It lasted only a moment, and the world snapped back to normal. Mugambi didn't notice; he was still examining the horn—until the impossible happened before him.
At first, there was nothing.
Then the air tore.
Not like breaking glass. Not like fabric either. It was worse—like reality itself had been forgotten, and something unseen had come back to correct the mistake with violence.
A thin, blue, shimmering line appeared in the air—perfectly vertical, stretching from top to bottom. A clean incision through space.
For a split second, Mugambi's mind did something strange.
It refused to give it meaning.
No category. No comparison. No word.
Just… blankness.
Then the line widened.
And the world reacted as if it was in pain.
The space around it tightened, strained—like something enormous pressing against the inside of existence. Fine cracks spread outward in all directions, spiderwebbing through the air for several meters, not on surfaces, but through space itself.
Dust lifted without wind. Tiny stones jittered in place, then scattered erratically as if gravity had briefly lost confidence.
Light broke wrong.
It bent and twisted along the tear's edges, folding into itself like heat rising off fire—but colder, sharper, unnatural, as if physics had been misaligned.
Mugambi's breathing stopped completely.
Not on purpose.
It simply… failed to continue.
The horn slipped into the edge of his awareness. His hand tightened around it, but he didn't remember deciding to do so.
The tear widened again.
And something stepped out.
He towered—nearly twice Mugambi's height—emerging as if the world itself was reluctantly allowing him to exist. A massive, glinting broadsword hung in his hand like it weighed nothing at all.
A cloth was wrapped around his waist, layered and secured with thick leather straps. It moved like it was alive, reacting to motion that wasn't there.
His dark upper body was bare, carved with markings that didn't behave like tattoos. They seemed to shift, subtly, as if responding to breath or thought.
His hair was tied back tightly. Around his neck hung a necklace of animal teeth that clicked softly as he moved—each sound too real, too normal, in contrast to everything else.
Leather bands wrapped his feet and ankles, giving him silent grip on ground that should have been irrelevant to him.
And on his forearms—metal.
Dark, etched, faintly glowing with symbols that didn't sit still in the eye. Not decoration. Not armor.
More like something that had decided his body was a place it belonged.
Behind him—
The crack snapped shut.
Not closed.
Erased.
A sharp electric sound tore through the air, like reality being stitched back together too fast.
The distortion vanished instantly.
The wind remembered how to behave.
Dust fell.
Cornstalks straightened as if nothing had ever been wrong with the world.
something in Mugambi had stopped functioning properly.
His thoughts were no longer thoughts.
They were fragments trying to assemble themselves and failing.
He blinked once.
Then again.
The figure was still there.
Meaning it had been real.
Meaning it had happened.
Meaning the world had just done something it was not supposed to be able to do.
A cold pressure built in his chest—not fear yet. Something worse than fear.
Disbelief that had nowhere to go.
Because fear still required understanding.
And he didn't have that yet.
Only absence.
A gap in everything he thought was possible.
Then—
Their eyes met.
A chill moved through Mugambi—not sharp, not sudden, but deep, like something in him had been quietly marked.
The figure didn't break eye contact immediately. He looked at Mugambi the way one looks at something that should not be here, but undeniably is.
Then he spoke.
Not loudly.
But clearly enough that the air seemed to tighten around the words.
"Who are you?"
A pause—he glanced around, slowly, deliberately, as if confirming the shape of reality itself.
"And where… is this place?"
The question wasn't curiosity.
It was assessment.
Like Mugambi was part of a system that had just returned an impossible result.
Mugambi staggered upwards.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out at first.
His throat felt too narrow, like his body had forgotten how speech worked.
He swallowed.
"I—" His voice came out thinner than he expected. He cleared his throat, forcing it to behave. "My name is Mugambi."
A pause.
Even saying his own name felt strangely distant, like it belonged to someone else standing slightly behind him.
He hesitated before continuing.
"This is… Ntumburi village."
He almost added more—country, planet, Earth—but something stopped him.
Not fear exactly.
Instinct.
As if naming too much would make it worse.
The stranger didn't react immediately.
That was worse.
He simply watched.
Then, quietly:
"I did not ask what it is called by those who live here."
A beat.
"I asked where it is."
"I… it… I—"
Mugambi stopped. His tongue felt heavier than it should.
"And why do you have that?" the stranger asked, extending a hand, palm up.
"This? I… um… picked it up."
Mugambi handed over the horn, his mind still trying—and failing—to connect the dots. He watched as the man examined it with careful attention, after somehow stowing that massive sword away. God knew where. At this point, Mugambi wouldn't have been surprised if he pulled a horse out of thin air.
When the man finally looked up again, his gaze sharpened.
"Have you met the owner of this?"
"No." Mugambi shook his head.
A swirling blue sphere appeared beside the man, expanding instantly into a full portal.
Mugambi's body reacted before his mind did—shoulders tightening, breath catching—but the stranger remained completely unfazed, already lost in thought.
He turned just in time to see someone step through.
The newcomer was lean, not very tall—the complete opposite of the first man. Like him, he wore a cloth wrapped around his waist, secured with a narrow belt holding small pouches and carved tokens that looked more like tools of knowledge than weapons. His forearms were wrapped in tight bands of cloth and leather. His chest was bare, marked with intricate patterns, and a clock rested across his shoulders like a mantle.
He scanned the area.
His gaze locked onto Mugambi.
And his expression stiffened instantly.
He pointed at Mugambi, turning toward the taller man as if to speak—but no words came out. The other simply sighed and looked away, as though this reaction was expected.
Silence stretched.
Then the newcomer faced Mugambi fully.
"I'm Kamaura. Did you meet him?" he asked, eyes fixed on the horn.
"No. I don't even know who you're talking about," Mugambi said quickly.
"Then how did you get this?" Kamaura asked, taking the horn.
"I just picked it up over there," Mugambi said, pointing.
"Mmh," Kamaura muttered, studying it.
"This belongs to our clan's chief. And it appears he has chosen a successor."
His eyes flicked to Mugambi.
Mugambi swallowed.