Chapter 17: A Whisper from the Museum
After two quiet days in the Enugu hotel, Philip finally accepted the truth.
No one was coming.
No agents. No soldiers. No shadowy men in suits. Just silence. He had expected to flee or fight, to be hunted for what he'd seen and what he'd become. But the world remained still, untouched. It was almost disappointing.
So, he packed his bags and left.
Back in Lagos, he returned home a different man. His steps were more grounded, his eyes sharper, calmer. He moved with the quiet poise of someone who had crossed into something beyond understanding. Not because of the money in his account, the custom suit hugging his frame, or the sleek new car in his driveway—but because something inside him had changed.
There was no fear now. Only focus.
His parents hardly recognized him, but welcomed him with open arms. He told them nothing of pyramids or temples, of crystal crowns or creatures with hollow eyes. He simply handed his mother a set of car keys and told his father the house was getting a long-overdue upgrade.
And it did.
He oversaw everything: new paint, furniture, security systems, solar panels, and even a home office. It was the kind of gift only a grateful son could give.
With his newfound wealth, Philip founded an IT startup—sleek, ambitious, and mysterious. He brought in his older brother, an experienced engineer, and quietly stepped into the background as a silent investor. No press interviews. No photos. Just quiet, consistent growth.
But business wasn't his focus. Power was.
He was growing stronger by the day—and he could feel it. The gem embedded in his forehead pulsed with energy. His senses shifted. The world looked different.
He began to notice things he had always missed.
Supernatural beings, cloaked in human disguises, walking freely through Lagos. Buildings that looked abandoned or unremarkable would, under certain lights or moments, reveal themselves as something else entirely. The uncompleted house he had played in as a child? Now it was a grand mansion, humming with invisible wards. The closed-down hotel on the expressway? It was open again—larger than before. When he asked his brother about it, he was met with a blank stare.
"You sure you're not drinking?"
Philip started pretending he didn't see what he saw. But the facade of normalcy cracked soon enough.
One night, after a late business meeting in Ikoyi, he was driving home when he spotted a woman standing by the side of the road, looking lost. At first, he considered ignoring her—it was late, and Lagos at night was unpredictable. But something about her posture, the desperation, made him stop.
"Where are you headed?" he asked as he rolled down the window.
"Maryland," she said softly.
It was on his route back to Ikorodu, so he unlocked the door.
As they drove, he asked what she was doing out so late. She said she'd worked a late shift.
But ten minutes later, Philip's eyes began to feel heavy. His mind fogged. He wasn't tired before. It was unnatural.
He almost crashed.
Slowing down, he was about to speak when the gem on his forehead pulsed—and he saw her for what she truly was.
She wasn't sitting. She was floating.
Her voice, when she spoke again, grated like nails on glass. "Why are you slowing down?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't reveal what he'd seen. Calmly, he pulled over and said, "I'm not feeling too well. I think I'll have to drop you off here."
She frowned.
And lunged.
Her fingers reached for his throat, but his reflexes flared. With a burst of telekinesis, he deflected her hand—only for a single claw to graze his neck. It drew blood.
She sniffed her fingers, licked the drop.
Her eyes widened. Frenzied.
Philip scrambled out of the car. She tackled him to the ground, hissing, her jaws opening wider than humanly possible. His telekinesis wasn't strong enough to lift her fully. Desperate, he conjured fire.
She shrieked and jumped back.
He focused the flame into a ball—missed the first throw, but the second struck her arm.
Her body ignited instantly, burning like dry paper. She screamed, shriveled, and vanished into smoke.
By then, the fire had begun to draw attention. Philip jumped into his car and drove away, heart pounding.
The world was not what it seemed.
That night, the dreams came.
A man stood atop a battlefield—regal, radiant, and impossibly powerful. He faced monsters that tore through dimensions. Banished gods with whispers. His crown shimmered with starlight, and his gaze held centuries of war and wisdom.
Philip woke drenched in sweat. But the dream stayed with him.
Every movement. Every technique. Every stance.
And when he mimicked them in secret, his body obeyed. He didn't just remember them—his muscles had memorized them. His fire grew hotter. His telekinesis, sharper. He could now shift objects up to a kilogram without lifting a finger—just with will alone.
No chants. No spells. Just intent.
Since his car window had shattered in the attack, he borrowed his father's vehicle. Driving past the scene of the fight, there was no evidence anything had happened. No glass. No scorch marks. No signs.
It was like the night had erased itself.
But one day, as he drove past the National Museum in Lagos, something stirred.
A whisper.
A pull.
Soft at first, like a voice just out of reach. It lingered in the air like static. The feeling returned the next day, stronger. By the third day, he felt it clearly—a presence, calling his name.
For weeks, he ignored it. But the call only grew louder.
Until finally, one afternoon, he gave in.
He parked the car outside the museum and stared at the gates. There was no logical reason to go in.
But this wasn't logic.
Something was waiting inside.