Smoke curled over the shattered grounds of Ashbon's once-mighty stronghold. The scent of scorched offerings, cracked idols, and blood—divine and mortal alike—hung heavy in the air.
Zion walked in silence.
Around him, the warriors of Nouvo Lakay moved methodically through the fallen enemy camp, stripping it bare—weapons, sacred stones, scrolls, artifacts, food, armor, gold. Every piece of cloth marked with the god's name was burned. Every altar was shattered.
Zion didn't rush.
He moved like a man cataloging the death of a myth.
The Slaves of Ashbon
In the center of the ruined stronghold, under the broken banner of Moloh-Tal, stood the remnants of the tribe's people.
Women. Children. Young warriors. Priests without their god.
They did not fight.
They could not.
Their eyes were glass. Their wills broken.
When Zion stood before them, some bowed. Others simply fell to their knees, too hollow to do more.
The silence was not one of peace—but of total defeat.
They were not warriors anymore. They were spoils.
Zion didn't speak.
Not yet.
The Burial of the Divine
At the edge of the battlefield, Papa Legba knelt, gathering the shattered remains of godflesh and bone with a kind of reverent efficiency.
What remained of Moloh-Tal's core—a blackened, pulsing shard of condensed divine will—was sealed into a crimson clay jar etched with ancient symbols. The other Lwa stood nearby, solemn.
Papa Legba turned and approached Zion.
He held out a second jar.
Inside: liquid divine blood—gleaming like molten rubies, still warm, still pulsing with unnatural life.
"A gift," he said, his voice low. "From the corpse of a tyrant. Don't waste it."
Then, without ceremony, he dipped two fingers into the blood and turned to the two warrior-priestesses—Ayomi and Sael.
He touched their foreheads.
Just a single drop each.
The moment the blood made contact, both women convulsed, light bursting beneath their skin in intricate patterns.
They gasped in unison, dropping to their knees—not from pain, but from raw power.
The blood seared a new layer of blessing onto their spirits, something neither mortal nor divine. A new tier of strength… marked by death itself.
Papa Legba gave Zion one last look—half-smile, half-warning.
"You want a kingdom? Learn to carry gods and corpses both."
Then he turned and vanished into shadow, clay jar of broken divinity in hand.
Zion Speaks
With the divine blessings complete and the gods gone, Zion finally stepped forward.
He stood before the enslaved survivors of Ashbon.
His voice was not cruel, but carved in stone:
"You worshipped a tyrant who fed on fear. That age is over. You live now because we allow it. But from this day forward, you belong to Nouvo Lakay."
He raised a broken mask—the face of Moloh-Tal—and crushed it under his heel.
"Your god bled. Your warriors died. And you will serve the people who gave you a future beyond his grave."
The people didn't cheer.
They didn't cry.
They just bowed—as slaves to a new god, or perhaps the man who stood above them all.
Closing Scene
Zion returned to the central hill where the banners of Nouvo Lakay now flew. Beside him, the two war priestesses stood—divine sigils still glowing faintly on their foreheads.
The other warriors placed their trophies—masks, weapons, tokens—around a new monument.
And atop it?
Moloh-Tal's jagged crown, still dripping faintly with red ash.
Zion stared at the growing pile of war spoils and then looked to the horizon.
There would be more enemies.
More gods.
More blood.
But today, he carried a jar of divine power in one hand and the fate of two peoples in the other