PROPHET OF DOOM

"The land remembers every drop of blood."

The rain had fallen for days. A bitter, endless storm that soaked the earth until it swallowed the feet of the dead and the living alike. Trees bowed under the weight of it, leaves glistening with a sorrow that matched the quiet grief of Kane Asari's soul.

He stood barefoot at the edge of the field, mud curling around his toes like the fingers of his ancestors, pulling him back, whispering, Don't leave us.

But he had no choice.

The field before him was all that was left of his life. Thirty-seven acres of thick grassland, wild shrubs, and rich, dark soil passed down through generations-a sacred inheritance. It should have been his future.

Now it was a grave.

The police tape was gone. The neighbors too. Even the reporters had left, their questions unanswered, their curiosity sated with blood. The only thing that remained was the memory of fire and the smell of death.

He didn't cry. Not anymore. His tears had dried with the last prayer spoken at his parents' funeral, mumbled by a priest who barely remembered their names.

His father, Tobias Asari, had fought for this land with every breath. His mother, **Leona**, had guarded it like a lioness guards her cub. They had believed in legacy, in justice. They believed that no one-not even the council-had the right to take what was rightfully theirs.

But they were wrong.

The council hadn't come with words. They had come with fire and steel.

Kane had seen the flash of the machetes. He had seen the shadows rushing through the tall grass that night. He had watched through the wooden slats of the barn as his father was dragged into the mud. His mother had screamed, her voice cutting the night like a blade, before it was silenced forever.

He remembered the exact sound her skull made when it struck the stone steps. A *crack*. Like the sound of a branch snapping underfoot.

He had run. Through the trees. Through the night. Through the fire.

And he never looked back.

Now, at seventeen, he had returned one final time-not for closure, but for promise.

He knelt down, pressing his palm into the wet dirt. His fingertips brushed something cold. He dug, slowly, uncovering the metal locket his mother always wore. It had been trampled into the soil-crushed, dirty, but not broken.

Like him.

He clutched it to his chest and whispered, "I swear to you... I'll make them pay."

Four Years Earlier

The day it began had been just like any other. The sun had shone brightly over the village of Umukaru, casting golden rays over the tall maize and yam fields. Chickens clucked. Children laughed. The world pretended it was innocent.

Kane was only thirteen, still helping his father plant cassava in the lower fields when the black Mercedes pulled up. Dust curled from the tires like smoke from hell.

Three men stepped out. One of them wore a red cap-a councilman. The second was Dike Obana, the so-called philanthropist who donated money to every village school and secretly funneled cocaine through the river ports. And the third... the third man never spoke. He simply stood at the back, sunglasses hiding his gaze, arms folded like a tombstone.

They didn't greet Kane's father with kindness. They didn't smile. They simply demanded.

"The land is wasted," Dike had said. "It could serve a better purpose."

"My land feeds my people," Tobias replied. "And it is not for sale."

"You'll reconsider," the councilman said with a smirk. "Everyone always does."

But Tobias didn't. He was the only man in the village who had said *no* to the cartel.

So they made an example of him.

Now

A crack of thunder brought Kane back to the present. The wind howled through the trees like a ghost denied peace. He rose, clutching the locket in one hand and the memory of that day in the other.

He couldn't stay. The men who murdered his parents might still be watching. And the council-if they knew he had returned-would surely come to finish what they started.

He had no money. No family. Nothing but the blood in his veins and the fire in his heart.

Still, he ran. Not aimlessly-but toward a single speck of light on the horizon.

A Church in the Wilderness

The Catholic church sat like a relic from a forgotten world-half-buried in mist, surrounded by stone crosses and cracked marble angels. The sign above the gate read *Sanctus Fidem*.

Kane stumbled through its rusted gate, collapsing onto the cobblestone path. His clothes were soaked. His face was hollow. When the old priest, **Father Dominic**, opened the door and found him there, he saw not just a lost boy.

He saw a prophecy unfolding.

"Come, my son," the priest whispered. "You've come far... and you're not done yet."

To be continued...

The Land of Shadows (Part 2)

The warmth inside the church felt almost unnatural after the cold of the rain. It crept into Kane's skin slowly, hesitantly, like even it was unsure if he deserved comfort.

Father Dominic led him past worn pews and cracked stained-glass windows. Dust hovered in the air like forgotten prayers. A crucifix loomed above the altar, but even Christ seemed weary, his wooden eyes carved in pain too familiar to Kane.

"You have the look of someone running from more than death," the priest said softly as he poured warm tea into a chipped cup. "What is your name, child?"

"Kane," he rasped.

"And where are your parents, Kane?"

A long silence. Then-

"Dead."

Father Dominic didn't flinch. He simply nodded, as if he'd already known.

"They were murdered," Kane continued, voice low and trembling. "Over land... our land. They wanted it for drug business. My parents said no."

"Ah," the priest said with a grave nod. "The Devil's poison has spread farther than most realize."

Kane met his eyes. "You believe me?"

"I've buried too many innocent people not to." He handed the boy the tea. "You'll stay here. This church has long been forgotten by those who fear righteousness. But you will be safe-until you are ready."

"Ready?" Kane asked, eyebrows tightening.

Father Dominic looked up at the crucifix.

"To become what you were born to be."

The days bled into months.

Kane swept the stone floors, lit candles at dawn, and prayed-though his prayers were not for peace, but for vengeance. He studied scripture, Latin, and ancient texts kept locked in the priest's library. But more than anything, he observed.

Father Dominic was no ordinary priest. He spoke seven languages, kept old weapons behind the confession booth, and met with strange visitors late at night-war veterans, ex-soldiers, and sometimes, even police officers who came to "confess" secrets they never wanted recorded.

Kane never asked questions. But he remembered everything.

One night, as thunder rolled outside the church walls, Kane found himself staring at the crucifix again. The eyes of Christ seemed to shift in the flickering candlelight.

"What would you have me do?" he whispered. "Forgive them?"

His fingers tightened around his mother's locket.

"No."

The fire within him was not quenched-it was growing.

On his twenty-first birthday, Father Dominic gave Kane a gift.

A box, wooden and heavy. Inside lay an **old revolver**, polished but aged, and beneath it, a leather-bound notebook.

Kane opened the book. Inside were names.

Dozens of them.

Council members. Drug dealers. Assassins. Traitors.

"I kept this for you," the priest said. "Your father was a good man. But even good men are hunted. He knew they would come for him, and he asked me to record everything he learned. This... is your inheritance."

Kane stared at the names, each one a heartbeat of pain.

"I don't want justice," he said. "I want them to bleed."

Father Dominic looked into his eyes and gave a slow, solemn nod.

"Then you must go. There is a man-his name is Malachi. He was once a soldier. Now... he builds weapons and trains those who are forgotten. He can help you."

"And why would he help me?"

"Because he hates the council more than you do. And because he owes me a favor."

As Kane walked out of the church that night, wind whipping through his coat, he turned back one last time.

Father Dominic stood at the door, a shadow among shadows.

"Remember, Kane," he called, "to become a prophet of doom... you must first die to the world that made you."