Blasfemy of the Gods

Tanaka awoke to silence. A heavy, suffocating silence, as if the world itself held its breath. The scent of burnt earth clung to him, his body aching as if he had been remade in fire.

He was no longer in the sacred grove.

The sky above was wrong—a vast, endless void, shifting between colors that had no names. Stars blinked and faded, appearing as symbols he somehow understood but had never seen before. The air carried the scent of old blood, incense, and something bitter—like forgotten prayers.

“M’fana, wake up.”

The voice was low, raspy, laced with an accent he could not place—part Shona, part Yoruba, part something older.

Tanaka turned his head and saw a man with no shadow standing before him. His skin was dark as the deepest caves, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. He wore a robe of woven midnight, adorned with symbols of lost empires—Mayan glyphs, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Benin bronzes, Ashanti gold.

“Ndiani?” Tanaka rasped, his throat dry. Who are you?

The man tilted his head. “I have had many names. But the world has forgotten them.”

Tanaka pushed himself up, his arms trembling. The pain in his body was still there, but it was… different. He felt power coursing through him, unfamiliar yet natural.

The man knelt beside him, touching one of the glowing symbols branded into Tanaka’s arm. “The gods have marked you, but not as their servant.” His grin was sharp, amused. “You are now something else. A blasphemer. A god-killer. A writer of myths.”

Tanaka’s blood turned to ice.

The man’s voice lowered. “Tell me, M’fana… do you wish to kneel? Ord o you wish to reign?”