There was an era of misery, an era of blood, and an era of disaster.
The hope and love of humanity were nothing more than a faint glimmer in the maze, ready to fade for eternity. In the deepest abyss of annihilation, all seemed lost…
Yet, it was in the depths of darkness that the spark of change burst forth. A man was chosen by the essence of all things, bending the world to his will. He was the primordial Boechin, Atemit Sembe.
Atemit Sembe restored order and harmony to the world, creating a perfect utopia for the living. This lasted a century, a century of unprecedented peace, and the Boechin ruled from his homeland, Senegal.
After those 100 years, Atemit ascended to another plane of existence, transcending physical and spiritual limits. He divided the essence of the sembou into 11 parts, distributing them to those he trusted most, the Boechins. Through this act, he allowed the sembou to shine in the hearts of men, the first elects, who would soon become the diambars, soldiers of the Boechins to protect the established order.
However, in the balance of all things… order cannot exist without chaos. The 12th essence, which Atemit Sembe had hidden, found a host—a crowned king without a kingdom or reign, a monarch whose subjects were desolation: the King of Chaos. To conquer a lifeless world, he raised an army of the worst monstrosities humanity had ever known: the djinns. Millions of djinns flooded the world, led by 12 generals, the great djinns.
In the face of this army that defied the very definition of horror, a glimmer of hope rose from the east—the heir of hope, the one who carried Atemit Sembe's will. Followed by the Boechins, who bore the first colors of dawn, he stood ready to battle the long night that loomed over the world. Was it at the end of this long battle that the king was defeated?
Fields of ruins and desolation marked the world's regions after this confrontation, and the forces of evil made their home there. Only Senegal was somewhat spared, thanks to Gouy-gui, the sacred tree planted by Atemit Sembe. Its shield repelled evil, but its roots were already in the country, growing, slowly eroding the light. Ultimately, Gouy-gui managed to halt this progression, but the damage was done. The roots bore fruit, and these fruits were reborn as the 12 great djinns, striving to overcome the sacred tree's power to herald their sovereign's return.
"It is said that when chaos covers the last roots of Gouy-gui, and its branches fall like a burning shower, the king will rise again, and his cry will unleash the final night."
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…What a strange fucking legend…
Sprawled on the tiled floor at the shop's entrance, Jojo rested from his long run, enjoying the shade of the tarp above and the cool tiles beneath. In this small space, he could clearly see the sky, dotted with nearly indistinguishable clouds.
What a joke… a vast, stupid fucking joke, and this is the world I live in…
This legend was all he had. It was the only thing that could justify the existence of djinns, of the Boechins of the sembou. It was the only thing that could explain their condition, the near-constant sense of danger they lived with. It was… the only thing that justified his parents' death… and the only thing that justified his survival…
Jojo chuckled softly and rolled over on the tiles. He didn't know why he was smiling, but it felt like his only response to the uncomfortable weight gripping his stomach. The young boy clung to it, breathing slowly, deeply, contorting his body against the cold surface. From his new, tilted perspective, his cheek resting on his arm, he gazed again at his surroundings.
He remembered an old friend once told him something intriguing: that legends are just embellished truths. After all, the best lies are those woven with a thread of truth.
Deep down, Jojo had diligently followed this philosophy to hide his powers for nearly three years.
Since waking up in Keur Massar hospital the morning after that nightmarish evening in Yeumbeul, he had carried a certainty within him: that he was a choosen one, possessing a power that utterly overwhelmed him.
A power he feared more than anything.
He had done everything to conceal it, even to forget what he was. Strangely, his rune had vanished since that moment, as if… it had all been a dream. He had managed to convince himself it was.
No one had ever suspected anything—not Inès, not Ma, not Daniel. Occasionally, he felt that energy coursing through his body or reacting faintly when his emotions got the better of him—that was why he avoided conflicts as much as possible.
Thanks to all this, he had completely forgotten he was an unregistered choosen one.
But today, reality had come crashing back.
He hadn't just nearly fought Pape Moussa. No.
He had nearly killed him.
And the worst part? He would have done it without hesitation.
He might have even taken pleasure in it, who knows?
Jojo sighed, his head still upside down. The world seeme
d to spin slowly, a slight distortion in his vision that alienated and isolated him. With his inverted perception, the bustle of the street, the sounds of honks and engines mixed with the clatter of hooves from the few carts blending into the cacophony of the road, everything felt slightly out of order, yet it didn't ease the growing unease since his awakening.
The unease of not wanting himself… and of not being wanted…