Echoes from the void

The Fury of Nsanda

The riverbank was silent, save for the hiss of steam rising from the scorched shadows where a mother and child had once stood. The inhabitants trembled, their hearts crushed beneath the weight of a tradition that had just incinerated their own. But where the father stood hollowed by grief, his eldest son, Nsanda, was forged in fire.

Nsanda’s eyes burned like coals. The fear that had enslaved the Peak for generations evaporated, replaced by a white-hot, holy defiance.

“YOU MISERABLE, OLD FOOLS!” Nsanda’s voice rang out, shattering the spirits' laughter.

The High Lords froze. The multitude gasped. Nsanda stepped forward, fists clenched. “What kind of gods disregard the life of a child? I am tired of your stupid fables! I am tired of your miserable sacrifices that only bring more blood!”

The Clash of Defiance

The High Lord of the East turned, venom dripping from his face. “Nsanda… your blood will scrub the stain of your words from this soil!”

“With what?” Nsanda spat. “You are toothless old men hiding behind traditions that mean nothing! I am not afraid of your water-demons!”

He scooped a handful of dust and hurled it toward the floating crystalline mirror. “You are no gods. You are rebels! Monsters pretending to be kings! I know in my heart there must be another God—a true Creator who knows the value of a human soul. You are nothing but rebels against the Light!”

The Shield of the Unseen

What Nsanda could not see—but what the "Redeemed Skeptic" Randolph Goodman perceived from the veil—was that the sky above the river was crowded. A host of angels had taken their positions, their wings forming a barrier of celestial energy around the youth.

The silver river-spirits lunged, clawing at the air to drag Nsanda into the acidic depths. But they struck an invisible wall of holy fire. Their fingers scorched, and they recoiled with shrieks of agony.

Realizing they could not touch him, the spirits tried deception. Their voices softened into a horrific, layered croon. “Kneel, young man... we can give you power. We can give you the throne. Just... kneel.”

But Nsanda stood tall. He did not know the name of the God he had called upon, but he knew that for the first time in his life, he was free.

The Turning Point

Nsanda’s own father, broken by cowardice, lunged forward and struck his son, shoving him into the mud. “Nsanda! Worship the Mothers before they turn us all to ash! Do it now, or I will kill you myself!”

Nsanda rose with predatory grace, his eyes locking onto his father's. He shoved the older man back into the dirt. “You weak man,” Nsanda spat. “Your pregnant wife and son were murdered before your eyes, and you bowed lower. I will not worship the gods of the Peak of Terror. Their throne is built on the bones of my family, and I am finished feeding them.”

The angels tightened their formation. The river-spirits hissed, their laughter faltering. The High Lords stood paralyzed, their authority unraveling in the face of a child’s fury.

The "Peak of Terror" has just suffered its first major spiritual breach. As Nsanda stands his ground, will the rest of the "walking meat" find their courage, or will the High Lords unleash the Rite of the South to silence the rebellion with breath-stealing shadow?

The Beating of the Defiant

The boy’s words had shattered centuries of silence. Nsanda’s defiance was a blade that cut through the marrow of tradition, and the High Lords, their pride stung by his heresy, descended upon him like vultures. They did not summon fire or lightning. They used their hands, their iron-tipped staffs, and their brute strength.

They shoved him back into the mire, striking him again and again. Each blow was meant to break his will, to force a cry of “Mercy!” from his throat. The crowd watched in horror, certain that the boy’s body would be crushed into mud. Yet Nsanda did not cry out. His silence was louder than their violence.

The Spirits’ Panic

As the blows fell, the four silver spirits in the river began to panic. In the spirit realm, they saw what the mortals could not: legions of Heaven, radiant warriors with swords of white fire, standing just behind the boy. The angels waited, their blades poised. If Nsanda’s blood truly soaked the ground, the Peak of Terror itself would be erased from existence.

“STOP!” the river-spirits shrieked, their voices cracking with fear. “STOP BEATING HIM!”

The High Lords froze, staffs mid-air. Never before had the gods interrupted a punishment.

“Allow him to make his sacrifice!” the spirits cried, frantic. “Do not harm the boy further!”

The False Mercy

The High Lord of the South, trembling, hauled Nsanda to his feet. The boy was bruised and bleeding, but his spirit was a roaring furnace.

“Come on,” the Lord urged, his voice shaking. “Do your sacrifice now. Just bow. Throw the flowers and the bananas into the water. Show them you are grateful for this mercy.”

Nsanda looked at the hibiscus blossoms in his hands. A grim smile touched his lips.

“I will never sacrifice anything to you,” he shouted. “Not a flower, not a fruit… not even my own filth!”

With a violent motion, he crushed the petals and hurled them into the mud, grinding them beneath his feet. “These are good enough for my steps, and nothing more!”

The Final Break

Nsanda turned his back on the Lords and the spirits. He walked through the trembling multitude to where his twelve-year-old sister stood. Without a word, he lifted her onto his back.

“I walk out,” Nsanda declared. “I walk out of the Peak of Terror and every land where gods like you demand the blood of the innocent. I walk out of this man”—he pointed to his father, weeping in the mud—“who is nothing but a traitor to his own blood. I walk out of these High Lords, these ‘wise’ men who are nothing but old fools dancing for demons!”

The river boiled with fury. Twelve more spirits emerged, grotesque and multi-limbed. They bared their teeth, but they could not cross the invisible line of fire that surrounded the boy.

“I walk into the hands of the Other God,” Nsanda cried. “The one who does not laugh when a child is murdered! If He exists, I am His!”

The Invisible Shield

Nsanda began to walk away, his sister clinging to his back. Dozens of angels walked beside him, invisible to mortal eyes, their wings forming a tunnel of protection.

Back at the river, a voice, cold and ancient, boomed from the floating mirror: “FLEE, PEAK OF TERROR! FLEE BEFORE THE GODS, OR BE SLAUGHTERED!”

The inhabitants broke into a stampede. The river-gods crawled onto the land, no longer pretending to be beautiful. They were grey, slick, and monstrous. They unleashed shards of jagged ice and torrents of shadow—but every weapon dissolved into mist before it touched Nsanda’s skin.

One spirit, a hulking mass of scales and hate, grew to twice its size. It drew in gallons of water, then lifted its head, its voice a hiss of rage.

“NSANDA! NSANDA! NSANDA!”

Out of pure, human curiosity, Nsanda turned his head. That was the moment the monster spewed. It was a tsunami—a violent flood designed to crush his bones and drown his sister.

The water is a wall of death, and Nsanda has momentarily looked back. Can the shield of the "Other God" hold against a physical tide of hate, or will the river-spirits claim the defiant siblings after all?