[Location: Marengola Shack Hub | Expanse East Corridor]

  **Baba Aj?-ka, Leader of the Nze Aro—Sacred Ones of Aro.**

  The whips still stung.

  He set the coffin down in the center of the shack. Hours had passed since he arrived here in the Marengola State, Eastern Corridor of the Expanse. Unfortunately, the Govenor was Elijah Ndungu Mwathi one of the more corrupts out of the 152 govenors in the expanse. This state was fusion of eastern Kenya and parts of southern Ethiopia and Somalia’s borderlands.

  It had one the largest amounts of shacks among any other state in the seven countries cause of how weird the crudes here were.

  Shacks like this were the footholds of adventurers, scattered across the wild stretches beyond the walls. The first one built—called the primary shack—anchored teleportation to an unexplored zone using spelltech, allowing others to follow. Over time, more shacks would rise like tumors around it. Entire networks formed, the spellfields thickening until traversal became seamless. A coveted achievement. A badge of honor.

  But he didn’t care for the + designations in his logplate. He came for it and to train before the dice festival. If they would be sending Baba Ajo-ka he couldn't suspect it was him.

  Maybe he’d kill him. Devour him. But if not? He wouldn’t care.

  He opened the coffin and lifted the spear.

  **Killshot.**

  Forged from black bone, etched with ancient runes that shimmered like molted skin. The shaft pulsed faintly with malevolence. Its red-dark tip hadn’t dulled in years. Baba Aj?-ka had birthed it for him—ripping the bone from his own arm and breathing curses into it. It wasn’t spelltech. No gears. No wires. Just raw, enchanted hate.

  He ran a palm along its length.

  “How long has it been?” he whispered.

  The spear thrummed in response, alive and agitated.

  He'd paid good money to hide it—conceal its truth, shift its form. It had slept long.

  He faced the mirror. He was, for the most part, using his actual face. The body too. He stood at six feet now—lean, black-haired.

  The Orbit never trained its people alone. It was a joint project of the Ten Houses—a furnace to forge weapons in human skin. He'd been trained by many, broken by more. Before they called him the **King of Curses**, the killer of the strong—

  If he had to think back, there was one man responsible for that reputation:

  Ekundayo House.

  Baba Aj?-ka.

  The old man took joy in breaking him, because his healing factor wasn’t built on the body alone.

  His body thickened—fifteen pounds of diamond-laced fiber weaving itself into him. Combat muscle.

  He closed his eyes.

  ---

  During his first mission, he hadn’t spoken.

  Dee, too, had almost been maimed to silence. Sometimes, they cut her head off so she wouldn’t scream when they sent him out.

  He didn’t blame her. It almost drove her mad.

  The runes on his body shimmered—then shifted. Not across his skin, but across memory.

  The mission had been in Kaduna, just before it became a buzz. They were finding a way to do heavy manufacture without using electricity or solflare.

  His mother was Igbo. Loved the place. Back then, he’d joked that she was hunting for the man who abandoned her, just to kill him. It used to make him laugh.

  When he came for the mission? The roads were eaten by chrome fungus. Billboards flickered with glitching spirits—women with crocodile eyes selling water filters, masquerades dancing to trap rhythms. Sinkholes steamed where children sold quartz-cut time-drugs.

  The air reeked of burnt wire, _aji_, and cheap solar gin.

  Near a defunct motor park turned black-market neural exchange sat the **GamBar Shop**.

  Futuristic. Neon-lit. Malicious.

  Its walls pulsed with malware glyphs. A mechanical Egungun floated above, its face glitching between mirth and terror. Inside, AI pit-fighters ripped each other apart while men bet their memories.

  He had stepped into this place barefoot, spirit sharp.

  [Location: Orbit Project Limitless | Internal Sanctum]

  But before that, before he went down to the Expanse—he had knelt to Baba Aj?-ka as red sand bit into his knees.

  He knelt at the shrine Aj?-ka had built inside the Orbit. A lion with three toes, carved from obsidian and brass. Its mouth curled into a grin that never aged. A gift—or maybe a warning. Ekundayo’s doing, no doubt.

  Kane pressed his forehead to the ground.

  The air snapped with heat.

  In his right hand: the **Ajija charm**. Hair, bone, silk—alive with old wind. It squirmed in his grip like it wanted to leave. Without it, he would’ve died ten times over. His spirit, soul, and body had always outgrown him. Power spilled out faster than his cells could rebuild. Every use scorched the smallest parts of him—his breath, his bones, his will.

  They built him through minor calculations.

  ---

  He stood. The charm wrapped tight around his wrist now, pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat.

  Aj?-ka had said nothing. Only watched from the shadows.

  Kane moved through the fringe of **Expanse Kaduna**, the forest alive with ghostwind and whispering names he didn’t remember giving. Spirits stirred in the leaves, brushing his skin like memories. He didn’t flinch. He was part of that wind now.

  They had not named him then.

  They wanted something English.

  Something clean.

  But Aj?-ka had burned his tongue shut with ash, marked his throat with iron.

  > “I heard Orbit is spending so much money on you. Making you some kind of beast,” the old man had said. “You do not ask. You take.”

  His caste was more irregular than it should’ve been because of the old fool. But he didn’t care. Not warrior. Not assassin.

  **Ghost.**

  To walk as wind: to move without trace, to smell blood under stone.

  They broke his nose seven times so he could learn the shape of fear in another man’s sweat.

  ---

  He had talked to dead spirits before he found the man.

  The target was behind the GamBar Shop, beneath sagging wires and the stink of oilwine and zobo-rot.

  A priest—once. Now something else.

  His agbada was reinforced with nanosteel threads, curses burned beneath his skin like dying stars. He lit a stick that hissed green.

  Kane watched him.

  Didn’t blink.

  The wind paused.

  Then—movement.

  ---

  **Spirit first. Body second.**

  He dropped into the world like a blade through silk.

  The sword was halfway into the swing before it became a spear—Killshot, summoned from wherever he’d buried it in the folds between life and unlife.

  Mist. Then scream.

  Bone kissed flesh.

  The priest stumbled, choking. His eyes caught the sigil burned into Kane’s neck.

  **Arochukwu. Oracle Agent.**

  He started to speak.

  Kane took the hand.

  Then the other.

  The priest didn’t scream with just his mouth—his soul shrieked, shattering in echoes only Kane could hear. He burned more cells than he should have slowing it down—trapping the scream inside the body so the Oracle could find it warm.

  Every second hurt.

  ---

  Afterward, the priest sat there, twitching, leaking blood and silence.

  Kane held the calabash at his side, waiting for the final pulse of life to fade. He could feel it—faint like a failing drumbeat. The Ajija charm writhed, feeding on what little remained of him to keep his vessel whole.

  He was tired. Not the kind food could fix.

  A piece of him had burned away again.

  ---

  They took him back to Suspended the next day. No one asked where the blood had come from.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  They didn’t ask him anything after that.

  Aj?-ka waited in the shadow near the ritual gate.

  > “Did he beg?” the old man asked.

  Kane didn’t answer.

  He just opened the calabash.

  ---

  The present bled back in. Kane blinked, and the runes faded. His neck still carried the sigil. He frowned. Reached inward. Rewired the cells around it until his neck exploded. They grew back, but this time fainter.

  “Annoying,” he muttered.

  The spear spun in his hand—erratic, unpredictable. Like it had missed the kill.

  His stomach growled.

  He hadn’t eaten in four hours. And he’d been combusting cells and losing bio-energy fighting monsters.

  He headed to the table and swiped his log plate. It was battered—like someone had scratched out the rating, but the plus signs still showed there were three.

  The soft metallic _clink_ as the key slid into the lock.

  _God, he was bored._

  The door swung open, and in one motion, his hoodie covered his head. The head started playing.

  _"Take aim… steady your breath. Hold the scope—it’s all mindset."_

  _"Breathe in… hold… breathe out. The battle is over, soldier…."_

  - - -

  Kane typed on his headphones as he descended the creaking stairs, fingers dancing across the audio interface built into the side. He scrolled through tracks, bypassing orchestras and choirs that once stirred something in him. Classical music used to be his thing—clean, structured, full of intention. But lately, it felt... disconnected. Useless in battle. Too neat for chaos.

  Still, there were songs that cut through.

  **NF. I Got You.**

  Nice.

  His eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back just slightly. A smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

  That sound—it _moved_ him. Not much did, not anymore. But this? This was gold. After ten years, even a flicker of feeling meant something.

  He let his soul take over vision duties for a moment then blinked and dropped the rest of the way down.

  The dreads framed his face like sleek vines, swaying in rhythm with the beat. Paired with the hoodie and headphones, he didn’t look like a conventional adventurer. Then again, the new generation rarely did.

  At the far end of the hall, one of the many security cameras adjusted its lens and zoomed in on him.

  [Location: Marengola Shack Hub | Central Hall]

  The Shack breathed with a lived-in hum. Wooden beams arched like weary spines, holding up a roof that had survived fire, frost, and more than a few drunken brawls. Light filtered through spell-woven glass and slatted gaps, catching dust motes that drifted like ambient Coz residue.

  Kane stepped in.

  His boots scuffed against time-worn floorboards. The smell hit him first—**charcoal-roasted nyama choma**, garlic, bitter greens boiled into softness. Something spicy and orange over maize. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t had a real meal in two days, and the last one tasted like bark and regret.

  The Shack was buzzing. **Guides, mercs, adventurers, and watchers** leaned over tables, voices low and urgent. Maps pinned with glowing nails. Rotating sketches of beasts marked with bounty tags. Near the front, a child threaded prayer beads out of old bullet casings.

  Kane pointed to a map pinned on the far left—a surprisingly neat piece for a place like this.

  “How much for this one?”

  “KSh 300,” the kid replied with a grin too wide for his face.

  “That’s robbery. I could eat for that.”

  “Eh, ehhh—250, mister.”

  Kane scratched at his head and checked his pockets.

  “You take Naira?”

  The boy swung his head side to side. Kane shrugged.

  “I got universals.”

  He pulled out a crisp blue note bearing the Emperor’s signature.

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. He waved Kane closer. “Bring it here.”

  Kane narrowed his gaze. “You got change, you gremlin? Don’t run off with my money.”

  He waited while the kid ran off to break the bill. But then, reconsidering, he pulled out more: one, two, three... fifty universal bills. Dropped them like it was nothing.

  He studied the map. Greencount. Virulent 09-A— it was there he could still feel it. He needed to get there before the government picked the information he had. It wouldn't take long.

  The boy returned, now dragging his mother to help with the math. Kane waited, bemused. The delay irritated him, sure—but also fascinated him. He watched the kid’s exaggerated frowns, the micro-cracks in his bravado, every gesture. He burned it into memory. Saved it in that brain folder right next to **combat tactics**: _Emotional observation_.

  He moved on.

  Stalls lined the sides of the Shack—half market, half museum. A scroll stitched from cured Coz-hide. A water canister etched with a purification loop. Dried scaldroot in sacks. A rusted rifle converted into a charm wand. Some vendors looked at him like he didn’t belong to this thread of time. An old woman even paused mid-banter to squint at the markings on his neck.

  Let them wonder.

  At the far wall stood **The Wall**—a slab of cracked obsidian metal woven with cables and nails. Thousands of names etched in its surface. Some shimmered faintly if you looked too long. Others were fire-smeared and unreadable. A gap yawned at the bottom, still waiting.

  > “That’s where they put you,” someone muttered near him, voice low over a mug of millet brew. “If you came back different. Or didn’t come back at all.”

  Kane didn’t answer.

  He glanced up at the broken key symbol carved at the top, faded gold leaf beneath it.

  > **Only doors that know your name will open.**

  He wasn’t sure if that was hope... or a warning.

  His stomach growled. A few heads turned.

  He found the food counter.

  An old man with skin like dark stone and a beard rimmed in gray flipped chapatis beside a boiling pot. Behind him, the menu was chalked onto a blackened board.

  Kane raised two fingers.

  The cook arched a brow. “You sure, mzee?”

  Kane nodded.

  “Whole _nyama choma_ platter, _ugali_ double, _kachumbari_ on the side. With pepper.”

  The cook gave a low whistle. “Alright. But don’t vomit on my bench.”

  As he waited, Kane listened. The hall wasn’t loud—just dense. Every corner carried voices like rustling memories. Plans. Regrets. Ghosts dressed up as goals.

  Then **she** arrived.

  The waitress walked like she wasn’t built for any one place. Her headwrap was a vibrant orange, her eyes sharp and lined with kohl. The tray balanced on her forearm carried a feast. When she reached him, she slowed.

  Kane didn’t look up. Not immediately.

  She lingered. His food steamed—goat meat glistening with char, stiff **ugali** stacked like bricks, a metal bowl of **kachumbari** bright with lime and coriander.

  “I doubt you’ll finish that,” she said.

  Kane looked up, calm. “Good thing doubt’s not poison.”

  She laughed, easing the tray down. “You look like a strong adventurer.”

  “Strong’s relative.”

  “How so?”

  He chewed, swallowed. “Strong in what?”

  She bit her lip. “Mmm. Just... strong.”

  Kane leaned forward, casually. “Heard the drifts near **New Shitta** got worse. True? Don’t want to pack dupes for a 19-klick hike and find it’s 89.”

  Her smile faltered. She sat beside him.

  “It’s bad out there. Not in the Shack—inside’s stable. But once you pass **Sift Ridge**, space starts folding. I heard the governor’s testing spelltech nukes instead of paying his civil servants. Coz is just... sitting in the air. One guy said he walked five days and moved only a kilometer.”

  Kane finished his ugali. “Sounds like something the governor would do.”

  “They say he called in some Effectors. Started mapping patterns.”

  She paused, tracing the rim of an empty cup.

  “When the Lagos governor visited, everything got cleaned up real quick. But once she left, boom—back to broken.”

  She leaned in.

  “Rule of thumb: carry anchors. Not spelltech—real things. Wood. Stone. Blood works, too. But only if you know how.”

  Kane nodded. “Thanks.”

  She smiled and stayed seated. A soft clink echoed as her fingers traced the rim of an empty glass left by someone else. Kane kept eating. She didn’t say anything.

  Neither did he.

  A minute passed like an itch.

  He reached for the _kachumbari_, scooped a bit with his fingers, and brought it to his mouth. She watched his hands. He pretended not to notice.

  Someone across the room let out a short laugh. A bowl dropped. The smell of singed oil drifted in from the kitchen.

  She shifted, crossing one leg over the other. Her shoulder brushed his for the briefest second. Kane didn’t move. He only reached for another strip of meat and chewed with measured calm, staring at the wall in front of him like it held the rest of the continent.

  Then, softly—

  “You play hard to get.”

  Kane chuckled,

  " I literally am doing nothing."

  He chewed slow. “And thought that was your department.”

  She reached into her apron, tore off a scrap of receipt paper, scribbled something, and slid it to him.

  “Just in case the road bends too far. And you need someone to call you back.”

  He didn’t look. Just nodded and returned to his food.

  Out here, you finished what you started.

  - - -

  Kane flicked on the lamp by his bedside. The room obeyed in silence, warm light spilling across metal shelves and notebooks arranged with surgical precision. He reached for a novel but hesitated—his fingers brushing over the cover of his diary instead.

  The girl from the shack had called so many times he muted the shack’s control line. He even wondered how she got his number—probably snooped through classified files.

  How bothersome.

  The pages had thinned at the edges from frequent use, corners creased where memory insisted on returning. He didn’t open it yet.

  A tremor climbed up his wrist. The kind that didn’t come from strain. From somewhere else. Deeper.

  He exhaled.

  Then the flash came—uninvited, vivid. Blood spattering into his mouth, the priest's tongue slipping through his gloved grip. The look in the Oracle’s eyes, the way they shimmered with hunger and approval. The cuffs that burned his skin when he refused to scream.

  His chest rose sharply. The breath he took wasn’t air. It was noise—raw and sudden.

  His body tensed. Something inside _shifted_.

  The symbols began surfacing across his arms, bright like veins of runes from judgments he placed on himself so that his spirit wouldn’t damage his body anymore. Reflexively, he closed his eyes and pressed both palms against the floorboards.

  Suppress.

  The markings retreated like soldiers recalled from war.

  “Unstable,” he murmured.

  He sat back, spine straightening with habitual exactness. Then, as if reading a line from a report:

  “I never made it official... but I was with Molly.”

  He reached for his comms tab and paused. Data ran through his mind:

  – Affection-driven calls, based on observed human courtship models, initiated most often at night.

  – Seeking contact after instability: common.

  – Such behavior, when done outside defined relational structures, was frowned upon.

  He connected the line.

  She picked up quickly, her voice soft from sleep.

  “Kane?”

  “Yeah. I… wanted to check how you were doing.”

  There was a pause, then a small, teasing breath. “How many girls tried to talk to you today?”

  His eyebrow lifted. “You sound—”

  “Insecure?” she finished, with a laugh. “I’m not. Just wondering how many hearts you’ve shattered.”

  “It’s rare to hear you like this.”

  “I’m not insecure, Kane. Just curious.”

  He didn’t smile, but something in his voice curved. “One. Just one person. I had to visit the INTEL branch. Nothing happened.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t need to.

  “I’m not… doing anything with anyone,” he said quietly. “Except you.”

  He let the silence settle, then opened the diary on his lap. Lines of careful script dated weeks back, months. Operations, observations. Between them, fragmented notes on Molly. Little details. The time she braided his hair while he cleaned a weapon. The way her fingers fidgeted when she was lying.

  He flipped to the current date and uncapped his pen.

  > **Entry 1209**

  > Still no primary deviation in emotional equilibrium.

  > However—Molly. As always, unpredictable.

  > She creates pressure points. Today, I slipped. I _felt_ something.

  He stared at the line, rewrote _slipped_ as _cracked_, then as _unsealed_, then settled back on _slipped_.

  > I should investigate this. Feelings may be an entry point. Vulnerability in battle.

  > My ability consumes emotion to function but somehow, inexplicably, she made him feel sometimes. A paradox.

  “By the way… I stopped by your place earlier.”

  He straightened a little, breath hitching before he masked it.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she went on. “But you weren’t around.”

  His voice came out low, controlled. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “No one saw me,” she said quickly, brushing off the warning like it was dust on her shoulder. “Did everything you taught me—shadows, blind spots, cam loops. Even flipped your perimeter sensor back before I left.”

  Kane exhaled, slow and tight. “Good.”

  There was a beat. Then he lied.

  “I was near Subport. Meeting someone about intel. Just routine.”

  Silence stretched thin for a breath.

  “Subport, huh.” Her voice was quiet, unreadable. “Didn’t think you’d be out that late. You’ve been different lately.”

  “Different?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a small laugh, not quite teasing this time. “You lie smoother now.”

  Kane said nothing. He let her words settle, like dust in a forgotten hallway. He could hear her breathing on the line, calm and steady.

  “You worry too much,” he said at last.

  “Only because I know you,” she replied.

  A faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  He closed the book after they had said their goodbyes.

  Beside it, he picked up the romance novel he’d been slow-reading. A hand-folded receipt marked the last page. He opened to it. His gaze fell on a line halfway down.

  _“I love you. You make me feel—”_

  His finger lingered on _feel_.

  The sentence didn’t finish. Just a hyphen. Just an open door.

  He traced the word once, then leaned back against the headboard. The lamp cast his shadow onto the far wall, silent and motionless.

  “When was the last time…” he began, but didn’t finish.

  He reached for the switch. The light went out. He would buy items tomorrow.

  I have no rating at all.

  If you feel there are problems with the story tell me so I can improve on it .