The truck rolled to a stop at the edge of Nhlangano, near a rusted mechanic's shop that looked like it hadn't seen a customer in weeks. Oil drums, engine parts, and scraps of metal littered the yard. The air smelled of grease, smoke, and quiet desperation.
Muzi hopped off the back with Banele close behind. Around them, other recruits gathered, mostly silent, their eyes flickering between each other. Among them was a young girl—couldn't have been older than Muzi. She had short hair, wore a black cap, and kept her arms folded like armor.
She glanced at Muzi once, then looked away. She was new too.
Standing apart from them was a tall man in a sleeveless hoodie and gold tooth: Thwala, the Bronze-ranked leader of this operation. His voice cut through the group like a razor.
"Alright, listen. There's a bastard inside who owes the family ten grand. Name's Vuyo. Thinks he can stall because he did favors years back. Today we collect — or clean up."
He eyed them one by one. "Keep your mouths shut, don't speak unless I say so. Anyone freezes, you get left behind. This is real now."
Banele whispered to Muzi, "Watch and learn. Don't act unless it's life or death."
They moved in formation, circling the front and back of the mechanic's shack. Thwala banged on the rusted gate.
"Vuyo! Come out, mfowethu. Let's talk before this gets ugly."
No answer.
Then the gate creaked open. A man stepped out — wiry, twitchy, holding a wrench in one hand. Sweat drenched his shirt. Behind him, Muzi could see two more men in the shadows, and just beyond them, the girl — the new recruit — held in a tight grip by one of the goons. A knife pressed against her throat.
"Stay back!" Vuyo shouted. "You think I don't know how this goes? Y'all wanna make an example. Not today!"
Thwala raised his hands. "We can talk. We didn't bring killers."
The guy didn't believe it.
The next moments blurred — the girl twisted, screamed, tried to break free. The man holding her pulled the knife tighter.
And that's when something in Muzi snapped.
He moved.
It was instinct — no plan, no permission. His legs propelled him forward, heart thundering, breath calm. The world slowed. He could see the man's eyes widen, feel the pull of something ancient in his chest.
[Ancestral Protocol: Combat Response — Activated.]
Muzi's hand grabbed a metal bar from the ground as he rushed the attacker.
The man swung wildly—missed.
Muzi struck once.
The bar cracked bone. The man crumpled.
The girl fell to the ground, gasping, free.
Then came silence.
Blood seeped into the sand.
Everyone stared.
Thwala cursed under his breath. "Shit…"
The other gang members backed off slightly, unsure whether to be impressed or afraid.
Muzi stood over the body, breathing hard. His hand trembled.
And then—the system spoke.
> [System Notification: Fatal Strike Confirmed.]
[Ancestral Bond Fully Activated.]
Initializing… MAPHANGA.
The world blurred. Voices faded.
Muzi felt his body float—his spirit shifting into that liminal space, halfway between the physical and ancestral.
In front of him stood a towering figure in dark robes, eyes glowing like embers under a shadowed hood.
"We meet again, I am Maphanga," the voice rumbled, like wind over mountains. "Your ancestor. Your guide. You've spilled blood not for power... but to protect. The path begins now."
Muzi couldn't speak. He just nodded.
"You've taken a life again. Now you must choose how many more must fall to raise your name… or how few it will take to change the story."
The voice faded.
And suddenly he was back—standing, blood on his sleeve, the others still frozen in shock.
Banele came to his side, wide-eyed but smiling faintly.
"You alright?" he asked.
Muzi didn't answer.
He just looked down at his hands and whispered to himself, "This is just the beginning."