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South Africa – Hammanskraal, 2007
Days before everything changed.
The scent of rain sat heavy in the dry summer air. Red dust swirled with every kick of Hann's sneakers, catching in his lashes. He walked the dirt path alone, hands in his hoodie pocket, earbuds in but nothing playing. Just the dull hum of white noise to cover the world.
Fifteen today.
He didn't expect a celebration. Baba Themba was still working road crew on the R101, and Mama Lerato would probably come home late from the clinic. It was how it had always been. Steady. Quiet. Safe.
And yet—wrong.
The feeling had been growing in his bones like a deep hum beneath the skin. His dreams had turned vivid in recent weeks—dragons, rivers of stars, a monkey king wielding a weapon that sang in the void. Each night he woke soaked in sweat, clutching the sheets like a drowning man.
He hadn't told anyone.
No one in Hammanskraal would understand.
Except maybe—her.
---
"Hann!" a voice called out behind him.
He turned to see Naledi, a slim Xhosa girl with short-cropped hair and bright eyes, jogging to catch up. Her schoolbag slapped against her back, and she was already out of breath.
"Wena! You walk too fast, mfethu," she huffed.
"I didn't know you were behind me," he said with a half-smile.
"Of course you didn't. Your head's always in the clouds. Still dreaming of Wakanda?" she teased.
"Maybe," he muttered, looking ahead again.
They walked in silence for a bit before she said, "You've been... different lately. Quiet. You okay?"
He paused.
"How do you know when something is calling you?" he asked quietly.
Naledi blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Like your bones are pulling you somewhere. Like a place you've never been is... missing you."
She tilted her head. "You sound like one of Elder Mvubu's riddles."
He stopped walking.
"Where is he now? The elder?" Hann asked.
Naledi narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"I want to ask him something."
---
That afternoon – at the edge of the village
Elder Shaka Mvubu's Hut
The man was ancient, even by the standards of rural storytellers. His skin looked like tree bark, dark and wrinkled with wisdom, his eyes milky yet sharp. He sat in front of a clay hearth, burning herbs that smelled faintly of cinnamon and ash.
"Ubuyile, umfana waseShangwu," he murmured as Hann entered. ("You have returned, boy of the Merchant of War.")
Hann blinked. "What did you say?"
"Ulibele, kodwa igazi alikho nhlobo," the elder continued. ("You've forgotten, but blood never forgets.")
"How do you know my name?"
"Not your name, mfana. Your spirit. You are not from here—not truly. You were born of fire and storm, cast out like the child of thunder. Your bones hum with forgotten prophecy."
Hann took a cautious step forward. "I've been dreaming..."
"The Mandala Myth, yes. The one told only in whispers."
The elder reached into a pouch and pulled out a jagged stone mask—charred and cracked, pulsing faintly in Hann's vision.
"Touch it," the elder commanded.
The moment his fingers grazed the edge, the hut vanished.
---
Vision
He stood in a plain of gold sand, under a purple sky.
Above him danced a monkey with flaming eyes, a staff spinning between its hands like a blur of light. Rings hovered around its body—nine in total—each whispering in tongues he couldn't comprehend.
The monkey grinned and spoke in perfect Chinese:
"Wèishéme nǐ huì wàngjì wǒ?" ("Why did you forget me?")
Hann gasped—and woke in the elder's hut, collapsed on the ground, heart pounding.
---
"What was that?" he demanded.
The elder stood tall now, straighter than before, voice deep.
"You have awakened, Umntwana weNdlela. The path calls. It lies far, far north—from here to the ice and silence. Russia."
"Russia?" Hann frowned.
"There you will find what was meant for you. Staff and rings. Spirit and purpose. But beware. These relics do not just grant power. They reveal truth. And truth... can burn."
---
Later that week – Hann's home
Mama Lerato looked up from the stove as Hann packed a canvas bag with food and clothes.
"Uyaphi?" (Where are you going?)
He hesitated. "Kunezinto engifanele ngizibone." (There are things I need to see.)
She walked over, wiping her hands. "Ukhulile manje, Weihan. Kodwa izwe alinjalo. Liyingozi." (You're grown now, Weihan. But the world is not safe.)
He nodded slowly. "Ngiyazi. Kodwa kufanele ngiyenze." *(I know. But I must do this.)
She hugged him tightly. "Ungakhohlwa ukuthi ungubani." *(Don't forget who you are.)
"I won't."
---
One week later – Russian Arctic Tundra
The wind cut through his jacket like knives. Snowflakes swirled in chaotic gusts, and Hann's boots crunched over cracked permafrost. The coordinates etched on the elder's mask had led him here—to a forgotten plain where no satellites reached.
He staggered toward a jagged formation half-buried in ice: ancient stone columns carved with symbols. Chinese characters. Sotho markings. Even celestial diagrams.
The structure pulsed as he approached.
He is here, a voice echoed in his skull.
The entrance opened by itself.
Inside, beneath frost-covered roots, lay two objects:
1. A staff, black and gold, humming with sentient mischief. The moment he touched it, it shrunk to fit his grip.
2. A ring band, holding Nine Rings, hovering in a silent orbit around a circular core.
The moment he touched both, the entire cavern shook.
His mind erupted with visions:
Wenwu, standing above a fallen army, Ten Rings glowing
Shang-Chi, training in secret
Thanos, turning as if sensing him
A multiverse fracturing
The Boundless, a being of endless fractals, whispering:
"You are the vessel. You are the bridge."
And then—
Silence.
Hann rose, staff crackling with gold sparks, rings orbiting his wrist.
He wasn't the same boy who left Hammanskraal.
He wasn't even just a boy anymore.
---
End of Chapter 1