Blasfemy of the Gods

The baobab’s roots tore through the earth, twisting like the coils of Nyoka Mukali, the great serpent of old. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and fear. The elders stumbled back as the n’anga, the shaman, clutched his staff, his face drained of color.

Tanaka writhed on the ground, his skin burning with unseen fire. He felt something ancient watching him—something beyond the gods his people had prayed to for generations.

Then, he stepped forward.

A figure cloaked in shadows and bone, his presence crushing the air itself. His mask, carved from nguluvhe skull—wild boar—gleamed under the firelight. The flames flickered unnaturally, dancing as if afraid. When he spoke, his voice echoed in many tongues—Shona, Yoruba, Nahuatl, Latin, and Japanese—shifting like water, impossible to contain.

“Ukuphikisa izithixo…” he murmured in Zulu. “To deny the gods is to awaken them.”

Tanaka gasped, his vision blurring. The masked one raised a hand, and pain seared across his flesh. Symbols of power—runes older than the pyramids—burned into his skin, glowing with a light neither divine nor demonic.

“Non serviam,” the figure intoned in Latin. “You will serve no god. No master. You will rewrite their fate.”

The n’anga tried to chant, calling upon Mwari, Olorun, Nyame, and Quetzalcoatl. But no god answered.

Tanaka’s body convulsed. His soul felt like it was torn apart and reforged. The masked figure knelt, whispering in a language that even the gods feared to speak.

Then, silence.

Tanaka collapsed into darkness, his last thought an omen.

The gods are afraid.