Trees lay splintered, the earth scarred from their fury. Oba and Esule stood battered and bloodied above the body of Adidi, his once-mighty form broken and still. That day, the seventy-two Primordials became seventy-one."
A hush fell over the children, the weight of the victory, and its cost, settling into their bones. Mama Ajike's gaze softened, though her voice carried a quiet strength.
"The brothers had done what none thought possible. They had struck down a Primordial, proving the Orisa were no mere shadows of their predecessors. But the forest was silent that day, and the blood on the ground told a story of both triumph and loss."
She leaned back slightly, the firelight catching the lines of her face, as the children waited, breathless, for what would follow.
"A Primordial had died," she began again, her tone a solemn echo of the moment. "Gods thought to be immortal were actually killable. That day, a heavy rain fell whilst the sun shone at the same time—a strange omen, a tear in the fabric of the world. The remaining Primordials felt it, a hollow ache in their immortal cores. One of their kin had left the earth. Akami, still atop Isare Hill, looked up to the sky and closed his eyes.
'Chaos is coming,' he murmured, then let out a sigh, heavy with the burden of foresight. Yet he did nothing, standing like a sentinel as the winds whispered of the storm to come."
Mama Ajike's hands rested in her lap, her gaze distant. "But the remaining primordial gods did not sit still. They gathered, their rage a tempest ready to break. The Orisa gathered too—seventy against a hundred and twenty-three. War had begun. For decades, gods fell. The clash of their powers split hills, turned rivers to steam, and left the land scarred with their fury. Both Orisa and Primordials lost their lives, their blood soaking into the earth, their cries fading into the wind. In the end, on the hundredth year since the war's first spark, the Orisa slew the seventieth Primordial, leaving Akami as the last of his kind. But the cost was steep. Out of a hundred and twenty-three, only fifteen of the new gods remained. And that concluded the war of the gods."
The children sat in hushed awe, the enormity of the tale sinking in. Mama Ajike leaned forward, her voice softening as she carried the story beyond the battlefield. "The world was quiet then, but it was a silence born of exhaustion, not peace. The fifteen who survived stood among the ruins, their bodies weary, their souls marked by the faces of the fallen—brothers, sisters, friends lost to the long years of war. Akami, still on his hill, watched them from afar. He did not join them, nor did he oppose them.
Isare Hill was quiet, the wind barely stirring the grasses, and there sat Akami on a stone slab, peaceful yet distant, his presence like a shadow cast by a fading sun. The Orisa—the new gods—made their way up the hill and prostrated before him. He was their master, their creator, and that respect remained, no matter the blood spilled or the years passed."
Mama Ajike's hands gestured slowly, as if tracing the figures bowing before the lone Primordial. "Akami's eyes opened, cold and dark, like pools of night untouched by starlight.
"Why have you come?" he asked, his voice low, cutting through the stillness. Orun, one of the fifteen, stepped forward to speak. His voice was firm but carried the ache of loss. He spoke of how the war had cut their numbers, leaving only a handful where once there were many. Akami nodded, his expression unchanging. 'I am aware,' he said. 'And I have lost all of my kin thanks to this foolish war.'"
The children shifted slightly, sensing the brewing storm. Mama Ajike's voice dipped, her eyes narrowing as she continued. "Orun pleaded with Akami, begging him to help them make more gods. He claimed fifteen alone would not be enough to protect the mortals, to guide them through the ages to come.
Akami scoffed, a sound like dry leaves underfoot. 'What danger may harm the mortals now?' he asked, his tone sharp. 'You have killed off all the Primordials—my brothers, my sisters. What threat remains?' Irritated by Akami's dismissive air, Orun lashed out. His voice rose, raw with frustration.
"Why are you acting this way?" he demanded. "You're a hypocrite! You have no reason to be upset—you created us to oppose the Primordials, to end their cruelty!'"
Mama Ajike leaned forward, her voice thickening with the clash of wills. "Akami's gaze hardened, and he rose from his slab, towering over them despite his weariness. 'Leave this hill,' he said, his words a command carved in stone. 'And never return.' But the fifteen Orisa immediately refused, their voices rising as one. 'We will not leave without your blood,' they declared, their resolve unyielding. They had come for a purpose, and they would not be turned away empty-handed."
"The new gods did not move, disobeying their master's orders," Mama Ajike continued, her tone steady but threaded with tension. "Orun, who seemed to be their leader, took a step forward, his eyes cold as the river stones in winter. 'For the good of mankind,' he said, his voice unwavering, 'I will not leave this hill without your blood. You can make it easy, or you can make it hard—the ball is in your court.' It was a threat, bold and raw, laid bare before the last Primordial."
Mama Ajike's hands clenched slightly, mirroring the tightening air on Isare Hill. "Akami's eyes immediately turned cold, darker than the void between stars. Lightning struck, splitting the sky, and the wind howled, tearing at the grasses around them. 'You dare to threaten me?' His voice was sharp, a blade of sound that cut through the hill and made the new gods tremble. Perhaps it was because of their victories against the Primordials that they had not felt threatened by Akami before. In the war, it had taken two, sometimes three, of them to fell one Primordial. Now they stood fifteen against one, yet, for some reason, fear gripped them. Maybe it was because he was their master, the one who had made them, taught them, given them the spark of divinity in his blood."
Her voice softened briefly, then hardened again as she pressed on. "Orun was the first to break free from his fear. 'Shake away your fear,' he called to his peers, his voice rising over the wind. 'He is alone. We outnumber him fifteen to one.'
The words steadied them, and they straightened, their resolve flickering back to life. But on hearing this, Akami began to laugh. It started low, then grew—a cackle so hard it rolled like thunder across the hill, shaking the stones beneath their feet. 'For so long,' he said, his voice booming now, 'I had decided to drop my blade, picking up the mantle of a pacifist. I have walked this earth, protected and nurtured, watching over what I wrought." Akami said, his voice rolling like distant thunder," Mama Ajike continued, her tone deepening with the gravity of his words. "'However, before the world knew peace, I walked a different path. Before my siblings came to be, my blade never rested. In the time when humanity was threatened by the evil spirits that sought to lay claim to the world, I bathed the earth with their blood. I went by many titles, but one that put fear into the hearts of those who sought to hurt the balance of this world was my favorite. I was known as the Primordial god of Death.'"
The children gasped softly as the earth in the story seemed to tremble, and Mama Ajike's voice mirrored its shudder. "The ground shook, as if it recognized the name, and the winds howled in answer. Akami's eyes glowed, twin embers of power igniting in the storm-lit night. With a single step, he appeared in front of Orun, faster than thought. Before Orun could react, a blow struck his stomach, piercing through flesh and spirit alike. He doubled over, vomiting blood, the red staining the stones of Isare Hill."
Mama Ajike's hands moved swiftly, mimicking the blur of Akami's attack. "The other Orisa were stunned, their shock giving way to action. They dashed toward Akami, their powers flaring—flames, winds, shadows—but he was too fast, too strong. Even without a weapon, armed only with fists and feet, he was a monster. This could not be called a battle; it was a beat down. Like a father disciplining wayward children, Akami moved among them, his strikes precise and unrelenting. For more than a day, the hill rang with their cries, the clash of divine flesh against divine will, until at last he stood tall, untouched, watching the fifteen new gods lying in their own blood."
Her voice softened, tinged with a strange tenderness. "He had deliberately not killed them. How could he? They were like his children, born of his blood and his hope, however misguided their defiance. The hill was silent now, save for the ragged breathing of the fallen. Orun, battered and broken, struggled to his feet. He staggered, blood pouring from his mouth, staining his chin red. Yet a smile formed on his lips, faint and defiant. 'I had hoped it would not come to this,' he said, his voice a rasp against the wind."