The scent of burning plastic lingered in the air like a ghost that refused to move on. Neo-Ajegunle coughed smoke through its zinc rooftops, where cracked solar panels and scavenged wind turbines clung like survivors of a forgotten war. Tomato plants grew defiantly in paint-stained buckets beside discarded circuit boards. This was a place where technology and tradition didn’t coexist—they collided.


    Afolabi crouched at the edge of a rooftop garden, fingers sunk deep into compost, his back to the chaos. From this height, he could see the slum for what it truly was—not a ruin, but a heart still beating under the weight of forgotten gods and corporate indifference. Kids played with a glitching robotic football below, laughing between sparks. One-legged food carts hissed steam into the humid air, trying to drown out the diesel stench that always returned. There was rhythm in the noise. Survival in the sound.


    Above it all, lev-cars whispered across magnetic rails—clean, perfect, silent. Afolabi’s eyes caught the flicker of a failing billboard advertising gene-cleaning clinics. The image gave way to static, then a message in Yoruba:


    ?l?run ni agbára wa.God is our strength.


    It didn’t comfort him. It felt like a warning.


    He glanced toward the floating skystations above the towers—shimmering sanctuaries suspended over chaos. Up there, people prayed with crypto algorithms and mind-calming implants. Down here, prayer came in chalk sigils, sweat, and stubborn faith. QR-coded rosaries hung beside hacked drone batteries. The slum lived on à??—spiritual force, not permission. It moved beneath the rust, waiting.


    “Oi! Dreaming again?” Taiwo’s voice broke through the comm-bead in his ear.


    Afolabi blinked. “Some of us still plant food with our hands. Not everyone reheats packet jollof.”


    “Guilty,” Taiwo said, laughing. Then his tone dropped. “MoDA swept Mushin last night. Left behind something. If you hear more about Divine Portals, ping me.”


    That word cut through Afolabi like a spark. Divine Portals.


    He looked eastward. Faint spirals of blue flame curled in the distance, like skyward whispers. Another incident. Another rupture.


    The government called them spatial distortions.


    The streets knew better.àw?n il?? ?run.Cracks in the skin of the world. Gates to the gods.


    He hadn’t seen one up close. Not yet.


    His hand drifted to the string around his neck. The mask. The only thing his mother had left him. Dark, carved wood shaped like an Orisha’s face—ancient, worn smooth by touch. When the wind shifted, it vibrated softly against his chest.


    It was warm now.


    That warmth always came before something strange.


    His breath slowed. The mask buzzed again—harder this time, as if waking. A scent drifted through the air. Not plastic, not smoke. Stew. Rain. Her.


    Her voice followed. Soft. Low. Real.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    “?m? mi, maa gbagbe ?ni tí ìw? j?…”My child, never forget who you are.


    He remembered the shawl wrapped around him during a blackout. Her hands shielding his ears from sirens. Her voice—tired, but whole.


    “You must keep this close, Fola,” she’d whispered, fastening the mask around his neck.“Why?” “One day it will recognize you. And you must be ready.”


    He hadn’t understood. He had only been seven.


    The next night, smoke filled the room without fire. And in the morning, she was gone.


    He ran. Through fear. Through guilt. Through the truth he couldn’t face.


    Ajegunle’s rhythm faltered. Street sounds dipped. Power lines shivered. Even the coded drums that signaled market closings went still.


    He ducked as a drone buzzed too low. Its red lens pulsed like a pupil. MoDA didn’t announce martial law in Neo-Ajegunle—but they didn’t need to. People disappeared anyway.


    He thought of Kehinde—probably arguing with elders at the shelter-school about ration cards or power outages. Her voice rang in his head now, full of fire and frustration.


    "Don''t get distracted, Fola. You''re always drifting when the world needs you present."


    And Taiwo—his brother in all but blood. His anchors.


    But neither of them knew about the dreams.


    The dreams of fire. Of masked warriors. Of gates carved into the sky.


    And now, something real was moving.


    A hum—low, deep, resonant. Not mechanical. Not human.


    He stood, slowly.


    A black van crawled into view below. Windowless. Unmarked. Too smooth. Too quiet.


    Men emerged from the shadows. Plain clothes. Military boots.


    Afolabi’s blood went cold.


    Traffickers.


    He didn’t wait.


    He launched over the garden’s edge, boots slamming metal. His fingers caught the ladder bolted to the water tank. He slid, hit the next roof hard, rolled into a sprint. Wind roared in his ears, or maybe that was panic.


    Below, the van hissed open. A dark orb floated up from its chassis—MoDA-grade scout tech. Sleek. Whispering. Alive.


    He turned toward the stairwell—


    Blocked.


    A man stood halfway up the steps. Unmoving. Mirrored eyes, no reflection.


    Afolabi didn’t think. He grabbed a rusted pipe from a drying rack and swung.


    The man didn’t flinch.


    The lights along the alley flickered once.


    Then again.


    His mask pulsed.


    Everything bent.


    Not physically—but like the world tilted inward, and something ancient tilted with it.


    A fold of light opened beside him. Golden. Spiraling.


    A portal.


    Not like the rumors.


    This was raw. Sacred. Breathing.


    “No,” Afolabi whispered.


    He stepped back.


    But the rooftop cracked beneath him.


    He staggered.


    Air thickened. Wind pushed—not away, but toward.


    His heart pounded—not from fear, but recognition.


    This was for him.


    Voices filled his ears.


    Drums. Smoke. Her voice.


    “Run.”


    But maybe not away.


    Maybe toward.


    The mask burned against his chest, not with heat—but knowing.


    His eyes welled. Not from pain. From truth.


    Kehinde’s warning. Taiwo’s laugh. The old woman’s silver eyes. Smoke without fire.


    He stepped—


    —and the city held its breath.


    He fell.


    Through light. Through flame. Through à??.


    The rooftop vanished. The air screamed, or maybe he did.


    And in that final heartbeat before everything disappeared:


    The machines stopped.


    The sky dimmed.


    Even the neon-coded drums fell silent.


    Ajegunle itself paused.


    Because something sacred hadn’t just been lost.


    It had returned.