11/4/2024
Christopher exhaled sharply, watching Omoba with a smirk. "Why is it always the hot ones that come with red flags?"
Omoba didn't waste time. He raised his gun and fired.
Christopher barely moved. With a flick of his wrist, the bullets froze mid-air, then dropped harmlessly to the ground.
Omoba scoffed. "I expected the guy who could neutralize my father's charm to be... scarier. Or at least more manly."
Christopher chuckled, tilting his head. "And I expected a Makinde heir to be less predictable. It'd be a shame to kill a hot guy like you."
Before Omoba could react, Christopher lifted him into the air, his fingers glowing faintly. The air crackled with unseen energy as he siphoned the protective charms covering Omoba's body.
Then, with a casual flick, he slammed him into the ground.
Omoba gritted his teeth and charged, abandoning his gun. The fight turned into a brutal exchange of fists. Strength met skill, but Christopher had the advantage—magic. He dodged with unnatural speed, countered with unseen forces pushing Omoba back.
Omoba clenched his jaw. If this continues, I'll lose.
Then, he made his move.
In a swift motion, Omoba pulled out a dagger, its blade coated in poison. As Christopher lunged forward, Omoba drove it deep into his abdomen.
Christopher staggered back, his vision blurring. He felt the venom seep into his veins, slowing him down.
Omoba smirked, turning to leave.
But Christopher wasn't done.
His breath was ragged as he touched the blood dripping from his wound, smearing it across his palm. His fingers trembled, but his voice was steady as he whispered:
"Mi sangre, ¡conviértete en piedra!"
("My blood, turn to stone!")
The blood solidified into sharp darts.
With the last of his strength, Christopher hurled them at Omoba's back.
The darts sank into Omoba's skin, the same poison now coursing through his veins.
His body stiffened. His knees buckled.
Both of them collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
———
3:47pm
Christopher hung upside down, suspended from a rusted iron chain, his body twisting lazily in the dimly lit chamber. Blood dripped from his nose, joining the dark stains on the stone floor. His torturers had taken their time—knives, whips, and spells had all been used on him. Yet, instead of whimpering or screaming, Christopher grinned, letting out a low chuckle that echoed in the room.
"You know," he mused, his voice carrying an unsettling amusement, "I've been tortured by so many bad guys and besides I've been through hell and back … but you guys? You're just bad at this."
One of Makinde's men, frustrated, delivered a hard punch to Christopher's side. The impact made him swing on the chain, but he only laughed harder, the sound grating on his captors' nerves.
Omoba stood nearby, arms crossed, watching in silence. His father's orders were clear—break Christopher until he begged for death. But something about the way Christopher smirked made Omoba uneasy.
Christopher turned his head, his golden eyes locking onto Omoba. "Oh, I get it now," he said, almost conversationally. "You're angry because I beat you in hand-to-hand combat. But here's the thing—I didn't just steal your magic. I stole your skills. Your memories."
Omoba's jaw tightened.
Christopher smirked. "Your mother… she ran, didn't she? Couldn't stand being trapped in this hell. And your father? He's been breaking you since you were a kid." He sighed dramatically. "No wonder you're such a good fighter—you had to be."
Omoba lunged forward, grabbing Christopher by the throat. His grip was tight, his eyes dark with rage. "Shut up," he growled.
Christopher only grinned wider. "Choke me daddy!
Before Omoba could react, Makinde's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Enough."
Makinde stepped forward, his gaze cold and unforgiving. "This one doesn't deserve to die in the dark. He will be an example."
Christopher raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Public execution? Classic villain move."
Makinde ignored him, turning to his men. "Prepare the pyre."
The ghetto streets of Lagos were packed with onlookers, some watching in fear, others in grim curiosity. Makinde's men had tied Christopher to a wooden post in the center of the square. The execution ground smelled of sweat, smoke, and death.
Makinde stood before the crowd, his voice booming. "This is what happens when you cross me!"
Lightning crackled in the sky, summoned by Makinde's magic. He raised a staff, and a bolt of electricity struck the wood beneath Christopher's feet. Flames erupted, licking at his skin.
The crowd held its breath, waiting for the screams.
But Christopher only laughed.
As the fire consumed his clothes, he stepped forward, walking out of the flames completely naked and unharmed.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Makinde's expression darkened.
Christopher stretched his arms as if waking from a nap. "I have to say, I was expecting worse. Fire's kinda cozy."
Then, without warning, his body burst into flames.
Not from Makinde's magic, but his own. His entire form ignited, burning with an unnatural intensity. Wings of fire spread from his back, and with a single powerful beat, he launched into the sky.
The last thing the crowd saw before he vanished was his wicked grin and his voice, echoing through the streets—
"You'll have to try harder next time."
12/4/2024
1:23pm
The storm clouds above Makinde's estate churned violently, thick and dark, mirroring his fury. The scent of rain clung to the air, heavy with the promise of destruction. Inside the grand hall, his men stood at attention, their faces tense, waiting for the storm that was Makinde's anger to lash out.
Makinde sat on his throne-like chair, tapping his fingers against the armrest. His piercing gaze swept over the room before settling on the floor in deep thought.
"That boy humiliated me," he growled, voice calm but seething with rage. "In front of everyone." His words slithered through the air like venom. "Do you know what that means?"
Silence. No one dared to answer.
"It means they think I'm weak." His fist slammed against the armrest, the sound echoing in the hall. "And I cannot allow that."
He turned to one of his enforcers. "Put a price on his head. 1.2 million naira to whoever finds him."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Omoba, who had been standing nearby, narrowed his eyes. "Father ," he said, his tone careful. "And where will that money come from?"
Makinde's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. For a long moment, he said nothing. The tension between them crackled like the brewing storm outside. Then, with the flick of his wrist, he dismissed Omoba's question entirely.
"It won't matter," Makinde said. "Because no one outside this family will ever see that money. My men will find him first."
He shifted his gaze to one of his trusted enforcers. "Call Gift."
The man nodded, stepping out of the room.
Makinde leaned back in his chair, his expression dark. "Let's see how long Christopher can keep running."
---
Christopher moved through the dimly lit alley, hands stuffed into his pockets. He knew someone was following him. He could feel it.
Then—
A knife whistled through the air.
Without looking, he caught it just before it could bury itself in his back. He turned slowly, twirling the blade between his fingers.
"Really?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "An ambush? That's a little… desperate, don't you think?"
Omoba stepped out of the shadows, jaw tight.
"You humiliated my father," he said simply.
Christopher grinned. "Yeah. That part was fun."
Omoba didn't waste time talking. He attacked.
Their fight was fast, brutal. Fists clashed, feet dodged, both fighters evenly matched. But Christopher had an advantage—he had siphoned Omoba's fighting skills before. Now, they were equals.
"You're not just here for revenge," Christopher said, dodging a punch. "You want answers."
Omoba's eyes darkened.
"You want to know where your mother is," Christopher continued, blocking another strike. "You want to know if she's even alive."
Omoba hesitated—just for a second. But it was enough for Christopher to smirk.
"Fine," Christopher said, stepping back. "I'll help you find her."
Omoba raised a brow. "And why should I trust you?" He said .
Christopher expression changed, like he was about to cry." Because I know how it feels behind trapped under family members ." Then a playful smirk spread across his face . "And besides, making hot guys like you vulnerable is kinda my speciality."
Omoba just rolled his eyes as he followed Christopher.
Christopher pulled out an old map, laying it flat on a crate. It was worn, yellowed, with deep creases from years of folding and unfolding.
"We'll need a blood connection," Christopher muttered.
Before Omoba could react, Christopher grabbed his wrist and slashed a shallow cut across his palm.
Omoba hissed. "You could've warned me."
"Where's the fun in that?" Christopher smirked.
He let a few drops of Omoba's blood fall onto the map. The moment it touched the paper, it didn't spread like normal liquid. Instead, it moved. The blood slithered across the surface like a living thing, winding through cities, rivers, and borders until it stopped—right at a small region. in the northern part of Nigeria.
"There," Christopher said, pointing. "That's where she is."
Omoba stared at the map, his throat tight.
"You have a choice now," Christopher said, wiping the knife on his sleeve. "Stay under your father's rule… or go find your mother."
Omoba looked at the glowing trail of magic in the air. He had spent years obeying his father, trapped under his control. But his mother—his mother had fought to escape.
Could he do the same?
Before he could answer, they heard footsteps.
Makinde's men.
Five men stepped into the alley, all armed. Their eyes landed on Christopher first, then flicked to Omoba.
"You're coming with us," one of them said, leveling a gun at Christopher.
Christopher sighed. "You guys again?"
Omoba stood still. The men weren't his enemies. They worked for his father. But for the first time, he realized something.
They were here for Christopher. Not him.
They didn't care about his mother.
They didn't care about what Omoba wanted.
They only cared about Makinde's orders.
Something inside him snapped.
Without a word, he moved.
The first man didn't even have time to react before Omoba disarmed him. The second tried to swing a blade, but Omoba twisted his wrist, making him drop it. The others hesitated, uncertain.
They never expected him to fight back.
But he did.
Omoba fought with precision, each movement deadly and efficient. By the time the last man hit the ground, the alley was silent.
Christopher let out a low whistle. "Damn. Didn't know you had it in you."
Omoba's chest rose and fell. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From realization.
He had just turned against his father's men.
There was no going back now.