It began with the ink.
Thick as night. Heavy as grief. It bled from the base of the Spiral Tree in slow, deliberate rivulets, pooling into the old sacred basin once used for coronations.
The villagers watched, silent.
Not with reverence.
With dread.
Because the ink was singing.
Low. Broken. Beautiful.
But not a song of joy.
A dirge.
"He comes…" Iyagbẹ́kọ whispered. "Ẹ̀rùmọ́lẹ̀ comes…"
The Ink Becomes Flesh
From the basin, the ink rose.
Not spilled—shaped.
A crown formed first—shards of silence arranged like thorns.
Then shoulders cloaked in rhythmless robes, sewn from the breath of forgotten prophets.
Then a face—not a face.
A mask of absence. Hollow-eyed. Expressionless. Echoing with everything that was once erased.
When he stepped forward, the earth bowed.
Not by choice.
By memory.
The Silence Walks
Ẹ̀rùmọ́lẹ̀ did not speak.
He did not need to.
His presence was a cancellation.
Drummers dropped their instruments.
The wind reversed its song.
The river bent sideways, carving unnatural paths.
"He is rhythm turned against itself," Ọmọlẹ́yìn said.
"The first to use song not to tell truth—but to erase it."
Echo Confronts Him
She stepped forward, trembling but unyielding.
"I called you back.
But you were never meant to rule again."
The Hollow One tilted his crowned head.
A low tone rang out—a pure, ringing no-note, vibrating the marrow of every bone in Obade.
And from the ink at his feet, dancers rose.
Not living.
Not dead.
Figures stitched from forgotten myths. Each wearing faces torn in half.
"These are the Ones-Who-Surrendered," Iyagbẹ́kọ gasped.
"The ones who gave up rhythm to survive his first reign."
The Dancers Move
Their movements were fractured.
Beautiful.
Wrong.
Every step was a denial of harmony. Every gesture a protest against memory.
Ola stepped back, clutching his chest.
"I can't breathe. Their rhythm—it doesn't belong to this world."
Echo closed her eyes and called to the Archive within.
But the Archive did not answer.
It, too, was afraid.
Ọmọlẹ́yìn's Staff Splits
The Keeper raised her staff, slamming it into the earth.
But it cracked clean in two.
"No law of memory holds him," she whispered.
"We must unmake him another way."
"How?" Ola cried. "He doesn't live in time. He lives in forgetting."
Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Then we remember him until he burns."
The Ritual of Remembering
The circle reformed.
No chants. No instruments.
Just voices.
One by one, the people began to speak names—names of the erased.
Grandmothers who bled for truth.
Children stolen mid-song.
Dancers who disappeared before the Archive was born.
Each name was a note.
Each note a spark.
And the Hollow King—shuddered.
A Crack in the Crown
A single fracture ran through his thorned crown.
He stepped back, raising a hand of ink.
But it dripped.
And dripped.
And from his chest, a drumbeat escaped.
Soft.
Unwilling.
True.
The people gasped.
"He was rhythm once," Iyagbẹ́kọ said.
"Before he twisted it."
Echo's Final Act
Echo approached.
Held out her hand.
"You were a boy once. A singer. A brother.
Before fear taught you to silence the world."
She placed her palm on his chest.
And sang.
A lullaby her mother had taught her.
The Hollow King staggered.
His crown cracked again.
The dancers froze.
And the Spiral Tree whispered.
"It has begun…"
Final Lines
Ẹ̀rùmọ́lẹ̀ is not defeated.
But he is remembered.
And memory, once awakened, does not sleep again.
The Hollow King walks.
But now the people walk with rhythm not taught—but chosen.
The final reckoning is near.