The Lost king

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I. BATTLEFIELD – AKINMULE'S POV: DEFENSE OF THE FALLEN

The clash was thunder without end.

Screams. Steel. Smoke. Blood.

Akinmule's muscles burned, but his heart beat steady. Every slash of his blade, every block, every roar—wasn't just survival.

It was atonement.

> "Let me shield her. Let me fight for the village I once helped destroy."

He stood at the eastern gate of Irebi, body turned sideways like a wall of iron, intercepting every soldier that tried to reach Moremi.

Two came from the left—he swung hard, slicing through armor.

Another jumped from the rooftops—he spun and met him mid-air, blade crashing through rib.

His shoulder ached from an arrow earlier. His leg dragged from a glancing spear.

Still he stood.

A rebel behind him fell. Another rose. Akinmule turned, shielding the boy from a fatal strike.

> "Hold the line!" he roared. "Fight like your homes depend on it—because they do!"

Moremi was near. He saw her break through the eastern smoke, heading toward the stream where Adedayo waited.

He didn't follow.

He fought harder.

> "Let her finish this. I'll be the wall. I'll be the sword. I'll be the price I should have paid years ago."

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II. STREAMSIDE – MOREMI'S POV: THE FINAL DUEL

Water lapped gently at the stones. Blood painted it dark.

Moremi stood across from Adedayo.

The man who killed Wale. The man who wore honor like a cloak to mask a blade.

His stance was calm—too calm.

> "You came," he said.

She raised her sword in silence.

> "You look like him, you know. Same eyes. Same belief that justice matters."

> "I don't fight for belief," she replied. "I fight for what you stole."

He smiled, spinning his blade once.

Then came the clash.

Blades screamed.

He struck high—she ducked. She slashed low—he leapt.

Each movement was precision. Trained. Controlled.

But she didn't fight with training.

She fought with purpose.

Flash of steel. Sparks flew.

He slammed her back with a brutal kick. She rolled, coughed, blood on her lips. Her arm throbbed from a glancing cut.

> "You're not him," Adedayo said coldly. "You never were."

> "No," she whispered. "But I am his justice."

She surged forward.

A flurry of strikes—left, right, backspin. He blocked two. The third grazed his cheek.

His smile faltered.

He lunged. She countered. He spun.

She pivoted under his arm, stepped in close—and slammed the hilt of her blade into his temple.

He staggered.

She didn't hesitate.

She drove her blade into his side.

He dropped to his knees.

Breathing hard. Eyes dim.

> "This wasn't… how it ends," he muttered.

> "For you, it ends with truth," she whispered.

She stepped back, breathing ragged, tears burning behind her eyes—but she didn't let them fall.

He collapsed.

The stream carried his blood away.

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III. THE WALL BREAKS – AKINMULE'S LAST STAND

He had killed nine.

Maybe ten.

He didn't count.

All he knew was that his vision blurred and his chest heaved. His left arm hung limp. His right hand still gripped the blade, though he could no longer lift it fully.

An Ojora soldier shouted and charged.

Akinmule didn't flinch. He caught the sword in his ribs, grabbed the man's neck, and snapped it with a twist.

He dropped to one knee.

> "Moremi…" he murmured. "I hope you made it."

Footsteps.

She ran toward him. Her armor bloody, eyes wide.

He smiled faintly.

> "You won," he whispered.

> "Don't speak. We'll get help."

> "No."

She knelt beside him. He touched her cheek with his bloodied fingers.

> "I used to believe in nothing. Power. War. Orders."

> "But Wale… he saw something in me. He believed."

She gripped his hand.

> "He believed right."

Akinmule gave a small breath of laughter.

> "Tell him, in whatever world he's in… I stood. I bled. I changed."

His eyes closed.

His chest stilled.

Moremi sat beside him, blade resting in her lap. Her tears came silently. Not from sorrow alone—but from honor.

He had been a monster once.

But he died a warrior.

A protector.

A friend.

And she wept

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Closing Image:

Rebels gathered the fallen.

They laid Akinmule beside a shrine

Moremi stood over them, wind in her hair, face to the sky.

Not in rage.

Not in vengeance.

But in peace.

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