Mbakwe searched the bag hanging on his shoulder—which was made from a goat hide—and pulled out his waterskin. He uncorked it with his mouth and tilted his head to gulp the content. His hoarse throat burned with taste as not a single liquid dropped from the waterskin. This was the third time he had done that, and each attempt smolders his esophagus. His salivary gland was in draught as well, every bid to swallow was like with forcing a heavy stone through the eye of a metal ring.

It’s been two days since his companions abandoned him. Two days, alone in this forest, in a quest that would change not only his life but the fate of the world. He could imagine the crown resting on his head, gold rings around his five fingers. With the Ofor in his right hand, he would be immortal. Beautiful maidens would be at his side and great chiefs as his subject

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