HIS DEITY
Night still clung to Tokyo.
The alley where it happened remained silent — too silent.
A faint shimmer distorted the brick wall where Mckell had vanished. The air buzzed with residual energy, like static trapped between dimensions.
Three masked figures stood motionless.
One crouched, pressing two fingers against the concrete. The surface rippled briefly beneath his glove.
“Subject initiated a raw Spiritwalk,” , . “Untrained.”
. “That shouldn’t be possible.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“He’s not just a Vessel.”
.
“He’s the Mark reborn.”
Static surged through the alley as their forms began to dissolve into shadow — armor fragmenting into dark particles that scattered into the night air.
But they were not the only ones watching.
High above, on a distant rooftop, a lone figure stood barefoot at the edge.
Blindfolded.
Still.
Listening.
“The blood has awakened,”
“And it is terrified.”
Mckell jolted awake.
The dorm room ceiling blurred into focus as his breath came in ragged pulls. Sweat soaked his pillow. His chest burned.
He sat up instantly and looked down.
His shirt — charred.
A circular scorch surrounded the spiral mark beneath the fabric.
He tore the shirt off.
The mark glowed faintly.
Alive.
His hands trembled. When he lifted them into the morning light—
Gold shimmered beneath his skin.
“No…”
He stumbled out of bed and rushed to the small sink in the corner of the room. He turned the faucet fully open and shoved his hands under freezing water.
The glow dimmed.
But it did not disappear.
A knock hit the door.
“Guy! Open na! I get suya and hot gist!”
Emeka.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Mckell swallowed hard. He grabbed a hoodie and pulled it over his head before opening the door.
Emeka walked in like a storm of good vibes — plastic bag swinging from his wrist, grin wide as ever.
“You dey alright so?” . “You be like person wey fight juju for dream??, abi dem give you ogwo and yam chop?”
“Omo guy, Wetin I see no be dream,” . “I no no but Dem really dey find me for here.”
.
The silence thickened.
“Find you… how?”
How could he explain masked figures? Walking through walls? A voice in the void calling him Vessel?
He couldn’t.
“Forget,” . “Jet lag.”
Emeka studied him for a long moment, then shrugged it off — but not fully.
“Alright o. But if ghost for Japan dey worry you, I go charge dem rent??.”
Outside the dorm window, the blindfolded man stood on a nearby rooftop.
Unmoving.
His hair shifted slightly in the wind.
He could feel it clearly now.
The resonance.
The spiral frequency vibrating through the city’s spirit lines.
The mark had awakened too violently.
Too publicly.
“They will come harder,”
“And the boy will die if he remains ignorant”
He stepped forward.
And vanished without sound.
Later that afternoon, Mckell walked alone across campus.
Students passed by laughing, scrolling phones, living normal lives.
Normal.
He envied that word.
His chest pulsed again.
Once.
Then twice.
He froze.
The world around him flickered — just for a split second.
A shadow peeled itself from beneath a vending machine across the courtyard.
Tall.
Thin.
Featureless.
Watching.
His heartbeat spiked.
Nobody else reacted.
The shadow moved unnaturally, stretching along the pavement against the direction of the sun.
It was testing him.
Fear crawled up his spine.
The spiral mark responded instantly.
Heat surged through his veins.
The shadow lunged.
Time fractured.
Sound distorted.
And instinct took control.
The air bent around Mckell as golden light burst outward from his body in a violent pulse.
The shadow recoiled, hissing without sound, its form destabilizing under the light’s pressure.
Students nearby blinked in confusion — they felt something, but couldn’t see it.
Mckell staggered backward.
The shadow retreated into the ground, dissolving.
Silence returned.
But now he understood something terrifying.
They didn’t need armor.
They didn’t need masks.
They could be anywhere.
Watching.
Waiting.
From a rooftop overlooking the campus, the blindfolded man exhaled slowly.
“He can see them already
“Good.”
He turned away from the edge.
“It’s time we meet.
Inside his dorm room that evening, Mckell sat alone on his bed.
Lights off.
Phone face down.
He stared at his hands.
The glow flickered faintly beneath his skin.
“What are you?” .
For a brief second—
He heard it again.
That voice.
Faint. Distant.
Not outside him.
Inside.
You are becoming.
The beads in his pocket felt warmer than before.
And somewhere in Tokyo’s underworld, the Oni Syndicate updated a file.
Subject 017 — confirmed active.
Threat level: Rising.
