Chapter 49: The World Philip Didn't Know
The bus slowed to a halt just after crossing the Onitsha Bridge, groaning to a stop beneath the weight of the afternoon heat and tension. A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a firm voice ordering everyone out.
"Everybody down. ID checks. Bags open."
The soldiers stationed at the checkpoint weren't like the usual checkpoint officers Philip remembered from his childhood. These ones wore black combat armor with angular pauldrons and helmets that shimmered faintly, as if layered with enchantments. They didn't bother yelling or barking threats—the aura they carried was enough. You felt their authority, like gravity pressing on your chest.
As Philip stepped off the bus with the others, the pungent mix of diesel fumes, sweat, and metal filled his nostrils. Each passenger walked past a line of soldiers holding strange weapons—half rifle, half staff. Some of the soldiers had glowing tattoos beneath their rolled-up sleeves. Their eyes weren't human anymore.
As they passed, one of them gestured toward Philip. "You. Step aside."
The others hesitated and glanced at him warily. Philip did as instructed, staying calm.
A plainclothes officer with a flat cap approached and began asking questions: name, destination, reason for travel, occupation. Routine things. But the way he asked them... deliberate, like he was reading more than words. The man's eyes flickered, faint mana readings pulsing from them. A truth-seeing ability, perhaps.
Philip kept his breathing steady and his thoughts neutral. After about five minutes, the man nodded. "Alright. You're clear."
Philip rejoined the line, his mind already turning. He had passed this road a hundred times. It had never been like this.
Back on the bus, he turned to the older man beside him. "Why all this?" he asked quietly. "It's never been this serious before."
The man chuckled, dry and bitter. "You've been living under a rock, haven't you?"
Philip blinked. "I... you could say that."
The man gave him a sideways glance, then leaned back into his seat. "For the past two years, everything's changed. Not just here—everywhere. Africa's under intense scrutiny. Whole regions shifted overnight. Some countries didn't just fall—they were handed over."
"Handed over?" Philip asked.
"Not through war. Not with bombs or tanks. Through power. Supernatural power." The man lowered his voice. "Through old pacts and treaties... ones signed in blood and magic centuries ago. Ones that most governments pretend never existed."
Philip leaned in, curious.
"European forces didn't need to invade. They invoked those ancient laws. Political pressure backed by beings that walk between worlds. When the heads of state realized they couldn't resist—not without losing their entire populations—they surrendered. Quietly. Legally. And no one even blinked."
The words hit Philip like cold water. "But… that didn't happen everywhere."
The man gave a knowing nod. "Some African nations refused. They couldn't be touched. You know why?"
Philip shook his head.
"Because they're protected. Guarded by mythical-level spiritual masters—people that should have died centuries ago. People whose names are carved into oral histories, but never spoken aloud. Some even say there are ancient ones… that still exist, living in forests, mountains, deserts."
Philip felt goose bumps crawl along his skin.
"These old beings don't interfere in politics. They see it as beneath them. But if you cross into their sacred lands without invitation…" He trailed off, tapping the wooden seat. "You disappear. Forever."
Philip was silent, absorbing it all.
"But do you know why the European powers still act like they own the world?" the man asked.
Philip hesitated. "Why?"
"Because the demigod who ruled the supernatural world before all this... he was European. He created the Arcane Concord, a set of laws so binding, they're enforced even now—centuries later. Laws that forbid supernatural interference in human politics unless invited. Laws that keep the world 'stable.'"
Philip clenched his fists. "So that's why Africa was vulnerable. Our hands were tied."
"Exactly," the man said. "The last African demigod—he ascended. He left this world behind, and since then? Not a single African has risen to replace him. Not publicly, anyway."
Philip felt his heartbeat deepen. Something stirred within him. A pressure. A purpose.
The man's voice dropped to a whisper. "But not everyone bowed. Some places—small countries, old tribal regions—still honor the old ways. Dream Walkers, Seers, Elemental Tribes. They've survived in secret, training their successors, preserving ancient knowledge. And they made a deal with the modern world."
Philip turned to him fully now. "What deal?"
"That any president or ruler who governs them must be initiated. They must undergo rites, receive sacred knowledge, and swear oaths to the ancestral guardians. Only then are they allowed to rule. And only so long as they never cross those ancient lines."
Philip sat back, chills rippling across his spine.
This wasn't just about borders or politics anymore.