The room was calm now.
Zikora lay resting, a peaceful glow returning to her features, her body humming faintly with stabilized essence. Her eyes fluttered open to the soft giggle of her newborn son—and the even softer coo from her husband, who was holding the child like a precious gem.
Zuberi, warrior of death and despair, was currently pretending his fingers were birds to entertain a three-day-old baby.
"You like that, little general?" he whispered, voice melting into velvet. "You're already stronger than half the fools I've fought."
Zikora watched them with a faint, tired smile. Her heart was full. Overwhelmed. She could cry, but she wouldn't—because Zuberi was already doing enough of that for both of them behind those stupid shades.
Then his eyes met hers.
And in that look—a quiet agreement. A thought they shared without needing to speak.
"His name is..." she whispered.
He nodded, smile tugging at his lips.
"Obasi."
"Obasi Light."
Elsewhere, Iloris stood tall—but every muscle screamed in protest. He gave his report to Onyema, the grizzled old commander of the N.C.A. The man didn't react much. Just nodded. Murmured a few approvals.
Then waved Iloris off with a grunt.
Iloris, confused and slightly offended, left.
Onyema waited until he was alone.
Then, like a ghost opening a long-forgotten chapter, he pulled a locket from around his neck. Clicked it open with slow fingers.
Inside: a weathered photo.
Two young men. Arms around each other's shoulders. Grinning like idiots. Wearing the elite uniform of the Nigerian Runeborn Association.
Him and Zuberi.
"Still showing off, old friend," he muttered with a grin. "Never could stay quiet, even for fatherhood."
Days passed.
The city was still healing—but the sun felt warmer. People smiled a little easier. And on a quiet afternoon, Zuberi and Zikora strolled through an open-air café, hand-in-hand, baby Obasi snoozing peacefully in a sling strapped across Zuberi's chest.
He still wore flip-flops. And yes—the shades stayed on.
They sat at a table in the corner, just as Onyema approached.
Zuberi looked up. Grinned.
"Old man Onyema," he said, voice full of nostalgia. "Didn't think you'd still be alive with all that bitterness in your bones."
Onyema chuckled, pulling out a chair.
"And I didn't think I'd live to see you pushing a stroller instead of pushing enemies into the afterlife."
They shook hands—strong, firm. The kind of handshake that spoke volumes of the battles, secrets, and blood they'd shared.
Zikora just watched with that same quiet smile. The kind that says, I know these two are mad… but I love them anyway.
Onyema strolls up, fresh in his tactical wear, that "I survived too many missions" swagger still in full effect.
Onyema:
"Bro… you are evil. No, no. Scratch that. You're wicked. I swear, badness is in your DNA."
He squints suspiciously.
"How you go do wedding and no even buzz your gee?"
Zuberi, completely stone-faced, adjusting his baby's blanket like he's folding a war map:
"It was a strict private wedding. I only invited two people."
Onyema, blinking in betrayal, sits back with a dramatic hand to his chest:
"Ehn? Two ke?! Who?!"
Zuberi, still deadpan, cool as moonlight:
"Me and my wife."
Cue Onyema, brain buffering like a bad internet connection, mouth open, no sound.
Zikora tries to hold it, but completely loses it, full-on belly laughter. Even baby Obasi coos like he's in on the joke.
Onyema, finally finding his voice, just shouts:
"Bro come on! You dey mad! Is that even legal?!"
They all crack up, and for a moment, the café seems to glow brighter. Passersby glance their way, confused by the chaotic joy. If those that knew them saw them, they will surely rub their eyes, wondering if they're hallucinating.
Because how could Zuberi Light, rumored calamity-level destroyer of monsters, killer of rift queens, be sitting here… sipping zobo with his best bro, a gorgeous wife, and a baby in Fortnite pajamas?
The sky was dipped in molten orange as the trio sat under a large umbrella, the baby nestled in Zuberi's arm like royalty. Sips of steaming coffee, wafts of pepper soup from a nearby table, and Onyema's exaggerated gesturing painted the perfect picture of a memory-laced hangout.
Onyema, slapping the table like it owes him money:
"Guy, remember back when we were still rookies and they dropped us in that swamp-ass zone near Gwoza?!"
Zuberi, raising a brow, his smirk creeping in:
"Where you got stuck knee-deep in mud and started screaming about ghost frogs?"
Zikora, trying not to laugh:
"Ghost frogs?"
Onyema, already defensive:
"Ehn! You weren't there! Those things had glowing eyes and teleported! Tell her, Zuberi!"
Zuberi, face neutral, voice deadpan:
"He punched a bush thinking it was one of them. Turned out to be the team's lunch bag."
Zikora, cackling:
"I can't! You ruined lunch AND screamed about frogs?!"
Onyema, shaking his head:
"Nah, y'all ain't gonna do me like this. At least I didn't try to flirt with a banshee scout like someone here."
Zuberi, coughing with mock indignation:
"That was recon! I was distracting her!"
Onyema, snorting:
"You called her 'mystic fine wine' and asked if she had a sister!"
Zuberi, muttering under his breath:
"She did have an enchanting aura."
Zikora, eyes narrowed playfully:
"I dare you to call another banshee 'fine wine' now."
Zuberi, immediately straightening:
"I am happily married. The only mystic wine I sip is named Zikora."
Zikora, smug as hell, flipping her hair:
"Better."
Onyema, leaning back, eyes soft with nostalgia:
"But real talk... never thought I'd live long enough to see this guy get married. And to the freakin' Battle Saint, no less."
He lightly jabbed Zuberi's shoulder.
Zuberi just chuckled, bouncing Obasi gently in his arms.
Zikora, pouty:
"You make it sound like I'm some horror story."
Onyema, suddenly quiet. His eyes drifted off, pulled by a flashback like a thread through time.
Rift Outbreak, 6 Years Ago
The air was thick with smoke and screams. The skies tore open and monsters spilled like oil from a broken pipe. Onyema, younger, sweat dripping, fought his way through a collapsing apartment block.
And then... he saw her.
Her.
Back then, the Battle Saint was a myth to most. But in that moment, she was just a warrior—mask cracked, hair slightly singed from a surprise fireball. He had only glimpsed her eyes.
And then… he saw what she did.
She tracked the monster that hit her.
From the horde.
She ignored everything else and hunted it down with the rage of a thousand thunder gods. When she found it? She didn't just kill it.
Oh no.
She beat it to the brink of death, healed it, and beat it again.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Like a remix of wrath.
Back in the café, Onyema's skin broke out in goosebumps just thinking about it.
Onyema, staring at her with wide eyes:
"Scary? Nah. You're not scary."
Zikora, smiling sweetly.
Onyema, shivering dramatically:
"You're a nightmare in heels."
Zikora, pouting again:
"Unfair. I was emotionally processing."
Zuberi, dying from laughter, clutching his stomach:
"That's what we're calling it now? Emotional processing via hands?"
Onyema, grinning:
"She's your type, bro. Elegant chaos."
Zikora, poking Zuberi in the ribs:
"And I'm your karma for that banshee comment."
As the baby giggled and the couple teased each other, Onyema sat back and watched.
His lips curled into a content smile.
These were his people.
They'd survived the worst of hells. And now they got to live a little slice of peace, even if just for the afternoon.
He raised his cup toward them.
Onyema:
"To old scars, new life, and slightly unhinged wives."
Zuberi, raising his glass:
"Cheers to all three."
Zikora, smirking:
"I'll allow it."
The open-air café had quieted into a hushed sanctum. The city's hum had faded into distant murmurs, and the candles on their table flickered against the slow crawl of night. All other patrons had trickled away, leaving only the three of them — Onyema, Zuberi, and Zikora — with the baby nestled in a carrier between them.
A soft breeze rustled the corner of the tablecloth.
Onyema leaned forward, no longer grinning or teasing.
His expression was stone and shadows.
From his coat, he slid a thick, sealed file across the table toward Zuberi.
The quiet scratch of paper over wood felt too loud in the silence.
Zuberi took the file with a neutral expression. But the moment he opened it and began scanning, the shift in his aura was immediate — the weight of reality dragging down his shoulders like iron. He passed the file wordlessly to Zikora.
She read it.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
Her face did not crumble — no, the Battle Saint never cracked — but her eyes... her eyes dimmed like a flame caught in the rain.
Then, they both looked at each other. Not a single word spoken.
They didn't need to.
And as if pulled by an unseen string, they both turned to look down at their sleeping son.
Obasi, blissfully unaware, breathed peacefully in his slumber, his tiny hand curled like a promise to a better tomorrow.
Onyema's voice came low, almost hesitant.
"I know this is a difficult request. If it's too much… we'll find another way. I swear it."
Zuberi remained quiet, jaw clenched. But before he could even speak—
Zikora, voice soft but unwavering, that same fire dancing behind her calm exterior:
"If it's to create a better, safer world for our child..."
Her hand slipped into Zuberi's. He squeezed it gently.
"...then we'll do it. No matter the cost.", she added with a bitter smile
Zuberi closed his eyes for a second, resting his forehead against hers. Then, gently, both of them leaned down and wrapped their arms around Obasi.
The baby cooed in his sleep, as if comforted by their warmth — unaware that the wheels of fate had just begun turning in his name.
A long silence followed.
And in that silence, Onyema, for the first time in years, let his mask slip just a little.
He looked down at his hands. At the file. At the couple. Then at the baby.
Onyema, voice barely audible:
"I'm sorry..."