Stone cracked under invisible pressure. The drums lining the temple walls moaned as if in mourning. Ayanwale stood, his body trembling from the visions, his fingers twitching as though they still struck air.
The figure before him was not flesh.
It was legacy gone rotten.
Oluwafemi's spirit had merged with the corrupted memory of the Fifth Rhythm—becoming a shadow born from lies kept too long.
His voice echoed not from mouth, but from the very walls.
"You opened the door that should have remained shut."
Ayanwale steadied the Royalty Drum. Its five marks glowed faintly in the dark—especially the spiral of the Fifth.
"I didn't come to steal," he said. "I came to clean the wound you left."
The shadow chuckled—a sound like thunder in a grave.
"You think you can cleanse me with memory? I am memory. I am every half-truth that built your family name."
And then—he struck a drum.
No one saw it, but everyone felt it.
The sound of erasure.
Amoke screamed as her voice vanished from her throat.
Ayanwale staggered as memories fled his mind—names, faces, even the village's shape blurred in his head.
"You cannot win," Oluwafemi's shade snarled. "You carry my blood. My beat. My ambition."
"Then let me carry your correction too," Ayanwale replied.
And he struck the Fifth Rhythm.
This time not to reveal, but to confront.
The air around him rippled—visions collided. The chamber filled with shifting memories: Oluwafemi teaching his first apprentice. Oluwafemi refusing to share the Royalty Drum. Oluwafemi meeting a spirit at the river who offered him the Ajalu's secret… in exchange for loyalty.
"You were not corrupted," Ayanwale said aloud. "You chose corruption. Out of fear."
The shadow howled—and tried to smother him in forgotten time.
But Ayanwale played louder.
His body shook. Blood ran from his ears. But he struck again—and a memory shattered.
The spirit screamed.
The chamber cracked open above them—moonlight pouring in.
Amoke, her voice barely returned, whispered:
"He's losing hold…"
Ayanwale closed his eyes.
And played one final note.
Silence.
Not the Fourth Rhythm's silence of stillness… but a new kind. A spiritual silence.
The kind that comes before birth.
Or after death.
The Sixth Rhythm awakened—not through the drum, but through him.
His heartbeat stilled.
For a moment, the chamber faded.
He stood in a place of white mist.
Voices surrounded him—not shouting, not crying.
Just… being.
And from them, he heard:
"You are no longer just a drummer. You are the rhythm itself."
When he opened his eyes, Oluwafemi's spirit was gone.
No ashes. No scream.
Just peace.
And the Royalty Drum glowed softly, a sixth mark appearing:
A silent hand over a burning heart.
Amoke knelt beside him.
"What did you do?"
Ayanwale didn't answer right away.
Then:
"I forgave him."
Outside the temple, dawn had begun to rise.
But far away, in the forest Baba Oro now wandered, his bloody drum cracked as the Sixth Rhythm rippled across the spirit world.
He paused mid-step.
Looked behind him.
"So… the boy has remembered too much."
He smiled.
"Then let's see how well he forgets."