Beneath The Veil

Wuba City gleamed under the noonday sun, its skyline a silhouette of towering shrines, living glass, and massive bio-trees humming with filtered light.

The world outside the Uk’ari Wards was long forgotten — a wasteland whispered about only in bedtime tales. Here, within the Veil’s embrace, Nigeria thrived, untouched by colonial hands, unbroken by foreign wars. A utopia.

Kunbin knelt in the dim archives of the Agbari'ne Guild, his gloved fingers carefully lifting a brittle ancestral mask from its hovering cradle.

At twenty-three, he was the youngest apprentice in a century — earnest, humble, eager to serve the sacred duty of the Guild: "to preserve the truth of Nigeria’s glory."

Truth. He had believed in it.

"Kunbin," Master-keeper Asuku had said once, voice deep as Uk’ari's roots, "Our history is our soul. Guard it well."

Today, Kunbin was tasked with cataloging ancient donation records — tedious, mind-numbing work.

He was hours deepinto the work until,

He noticed something odd.

The Wuba military was sacred: twelve treasury accounts, twelve great ministries, twelve marble towers piercing the capital sky — each a Pillar of the Veil.

It was a simple, beautiful symmetry, and it was taught from the first year of schooling.

So when Kunbin, in his quiet task of cataloguing old financial records for the Agbari'ne Guild, stumbled across a thirteenth account — unsigned, unlisted, yet very much active — he froze.

Worse: the account wasn’t paying for roads, bridges, or defense projects.

It was paying families.

Quietly and regularly, under cryptic designations like "Honorarium Restoration" and "Family Compensation."

Every decade, large sums were funneled to a select list of families.

Old families, their bloodlines predating even the Great Severance War.

Kunbin frowned. "Why pay compensation and what are they being compensated for?"

Kunbin had always heard the tales. Everyone had. Whispers passed around fire pits, half-joking conversations in shadowed taverns, teachers chuckling over ancient rumors they pretended not to believe.

The stories changed depending on who told them.

Some said the military paid a few families for their unmatched bravery during the Great Rebellion against the British. Others claimed it was gratitude for the vast donations of gold and grain that had funded the Resistance’s survival. A darker version murmured of unspeakable sacrifices made in the old wars, blood oaths too terrible to put in the official records.

Each telling contradicted the last. Each seemed just unbelievable enough to dismiss as folklore.

Until now.

The 13th treasury account was real.

The payments were real.

And the names, neatly listed across generations and they matched the whispered bloodlines Kunbin had heard of but never dared to believe.

The tales weren’t just old stories.

They were camouflage for a truth too dangerous to say aloud

Curiosity, gentle but insistent, stirred in him. He followed the threads.

Past firewalls, past ghost archives layered deep in the Guild’s ancestral servers.

There he found it — a dead file, buried under a false heading: "Second Treatise of the War of Liberation."

Inside: a scroll.

Sealed in bio-ink. Wrapped in a casing of silk that flikered faintly when he touched it. It looked holograhphic, but it was real.

His hands shook as he peeled it open.

As Kunbin unwrapped the silk casing, the air around him seemed to ripple, heavy with something he couldn’t name—anticipation? Fear? The faint flicker of the fabric felt like stare of an unseen watcher, and as the scroll unfurled, it was as though the room itself had fallen away.

The bio-ink on the parchment glowed faintly, and the moment his eyes landed on the words, it happened.

He was there.

Not just reading,but existing within the past.

The scent of iron filled his nostrils, sharp and metallic. He heard the mournful chants of priests echoing in dark chambers, their voices heavy with the solemn gravity of their duty. Blood glistened on ancient altars, the blood pooled in waves, thick, flooding the altars like a crimson tide, and the cries of the innocent pierced through him, searing into his soul. Each face, each moment, seemed etched with unbearable pain.Their spirits cried out in anguish, forced into a fate they could neither escape nor change.

Kunbin felt the gods' hunger—vast, insatiable, and cold. Their hollow eyes loomed in his mind, watching silently as the pact was forged. Thousands fell before them, their spirits torn from their bodies, woven into the fabric of Wuba’s fate. He felt their terror and confusion, a hopeless desperation born from the cruel certainty of their fate, forced to fulfill a purpose that was never their own.

And then he was back.

The room’s dim light flickered, the scroll in his trembling hands, but Kunbin’s entire body was frozen. His breath came in ragged gasps as if he had been running for miles. The sounds, the sights, the emotions—they lingered, carved into his very being like scars.

The truth wasn’t just words on a page. It wasn’t something he could set aside.

It was alive, whispering in his mind.

The gods had not given them free victory against the British invaders.

No — the gods had demanded blood.

Thousands of innocents, sacrificed at hidden altars, their spirits bound together in an unholy covenant that blessed Wuba City with everlasting life.

The payments he had found were hush money — blood-money — tributes to the surviving kin of the sacrificed.

All his life, Kunbin had believed in the vibrant and bright future his ancestors had won.

Now he saw it for what it was: a future built not by gods, not by valor — but by massacre. Genocide, almost.

Kunbin staggered backward, bile rising in his throat.

Master Asuku knew.

The Agbari'ne Guild knew.

They had known for centuries.

And they had guarded not the truth — but a beautiful, shining lie.

For two days, Kunbin wandered Wuba City in a fog.

The floating gardens, the symphonic light-bridges, the watercraft gliding along crystal rivers — they all shimmered in the sun’s embrace, untouched, beautiful.

But now, Kunbin saw the cracks beneath the gold.

He watched the elderly in their ceremonial garbs, bowing before marble statues of long-dead heroes.

He watched laughing children reciting verses about the gods’ "pure blessings."

He watched the soldiers of the Madaaki Guard patrol the marketplaces, faces serene, armor thrumming with the pulse of living metal

Everything thrived but everything was a lie he knew he couldn't stay.

Not after knowing.

Not after feeling the weight of a thousand slaughtered souls pressing against his chest every time he breathed.

He met with Tabe that night — his only true friend, a junior cartographer assigned to mapping the sacred riverways. They met beneath the old Yoro Bridge, where the city’s light grew thin and whispers, born from the flowing stream beneath the bridge, curled through the air.

Kunbin sat across from Tabe beneath the shadow of the Yoro Bridge, the hum of the city far above them a dull, distant murmur. For a long moment, neither spoke, the only sound the soft lapping of black water against the stone.

"I found something," Kunbin began, his voice low, trembling. "In the archives. Something...wrong."

Tabe glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Wrong how?"

Kunbin hesitated, the weight of the scroll he had hidden in his robes pressing against him like a stone. "The history we’ve been told, the glory of the gods, the blessings of Wuba—it’s all a lie, Tabe. The Veil, the prosperity, the life we live...it was bought with blood. Thousands of innocent lives sacrificed to the gods. Their spirits...bound.

It wasn’t the gods’ blessing or divine interference, freely granted by the prayers of our forefathers—it was blood, sacrifices made in their name. It was slaughter."

He paused, searching his friend's face for a spark of understanding. Instead, Tabe let out a slow breath and leaned back against the bridge’s crumbling wall.

"So what?"

Kunbin blinked, stunned. "What do you mean, 'so what'? This...this changes everything! Our lives, our history—it’s built on—"

"On sacrifice," Tabe interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. "On pain. On things people like you and me can’t change. The world is peaceful now, Kunbin. Wuba thrives. Families laugh in the markets, children recite blessings in schools. Do you want to burn it all down because of something that happened centuries ago?"

"But it’s wrong," Kunbin whispered, his voice barely audible. "They should know the truth."

Tabe's eyes softened with pity. He leaned forward, resting a hand briefly on Kunbin’s shoulder. "What good will the truth do? Will it bring those people back? Will it make the city brighter, the food sweeter, the air cleaner? Or will it just...tear everything apart?"

Kunbin looked away, his heart pounding. He had no answer.

Tabe stood, brushing dust from his robes. "Sometimes, it’s better to leave the past buried, my friend. The present is all we have." He hesitated before turning to leave. "Be careful, Kunbin. The truth isn’t just heavy—it’s dangerous."

"Sometimes," Tabe continued, his voice nearly lost to the night wind,

"evil is necessary for the greater good."

They said goodbye without words.

And then Kunbin was alone, the scroll still hidden in his robes, the weight of his discovery pressing down harder than ever.

Kunbin walked alone into the depths of the city, its interwoven bridges and towering crystalline structures shimmering in the fading light, though their beauty felt hollow now. His heart pounded—not with fear alone, but with a gnawing conflict. Tabe’s words echoed in his mind, calm and resolute, yet unbearable to dismiss.

How could Tabe not see it? How could he brush aside this revelation, the unimaginable weight of it? They weren’t just living on the legacy of fallen hereos, they were thriving on the blood of innocents. The prayers they recited with reverence, the gods they bowed to in solemn ceremonies, the righteousness they claimed to uphold—it was all a facade. The gods hadn’t answered their ancestors with blessings or divine mercy; they had answered with demands. Cruel, horrifying demands.

Kunbin clenched his fists as he passed by the marble statues of old heroes standing tall in the city square. People paused to offer prayers, their voices filled with faith and gratitude for a past that was nothing but a beautiful lie. Tabe’s apathy pierced him deeper now, a sharp pain in his chest. How could his friend expect him to move forward, to act as though none of this mattered? How could anyone live their lives believing in gods who had turned their backs on innocence, who had built paradise on a foundation of suffering?

He wished, desperately, that Tabe could feel what he felt, this unbearable need to break free from the lie and seek a truth that wasn’t stained with blood. But Kunbin knew that if Tabe couldn’t understand now, he might never. And that lonely realization was the hardest truth of all. Kunbin had no choice but to carry this burden alone.

He had to leave.

He had heard of the Breach, a secret point along the Uk’ari Wards where no soldiers patrolled, a weakness hidden by the aging of society.

It was days away by foot, through the Underroots and the abandoned river tunnels.

He packed nothing but water, a carving of the god Nzeh he had carried since childhood, and the scroll — wrapped and hidden inside his robes.

The first night, he barely slept.

He dreamed of blood-soaked altars, children screaming, gods with hollow eyes.

He woke with tears drying on his face.

The second night, he saw the Veil Guard.

White armor. Glowing spears. Silent as death.

They hunted him, Tabe must have talked he thought.

Kunbin ran through the silent forestways, feet bleeding, lungs burning.

Behind him, he could hear the low, terrible hum of the Guard’s sentry-drones slicing through the trees.

He ducked into a hollow tree and held his breath as a patrol passed by.

"Traitor to the Peace," one of them muttered.

It took Kunbin three days and three nights to reach the Breach.

The Uk’ari Wards rose before him ancient, vast trees fused together by the gods’ last magic, their roots merging into a living wall that separated Wuba from the wastelands.

At the Breach, the trees bent strangely, warped by the old battles.

The air was cold here.

No birds sang.

No insects stirred.

It was as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Kunbin stumbled through the narrow passage, cutting his palms against tree barks.

For one dizzy moment, he thought he heard voices whispering, 'Child of Wuba, return to Wuba', the dead? The gods?

He didn’t know.

He only knew he was free.

He crossed into the Outer Lands.

And stopped.

And stared.

The Outer Lands stretched before him — endless, cracked earth, gray skies, skeletons of trees petrified into stone.

There was no wind.

No scent.

No movement.

It was a place abandoned not only by men — but by life itself.

The scroll slipped from Kunbin’s numb fingers.

The gods had demanded blood and when it was given, they sealed the rest of the world into death and silence, leaving Wuba as a single, shining island of life in a sea of desolation.

Kunbin fell to his knees.

There was no rebellion to start here.

No future to forge.

Only death.

He pressed his forehead to the cold ground, trembling.

And Tabe’s words rang again in his skull:

"Sometimes evil is necessary for the greater good."

He could never go back.

But there was nothing to go forward to either.

Kunbin, once the Keeper of Truth, sat alone at the edge of the world, a small, broken figure under a dead, silent sky.

Above him, the stars watched, cold and indifferent.

There were no gods here.

There was only the truth.

And the truth was a tomb.