Lwazi Dlamini never imagined twenty-two would be the age he'd leave this world behind. But maybe no one really did. He wasn't remarkable in any way that the world acknowledged. No medals, no headlines, no stories written in his name. Just a quiet presence, always alert, eyes that rarely stopped moving, trained by the streets to anticipate danger before it announced itself. He didn't live by strength or hope. He survived by timing, instinct, and a refusal to let anyone in too close.
That afternoon, the township was alive with contradictions. The rich scent of fried vetkoek danced on the breeze, colliding with the acrid tang of car exhaust. Across the street, barefoot kids shrieked and laughed, brandishing sticks like swords, their joy echoing off walls stained with faded graffiti and dreams that had long since dried up.
Lwazi leaned against the battered wall of a tuck shop, the sun scorching the corrugated roof above, hoodie drawn low despite the heat. Sweat gathered at his brow, but he didn't shift. His gaze drifted along the road, never resting for long. He wasn't waiting for anyone specific. Just watching. Always watching. You learned that where he grew up (township), never stop scanning, never stop listening. Even silence could be a warning.
His chest rose and fell with a weary exhale. It wasn't just this day pressing down on him. It was the accumulation of years. Every phone buzz that made his pulse spike. Every night spent staring at the ceiling, a blade beneath his pillow. Every look from strangers that seemed to carry silent expectations of his failure.
He hadn't picked this path. It had picked him, the way lightning picked trees, sudden, merciless, final. He'd done what he thought he had to. Kept his mouth shut when it counted, used his fists when there was no other choice. But the streets didn't trade in fairness. The streets only acknowledged power. And power was never gifted. It was taken, carved out with blood and resolve.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out slowly. The screen was cracked like a spider's web, distorting the light. Three missed calls from Musa. One message stared back at him:
"Job's back on. Same time. Don't be late."
Lwazi stared at the words, unmoving. He could say no. He should say no. But the truth was, the option to walk away had vanished a long time ago. Not after what he'd done. Not after what he knew. The gang didn't give second chances. Not to people who had already seen too much.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, jaw clenched tight. Musa used to be more than just a name in a contact list. They were boys once,trading lunches in school, skipping out on exams, brawling shoulder to shoulder when the odds stacked against them. But something had cracked in Musa, and Lwazi had watched it widen into a chasm. Greed filled his friend's eyes now, cold and unrecognizable. Whatever loyalty once lived there had been buried under threats wrapped in familiar language.
Still, Lwazi wasn't pretending he was clean. His hands were red with memories he didn't dare revisit. He'd fought. He'd stolen. He'd hurt people. Sometimes because he had no choice. Sometimes because he couldn't seem to stop himself. But lately, something inside him had been stirring. A quiet unrest. A whisper. As if something else, something beyond this tired, violent routine, was waiting to be discovered.
He tilted his head toward the vast sky, blue and pitiless. There wasn't a single cloud in sight. Just an empty dome stretching over an even emptier future.
"What the hell am I doing?" he murmured under his breath, voice hollow.
He used to dream once. Long ago. Back before hope felt like a betrayal. Back when his grandfather's stories, of fierce warriors, ancient spirits, and kings who commanded the sky, made his heart pound with wonder. It all used to feel like magic. Now, it just felt far away. Like the faint scent of fire long after it had died.
The scream of tires tore the calm apart. Lwazi's head snapped toward the sound. A black car crept around the corner, tinted windows hiding its intentions. His breath caught.
He moved, hand reaching for the blade tucked in his waistband.
Too slow.
The car doors flew open. Shadows spilled out. Familiar faces distorted by purpose. Musa among them.
Lwazi stepped back, arms raised, but no one hesitated. The gunshot cracked the air.
Pain hit him like a hammer, straight to the chest. Then another. His knees gave out, and the pavement surged up to meet him. His breath caught. The world spun. The sun dimmed at the edges.
He tasted iron.
He didn't think of revenge. Or rage. His final thought was simpler, quieter.
Regret.
He had never been allowed the chance to be someone different.
Then, everything vanished.
No warmth. No cold. Just a boundless, weightless silence. Pain dissolved into a void so deep it felt like even the concept of time had dissolved. Lwazi floated, his thoughts flickering like dying candles. He saw flashes of who he'd been. His mother humming. The sting of alcohol down his throat. The sharp rhythm of fists connecting. The fragile warmth of dreams he had long stopped chasing.
Then came the pulse.
At first, it was distant. Like drums on the edge of memory. A rhythm that didn't belong in silence. Then came the voice. Calm, mechanical, yet echoing with something older than metal.
System initializing…
The jolt hit him like a thunderclap. He gasped, not with lungs, but with something deeper. His senses flared. Vision returned in fragments. Colors twisted. His body felt wrong, unfamiliar, like it had been disassembled and remade with fire and instinct.
Welcome, Host. You have been selected by the Tribal Conquest System. Synchronization in progress. Adapting host consciousness to compatible vessel.
"No… wait…" he tried to speak, but the words scattered like dust.
The voice didn't pause. It surged forward, relentless and inescapable, like fate itself.
Scanning historical coordinates… Match found. Southern Africa. Early 19th century. Soul imprint partially retained. Vessel assigned.
Suddenly, heat struck his skin. The stench of fire, blood, and sweat wrapped around him.
Synchronization at 92 percent. New identity confirmed. Name: Ndabuko. Age: 19. Clan Affiliation: Unknown. Status: Unarmed. Combat Skill: Minimal. Leadership Trait: Dormant.
Reality slammed into place.
Air rushed into his lungs, but it wasn't the smog of the township. It was thick, alive with ash and something wild. His body lay against coarse soil. His chest rose and fell, steady and strong. His fingers curled into dirt, not tar. He blinked hard, the sun above blazing with untamed fury.
Smoke coiled into the air around him. The charred remains of huts filled the space with a choking scent. Warriors ran past, shouting in a language his soul recognized but his mind couldn't yet name. Spears caught the sunlight. Hide shields collided. Screams cut through the chaos like knives.
He sat up slowly. Muscles ached in strange places. His body felt altered, dense with strength he hadn't earned. His hands, darker, calloused, scarred from a life he had never lived. He touched his chest. It was solid, hardened from years of labor. This was not his body. But somehow, it was.
"Where… where am I?" His voice came out broken, unfamiliar to his ears.
A warrior collapsed nearby, blood pooling beneath him. The scent was sharp, real. Lwazi flinched, backing away in a panic. His heart thundered in a new rhythm.
He turned.
Charging toward him was a warrior, spear poised to strike. His eyes burned with rage.
Lwazi's body reacted before thought could catch up. He rolled, the spear missing his throat by inches. His hand scrambled in the dirt and closed around a jagged stone.
He didn't hesitate.
The stone connected with the man's skull, and the sound it made was sickening. The warrior crumpled.
Lwazi froze, chest heaving, the stone now slick with blood. He had killed. Again. But this time, it was not in the streets of home. This was another world. Another life.
Combat Initiated. Host Vital Signs Stable. First Kill Confirmed. Skill Gained: Basic Survival Instinct. Adaptive Reflexes Activated.
The message didn't appear on a screen. It simply existed, imprinted on his awareness.
"What… what is this?" he said, stumbling to his feet.
Tribal Conquest System Active. Welcome, Ndabuko. You are a candidate for leadership ascension. Complete mission objectives to rise in status and strength. Failure to adapt will result in termination.
He shook his head, chest tight. "This is insane. I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming!"
But his senses betrayed him. Every detail was too vivid. The heat. The scent of iron. The blood drying on his arm. This was no illusion. This was real.
A boy darted past him, no older than thirteen, his face streaked with soot and terror. A second warrior gave chase. Lwazi's eyes darted to the fallen spear.
He grabbed it.
It felt… right. Balanced. Familiar, as if it had waited for him.
He ran forward. No plan, only instinct.
The spear struck. The man groaned and dropped, motionless.
The boy stared for a heartbeat, then fled.
Lwazi stood over the body, breath ragged.
Skill Unlocked: Spear Proficiency Level 1. Combat Focus Activated. Minor Vital Boost Applied.
He didn't know what it meant. But he felt the shift. This wasn't just survival. This was transformation.
The attackers were retreating. The battle was ending. Smoke lingered, and screams still haunted the air, but the worst had passed.
He collapsed to his knees, the spear still clutched in his hand. Thunder cracked in the sky. Storm clouds churned like ancient spirits.
He didn't weep. He didn't shout.
He simply stared into the coming storm.
Ndabuko.
That was his name now.
Born again. Not in peace. But in fire and conquest.
And this time, he wouldn't just survive.
He would rise. Because now, the system demanded it.