The village was no longer the same.
When Ayanwale and Amoke returned at dawn, they were met not with greetings, but drums—loud, angry, and unfamiliar. Men in red wrappers stood at every corner. Women painted in white ash stood in rows, heads bowed, humming in eerie unison.
"What's happening?" Ayanwale whispered.
Rotimi found him near the palm grove, out of breath, wide-eyed. "You shouldn't have left. A man came. He has a drum too—but it's not like yours. It bleeds when he plays it."
Ayanwale froze.
"What do you mean… it bleeds?"
"They call him Baba Oro—Prophet of Ashes. He came two nights ago with his followers. He said the drum you carry is a lie, that the real heir is him."
Amoke clenched her fists. "Oluwafemi's lineage…"
Ayanwale narrowed his eyes. "Then we face him."
They walked into the square.
Baba Oro stood atop the elders' platform. Tall. Bare-chested. His face was covered in charcoal and bone dust. Around his neck hung a drum unlike any other—blackened leather with jagged stitching and streaks of dry blood.
His voice boomed:
"The spirits chose me. I speak with the Ajalu. I bring their power. This boy"—he pointed at Ayanwale—"brings only confusion."
A hush fell over the crowd.
Ayanwale stepped forward.
"I bring the rhythms of my ancestors. Not fear. Not curses."
Baba Oro smiled. "Then let the drums speak."
A circle was drawn.
Two drummers. Two drums.
A duel of rhythms.
Baba Oro began.
His rhythm was violent. Wild. A scream turned to music. The air twisted. People winced, some cried out. A nearby tree cracked down the middle and withered.
Then Ayanwale played.
He started with the First Rhythm—heritage and truth.
Then the Second—uncovering lies and betrayal.
Then he struck the Third—the rhythm of balance, and the drum glowed blue.
Then silence.
The Fourth Rhythm.
The crowd leaned in.
He struck the silent beat—and Baba Oro staggered.
"What is this?" the false prophet snarled. "What power dares silence the Ajalu?"
Ayanwale stepped forward, his eyes glowing faintly.
"You speak for the Ajalu. I speak against them. I carry truth. You carry rot."
But Baba Oro laughed—and cut his own palm.
The blood spilled onto his drum—and it howled.
From the crowd, followers twisted and changed. Three of them collapsed, rising as Corrupted Ones—humans whose souls had been hollowed to house Ajalu.
Panic erupted.
Rotimi pulled Amoke to safety. Ayanwale stood his ground.
He struck the Royalty Drum again—BOOM.
Then silence—SHHHH.
One of the Corrupted froze, then fell—its body turned to ash.
Baba Oro roared.
"You cannot silence the storm!"
But Ayanwale's eyes glowed brighter. His drum burned with four marks.
"I don't need to silence it," he said.
"I'll drown it."
And with that, he called on the Third Rhythm, the one tied to the river.
Water burst from the village well—rising unnaturally high, spiraling around Ayanwale, becoming a wall of sound and flow. It crashed into the Corrupted Ones—sweeping them away in a tidal surge that soaked the entire square.
When the water settled, Baba Oro was gone.
Vanished.
But his bloody drum remained.
Still pulsing.
Still humming.
Later that night, Ayanwale sat beside the Royalty Drum. The village was quiet, shaken but alive.
Amoke joined him.
"You drove him off. But he'll return. That kind of power never retreats for long. And now… the Ajalu are furious."
Ayanwale nodded.
"I could feel it. There's something coming. The Fifth Rhythm... it's not just a song. It's a weapon."
He looked to the stars.
He was closer now. But so were they.