There was a rhythm to orders—receive them, question nothing, move. That rhythm had begun again.
After the meeting with Master Abiodun, Major Deji wasted no time. He assembled the unit at the compound's outer gate—Tor, Simi, and myself. Our bags were packed, our Divine crafts were fastened, and three Ashataris stood waiting. I had only seen one after arriving at the compound, Now I was going to ride one. The thought of it stirred something I hadn't felt in a while. Not joy. I was curious to see for myself how well it would perform.
Before the others arrived, Deji pulled us aside. Specifically, he looked at Tor and Simi.
"No one mentions what he is," he said.
He didn't point. He didn't need to. I was the only secret standing in plain sight.
"We'll be working with another unit. Another Major," he said. "There's no telling how things would turn out if they found out. The situation could become uncontrollable. We already have Major Ayo who seems to know—we don't want to carelessly increase that number. So unless I say otherwise, keep quiet. That's an order."
Tor nodded, expression unreadable. Simi gave a short hum of understanding, but her eyes flicked to me briefly—hesitant, thoughtful.
Then Deji turned to me.
"And you—" His tone sharpened, "—no transformations. Not unless I say so. Not even if it feels necessary. Not even if someone dies. If I don't give the word, you keep it buried. Understood?"
I stared at him, long enough for Simi to glance sideways at me.
"Understood," I replied.
He studied me, as if he didn't quite believe it. But he said nothing more.
Adeshola arrived minutes later. No fanfare. Just a firm voice, steady steps, and a stare that weighed every person it landed on like it was measuring their worth. She was taller than Deji. Sharper too. There was something about her presence that immediately explained the rank she carried. Calm, but not soft. Quiet, but not to be ignored. Beside her stood her Lesser Hand—a woman named Morounkeji Alade. She looked young. Fresh-faced. But I was told she was the oldest among all of us. Even though she was still a Lesser Hand, you could tell she was someone who had already survived more than most of us would ever see—I didn't doubt it.
The Ashataris were already saddled. Deji mounted first and waved me forward—I was riding with him. Adeshola took the lead Ashatari, flanked by Morounkeji and Simi. Tor and Ajani climbed the third.
The beast shifted beneath me—taller than a horse, smoother than a camel. Its skin shimmered faintly with divine energy, muscles twitching under soft grey fur. Riding it felt like sitting on something alive and ancient… like it knew it didn't belong to me.
Before departure, Master Abiodun approached. He had a way of commanding silence with his presence. He wasn't carrying a weapon, but I had the feeling that if a Fallen Beast dropped from the sky, it would still be the one to die first.
"You'll brief me occasionally—during our Izu," he said. His eyes moved to both Majors. They nodded.
Later, I would come to understand that 'Izu' meant entering a shared divine realm, one only accessible to those who carried the same essence. A direct link between master and Hands. Not physical, not emotional—divine. It was another reminder that despite all my power, I was still outside that circle. I didn't share Abiodun's essence. I never would.
Once everything was confirmed, we mounted. The Ashataris rose beneath us—stretching, growling low like beasts about to sprint. Then, without a signal, they began to move.
We were leaving the House of Adesina. Headed for the Central Confluence.
***
Our next stop was the Western Kingdom border.
From the Adesina Compound, the ride took just under an hour. If we had gone on foot, it would've taken three. The numbers didn't lie—Ashataris were fast.
At some point during the journey, I asked Major Deji how long it would take to reach the Central Confluence.
"Four days," he said without looking back.
"On foot?"
"Closer to two weeks."
I didn't say anything after that. I didn't need to. The difference spoke for itself. And it made me even more curious to see what else these beasts could do.
The border came into view not long after.
High fences, long enough to look endless from where we rode. A single iron gate stood at the center. Watchtowers flanked the gate on either side—tall, sharp structures with mounted guards. Not just for observation, I guessed. More like counters for anyone foolish enough to scale the fence using divine power. A Major could probably leap it with ease, but they wouldn't be dumb enough to try with eyes on them from above.
The area itself was packed. Travelers. Migrants. Some merchants. Some wanderers.
Noise. Heat. Movement. All pressing in like a slow tide.
I adjusted my cloak and pulled it slightly over my face. Just in case.
There was always a chance—a small one—that a Madarikan might recognize me. One wrong look, one loud voice, and everything could shift. I didn't want to gamble that risk, not in a crowd this size.
When we reached the check-in zone, a long line had already formed. Civilians waited, some with families, some with carts. Most looked tired. The kind of tiredness that came from waiting in the sun too long without knowing how much longer you'd wait.
But we didn't wait. We were Hands of the Adesina Family. The guards saw us and immediately waved us forward. No arguments. No delay. They checked our tags, verified our identities and gave a small salute before letting us through. Simple.
I won't lie—I felt something. Not pride. Not exactly. But something close. I'd traveled before. A long time ago. With my family. Back then, border crossings were a nightmare. Paperwork. Inspections. Delays. And if one thing didn't match, they sent you back.
Now? I walked through like it was nothing. Because of a title I had earned out of luck… it was something to experience.
***
We made our way to Eba Odo Village, a small place tucked at the very edge of the Western Region, close to the banks of the Aja River. I'd heard of the river before—mostly from old geography scripts and quiet conversations between traders. Supposedly the longest in the world.
The famous Olu Bridge stood over it like a giant spine of stone and metal. We'd left the border hours ago. This leg of the journey was much longer, stretched across hills, forest patches, and winding trails. The sun had started its descent by the time we finally reached the bridge, and even the Ashataris were beginning to slow.
'The Great Olu Bridge.'
Its name was written boldly across a massive stone arch above the entrance. The bridge itself looked more like a fortress wall—wide, tall, intimidating. Built as if to stop an army, not just connect two sides of a river. The design was strange: solid through the center, like a road laid atop a dam, but with carved-out channels on both ends that let the river flow underneath. Functional, but beautiful.
I'd never seen it before.
In all my years of travel with my family, we never went this far north. Definitely not East.
The Central Confluence was positioned right between the northern and eastern regions—just barely touching both. It made sense now why this bridge mattered.
We dismounted at the checkpoint near the bridge. Major Deji explained that while this wasn't an official border crossing, it acted like one. The Olu Bridge divided the Western Region from everything else—north, east, even the central territories. South was the only direction it didn't touch. Anyone heading through had to be checked.
Unlike the main border earlier, the area around the bridge was quieter. Less crowded. The process was quicker too—no endless lines or shouting guards. Still, protocol was protocol.
We began walking beside our Ashataris, leading them toward the inspection point.
The sound of the river underneath hummed softly, constant and low.
I kept my eyes on the bridge as we moved closer.
As we walked across the bridge, the river's low roar rose beneath our feet. The Aja moved with power, but not grace—like something ancient and angry, unwilling to be tamed even though it had clearly lost that battle. The Ashataris trotted beside us, calm but alert. The bridge's smooth stone surface echoed under our boots.
Major Adeshola's voice broke the rhythm.
"Ajani," she called out, not even turning as she spoke. "Do you know the story of this bridge?"
Ajani, who'd been walking ahead with Tor, straightened a bit. "No, Major."
"I thought so. You're about to learn."
She said it like a challenge. But more than that, it sounded like pride. She gestured out toward the sides of the bridge, as if pointing to the river and the land was part of the lesson.
I slowed my steps just slightly. Close enough to listen without looking too interested.
Deji noticed but didn't say anything. His silence was approval.
"This river used to be one of the most cursed in all the regions," Adeshola began. "Back then, Eba Odo—the village we just left—was suffering. They were poor in resources, especially during the Great Famine. Their land was dry, brittle. Barely anything would grow. No fruits, no decent meat, not even a steady palm harvest."
"But just across this very river," she continued, "the people of Ajíbóyè thrived. Fertile land. Clean water. Game. And everything else the West lacked."
I looked toward the far end of the bridge. It didn't look like much now—just more trees and hills in the distance. But I could imagine the desperation.
"Problem was," she said, "the river between them wasn't normal. It was tainted. The Aja River, as you know it, flows all the way from the Central Confluence. And by the time it passed through the central swamps and the old Fallen territories... it had changed. Fallen essence poisoned the water."
I raised an eyebrow. Fallen essence in the river? That explained the strange feeling earlier near the banks.
"Back then, if the water touched you," she went on, "you got sick. Some people even lost their minds and were possessed. Others... weren't lucky enough to keep their souls. But famine doesn't care about risk."
"So they crossed anyway?" Ajani asked.
"They did. Some made it. Most didn't. But the famine spread. What started in one village began to infect others. That's when he came."
I didn't have to ask who he was.
"Olúwòdò-Ayérìndé," Adeshola said, her voice dropping with reverence. "A Divine from the West."
She looked up at the bridge's arch as if he might still be standing there.
"They say Olúwòdò-Ayérìndé tried to help at first by purifying the water," Adeshola continued. "He would purify what the villagers managed to fetch. Small buckets. Barrels. Just enough to drink, to cook, maybe clean wounds."
Ajani frowned. "Why not just purify the whole river?"
Adeshola glanced at him. "Just as I said earlier, by the time the water reached here, it wasn't just water anymore. It carried the residue of Fallen essence—old, angry, and stubborn. Cleansing it at the source would've meant purifying every cursed stretch of land it passed through. And even if he did, the corruption would just seep back in. So it wasn't sustainable," she said.
"He could purify what they brought him, but the people still had to cross the river to trade. They were still dying. Still being possessed."
She looked over the railing again, toward the churning waters below.
"And so, he did the impossible. He summoned a Divine Statue right in the heart of the river. 'The Eternal Mason'. Not to fight. Not to defend. But to build."
She nodded upward, toward the highest arch of the bridge.
"With that statue, he carved stone from the riverbed, shaped channels for the cursed water to flow through without touching the path above, and laid every block by command. They say it took days, maybe weeks. He never rested."
Ajani stared at the walls like he could see the statue's hands in the stone.
"It remains," Adeshola said, "the greatest act of Divine craftsmanship the West has ever seen. Not just because of the power it took—but because of what it gave back. Trade. Unity. Survival."
I kept my eyes ahead, but her words stuck. I blinked. Even the wind seemed to slow.
"A Divine Statue."
Ajani let out a breath, and I couldn't blame him. Summoning a Divine Statue was already a great feat. But to use it to build a bridge?
"With it," Adeshola said, "he shaped this entire structure. The base, the arches, the channels. Every block was carved by divine command. Every inch was made to resist not just time but Fallen corruption."
I glanced at the stone beneath our feet. It didn't feel like anything special—but that's how the best divine crafts were. Silent, solid, eternal indeed.
"They say after it was built, he disappeared. He left behind this bridge... and a new path forward. The West no longer had to depend solely on the South. It could connect to the East. Even the North. And it all started here."
She nodded toward a small plaque on the bridge wall. I didn't have to read it. I already knew what it would say:
The Great Olu Bridge.
A Bridge of Unity. A Testament of Power.
"They celebrate him every year," Adeshola said. "The Olu Festival. Not just for the bridge, but for what it represented—trade, unity, vision. Since then, no Divine has created anything as impactful. Not during peace, not even during the wars. Not even the Fathers of other Divine Families."
She looked at the both of us when she said that last part. Not in a confrontational way—but direct. Honest.
I gave a small nod.
Fair enough.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. The bridge went on longer than I expected.
I didn't mind. For all the Divine power I had come across, I had never seen something so... necessary. There was something humbling about walking across history. As we kept moving, I found myself wondering—why had the legend, Olu, decided to attempt such a feat for a village he wasn't even from? He hadn't lived through the famine. He hadn't suffered like the people of Eba Odo. There was no deep personal pain tied to his actions, at least none that history remembered. So what could have driven him to go that far for them?