SCARS

CHAPTER ONE The forest was alive that night. Not with the gentle hum of crickets or the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth, but with something darker, something unnatural. It pulsed with fire and voices haunting, rhythmic, and laced with menace. A bonfire raged at the heart of the trees, its flames leaping high as though hungry for the heavens. Around it, figures cloaked in black regalia moved in unison, stamping their feet, clapping their hands, chanting words that seemed too heavy for human tongues. “The Black Heart! We radiate the heart of young men, make them heartless, to win and reign in the world. To reign, oh, oh, oh! To reign over the world!” The chant rolled like thunder through the clearing, growing louder, hungrier, more intoxicating. The flames reflected in their eyes, making them appear less like men and more like creatures possessed by the darkness they worshiped. At the edge of the circle, James knelt, his hands bound, his face pale but calm. He had been dragged here against his will, forced to listen to their chants, surrounded by men who gloried in hatred. He could feel the heat of the fire singeing his skin, the smell of burning wood thick in his nostrils, but his eyes remained steady, lifted toward the heavens he could not see beyond the smoke. Then the chanting stopped. The silence was more terrifying than the noise. From the shadows, a man emerged; A tall, broad-shouldered figure whose very presence drew the cultists into sudden reverence. Jide Jakulus. The feared, the untouchable. The Man of the Black Heart. His name carried with it stories of terror, whispered by mothers to frighten wayward sons, murmured by students in hushed tones at night. He had built his reputation on blood and fear, and tonight he looked every bit the legend they believed him to be. “Bravo!” Bruno, his most loyal lieutenant, cried, falling to one knee. “Man of the Black Heart!” The others joined in, their voices overlapping. “Bravo! Jide Jakulus!” Jide smirked, the firelight glinting off the hard lines of his face. His gaze moved across the circle until it fell upon James. He studied the young man for a long moment before speaking, his voice low but heavy, like the crack of an unseen whip. “Another fool,” Jide said at last, circling the bound figure. “James. We invited you to dine with us, but you refused. You think yourself stronger than the Dark Heart? Fool. We live on wickedness and hatred. Whatever we desire, we take. At any cost.” The men roared in approval, but James lifted his head. His voice, though soft, cut through the noise like steel. “I will never compromise Christ Jesus,” he said. “Death may take my body, but my spirit is His. I will not deny His love.” The clearing stirred. The cultists shifted, sneers rising on their faces, but Jide threw back his head and laughed. The sound was not joyful; it was jagged, sharp, mocking. “Jesus boy?” he sneered. “Do you know how many like you have stood where you kneel? We wasted their lives, and nothing happened. Yours will end the same.” James’s eyes glistened in the firelight, but he did not waver. “I do not speak for them. I know only this: you may kill me out of your wicked heart, but beware. When my Captain comes in His wrath, your blood will dry, your teeth will gnash, and you will beg for life but find none.” The words struck Jide like arrows. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes, fear? Recognition? He crushed it quickly, replacing it with rage. “Kill him!” he roared, his voice shaking the trees. Garula, a hulking figure at his side, stepped forward. His machete gleamed in the firelight. With a swift, merciless stroke, he struck. The world held its breath. James’s body crumpled, blood staining the earth. And then the forest erupted. Thunder shattered the sky. The moon above twisted, transforming into a crown of fiery thorns. Flames fell like spears from the heavens, lashing out at the cultists. Their chants turned to screams as fire engulfed them one by one. The smell of burning flesh choked the clearing. Jide staggered back, horror contorting his face as the inferno raged around him. He lifted his arms to shield himself, but it was too late. The fire kissed his skin, searing it, branding him with scars that no water could quench. The last thing he saw before he collapsed was James’s face, peaceful in death, even as the heavens roared.