Blasfemy of the Gods

The drums of Mapungubwe echoed through the valley, a rhythm older than memory itself. Smoke from sacred fires curled into the night sky, carrying whispered prayers to gods who no longer answered. Tanaka knelt before the great baobab, his hands bound in ceremonial rope, his body painted with ochre and ash. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs, meant to open the spirit’s eye, but the only thing Tanaka felt was the cold gaze of the elders standing around him.

“This is the only way,” intoned the high shaman, his voice deep and final. “You have seen too much, child. The spirits are watching you.”

Tanaka did not struggle. He had known since his first vision that his fate was sealed. He had seen things that no mortal should—winged beings with eyes of fire, great serpents coiling around the stars, shadowed figures whispering from the edges of existence. He had seen the old gods walk the land, their forms hazy, flickering, as if reality itself sought to erase them. And worst of all, he had seen the thing that lurked beyond them, in the spaces where no name could reach.

The ritual had only one purpose: to silence him.

The shaman raised his blade. The chanting grew louder. The ancestors watched.

But something else watched, too.

A wind, cold and unnatural, howled through the trees. The flames flickered blue. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the earth beneath them, and suddenly, the baobab’s ancient roots began to move.

The gods had heard them. And they we

re not pleased.