Past Fragment: Ikenga O. Bayajidda

Jiha, a big city in the seventh world, was the headquarters of the rebellion. It was the battlefield of the final stand between the rebellion and the Ururu-led faction. It was called the red city because of its violence. It was called the city of open graves because they didn't bury their dead often. It was also called the city of gutters of blood because of the blood that was shed during the rebellion.

Ururu won the battle, pulling the curtain on the rebellion. The war had left many families scarred for the rest of their lives. It had left Armad's mother crippled, and had forced the young man to set out for an unplanned adventure.

Inside the city, corpses laid on other corpses; there was just not enough space for every corpse. The ground had turned red with blood and gore and the fishy smell of rotten organs polluted the atmosphere.

A corpse without a head, a corpse without legs, a corpse with its intestines out, and a corpse pierced with so many swords that it looked artistic. Hundreds of thousands of corpses. Most of which were women, children, and the elderly who should have been left at home.

Ravens of death flew above the city. Their black feathers tinged red with blood and sand.

It was over for the rebellion, sure. But it wasn't over for one corpse. This corpse was pierced in the abdomen by five spears and in the chest by many arrows. But it moved. The movement startled the ravens and they flew away from it. Slowly, the corpse rose to its feet and stood on the other corpses below it.

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It was a boy who couldn't exceed seventeen years.

It had been ten hours since the boy was stabbed to death, and he had been fighting between life and death, swearing by the creator of his ancestors that he wouldn't die.

His mind was dull. His Blood was shed. And his eyes had turned red like an ember. He was supposed to have died long ago, but he didn't. He took an oath that he wouldn't die on that day, and he held on to his oath even as death hunted him down.

He was drowsy and he fell to the ground again and again, but he would stand and keep swearing.

For ten days he swore, and as he was dying on the eleventh day, a man came to him. The man's face was masked, leaving only two black eyes visible, which caused the light around him to fade, like a storm covering the sun.

The man walked toward the boy. "Boy," he said. "You took an oath you will not die today, and you didn't...

"Why do you want to go on living after everyone you know is dead?"

The boy's throat was torn, but he looked at the man in horror. "U... Ururu?" He stuttered. He could see the trademark black eyes that belonged to the first worlders. They killed his parents and everyone he ever knew. Yesterday, he was a prince of a powerful country, but today he was an orphan. And now the same Ururu had appeared before him.

His voice wasn't very clear, but his anger and hatred were incomparable. He would destroy everything.

The black-eyed man narrowed his eyes at the boy, surprised at how much hatred a boy so young could swallow. He pointed at him, and as if responding to the gesture, the boy flew toward him and came to stop just in front of him. He looked into the boy's eyes as if reading something.

Then, after a long while, the man burst out laughing. He turned around and walked away. The boy, bound in the air, followed behind him.

The boy was Ikenga O. Bayajidda. A prince turned orphan by the wrath of the first world.