As the mist in the realm of the dead began to settle, one final presence approached Zion.
His footsteps struck like drumbeats on ancient stone. His eyes held no fear—only resolve. His back was straight as a spear, his chest bare beneath a battered officer's coat, riddled with bullet holes that never slowed him in life.
François Capois, the man they called Kapwa lanmò, the one who shouted orders through cannon fire, who rode through musket volleys without flinching, stood before Zion in silence.
He was the final ghost.
The others had given strategies.
He came to give fire.
"You speak of war," Capois said, his voice low, vibrating through the marrow of the spirit world. "But do you speak of fearlessness? Of running toward death when others run away from it?"
Zion nodded with reverence. "That is why I came here. To learn from those who were not gods, yet still conquered."
Capois stepped closer. His face bore the weight of centuries, but his spirit burned undimmed.
"Then learn this: the gods respect courage. The Hive fears madness. Show them a people willing to die laughing, and you break their mind before you break their bone."
He paused and lifted his sword—not glowing, not blessed, not divine. Just steel, worn and real.
"You must teach them to roar back at the darkness. No more prayers. No more pleas. Make your soldiers shout when they bleed. Make them charge when their leaders fall. If the Hive feeds on fear, give it none."
Zion looked into the eyes of the one who had charged French cannons on horseback with his hat raised high, even after his horse was shot from under him.
Capois had not lived to become a god.
He had lived so no other man would need one.
"You don't win by being divine," Capois said, backing away into the mist. "You win by making your enemy doubt their divinity."
Then his voice echoed one last time:
"If death comes, let it find you standing."
Zion bowed deeply as the mists closed around the revolutionary's silhouette