The frantic race through Warri's dark alleys ended not in a temporary hideout, but with Tony pushing his boys directly towards Mama Ngozi's compound. There was no time to spare, no breath to waste in a disused workshop; the injured Eiye boy's life was draining away with each shallow gasp, blood pulsing from a deep gash on his thigh. "Faster!" Tony hissed, his own lungs burning, the metallic scent of violence clinging to them like a shroud. Emeka and Jide gritted their teeth, supporting the groaning boy, while Kunle, usually buried in his phone, sprinted ahead, a silent scout. Every distant siren, every faint shout, was a cruel reminder of the chaos they'd left behind in Agbassa, a chaos born from Kene's reckless charge. The memory of the fallen police officers and the dead Eiye boy from the ambush seared into Tony's mind, a fresh wound. This is what happens when you don't think, he thought, his jaw clenched, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
They reached Mama Ngozi's compound, a humble place hidden behind high mud walls, far from the main roads. The old woman, with her kind but piercing eyes, met them at the gate, her silence more comforting than any question. "Bring am in, my pikin," she murmured, her hands already reaching for the boy as they laid him on a mat in a small, clean room that smelled of woodsmoke and medicinal herbs. As she worked, applying poultices with practiced ease, Tony felt his hidden phone vibrate. A text. An unknown number. His thumb skimmed the screen. "Oraka Lane now belongs to the Scorpions. The Prince sends his regards. Your brother Chike is gone. And your Eiye are next." The words hit Tony with a chilling fury that blurred his vision for a second. Kelvin wasn't just talking about a cult brother; he was talking about Chike, Kelvin's own blood, his younger brother, the very boy killed near the shop. This wasn't just a threat; it was a personal declaration of war, a twist of the knife designed to provoke exactly the kind of irrational, vengeful rush Tony knew Kene would unleash. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. No time for anger now. He needed to think, to plan, to respond with the cold precision Kene lacked. The streets had claimed another life tonight, and now, the battle lines were drawn even deeper, tinged with a dangerous, personal vendetta.
The sky was just beginning to lighten when Tony slipped away from Mama Ngozi's, leaving the injured boy in her care. He didn't use the main road; instead, he melted into the pre-dawn shadows, navigating the labyrinthine back alleys until he reached his family compound. It was a fortress, surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire, and guarded by two rotating security personnel. His family was wealthy, and their home was a symbol of their success, yet Tony knew its every vulnerability. He didn't use the front gate but slipped through an overgrown section of the perimeter fence, a weak spot he'd mapped out years ago. He navigated the shadowy corners of the sprawling compound, avoiding the discreet motion-sensor lights and the one CCTV camera that covered the service entrance. With a key he'd duplicated years ago, he unlocked a small side door to the staff quarters and slipped inside, unseen. He shed his blood-stained clothes in the laundry room, scrubbing away the grime and the lingering scent of smoke, then took a scalding shower, letting the water wash away the day's horrors. He emerged, impeccable in his crisp Royal Academy uniform, ready to play the part of a promising scholar.
At breakfast, his father, Papa Ejike, grumbled over the newspaper headlines screaming, "Cult Clash Rocks Warri," and "Police Fatalities Spark Outcry." Papa Ejike thumped the paper, entirely oblivious to his own son's nocturnal activities. "Disgraceful," he sighed, shaking his head. "Warri is becoming a jungle." Tony simply nodded, his face impassive, his mind already miles away. The city woke to a chilling silence. Police raids intensified, checkpoints sprung up like mushrooms after rain, and roads thinned, cars driving cautiously. This was exactly what Kelvin wanted: a suffocating police presence to force all cult groups to lay low. Far from the immediate chaos, in a more discreet hideout on Warri's outskirts, Kelvin watched the news reports of the Agbassa clash on a flickering TV, standing over Chike's lifeless body. His face was etched with a profound, chilling rage. "Victory?" Kelvin had growled to Ovie, his second-in-command. "They killed my blood. My small brother. This isn't victory. This is a declaration of total war." Yet, he wasn't about to lead another immediate, emotional charge. "Let the police do our work," he'd told Ovie. "They're looking for direct fights. Eiye will try to escape the raids, trying to regroup. Kene, the hothead, will only make more mistakes." Kelvin spread a detailed map of Warri. "We'll hit them, Ovie. But not now. Not like they expect. We'll focus on their logistics. Their supply lines. Their drug routes. Their small revenue streams. We'll cut them off, one by one, silently." He traced lines across the map. "Then, in a few months, when they're starving and scattered, that's when we'll strike. We'll wipe them out. And Warri will know the Red Scorpions are the new kings." Kelvin understood true power: control over money, information, and fear. Chike's death had deepened his resolve, but it wouldn't blind him to the long game.
Meanwhile, Kene, unable to mount a quick counter-attack, simmered in frustration in a hidden safe house, his forces scattered. He vented to Godwin, furious at the ambush and the loss of Oraka Lane. "They killed Chike! We must respond!" he raged, blind to the trap being set.
Across town, The Black Axe Confraternity, led by the sharp Dogo, remained silent, watching like patient vultures, sensing the Eiye's disarray. Their agents were everywhere, noting weaknesses, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The Amazonian Sisters, led by Queen Amara from her secret hair salon, ramped up intelligence gathering; hospital contacts reported a surge in "accidental" injuries, confirming the continued, quiet violence. Market whispers hinted at new faces, new drug peddlers, and a growing Scorpion presence in previously neutral territories. Amara knew this was a prime time for their own strategic moves.
Royal Academy, with its high walls and manicured lawns, felt like a bubble of privilege, a world apart from the bloodshed. Yet, even here, Warri's hidden power struggles were reflected. The upcoming Principal's Cup football match against Government College, Warri (GCW) wasn't just a game. GCW, the "tough school," often had students with direct ties to street life; their star striker, Blaze, was rumored to be a high-ranking Red Scorpion within their school. This match was a symbolic battleground. Inside Royal Academy, students divided into cliques: "Bookworms" ruled the library, "Sports Jocks" the field, and the "Agbada Boys" (sons of politicians) held sway in the senior common room. The Yahoo Yahoo boys "Cyber Criminals" he sways over the cafeteria. These were the school's "territories," defended by social exclusion and subtle threats. More unsettling were the school-based cults emerging: the ambitious Black Eagles recruiting JSS3 and SSS1 students with promises of protection, and the older, established Omega Brotherhood, drawing from wealthy families for connections. These groups didn't carry cutlasses, but their power, wielded through intimidation and privileged access, was real. Tony observed them all, a silent anthropologist, understanding their structures, their vulnerabilities.
Tony's school days were a careful performance. In SSS2, the pressure of WAEC and JAMB exams loomed large. Teachers like Mr. Okoro (Economics), Mrs. Adeyemi (Literature), and Mr. Obi (Physics) lectured, unaware of the real-world applications Tony found for their lessons: supply and demand in the black market, the power plays in Shakespeare mirroring cult dynamics, vectors of force for a swift strike. His grades remained effortlessly high, a source of quiet pride for his parents who envisioned a conventional future for him. The prefects, SSS3 students with badges, patrolled with exaggerated authority, but Tony, by choice, had never sought such a position; it would expose him too much. He preferred the shadows, observing their routines and weaknesses. During breaks, he maintained his detached persona, eating quickly, avoiding deep conversation. He watched Emeka and Jide, their school personas perfect, careful not to acknowledge their shared secret. Kunle, hunched over his laptop, was a silent sentinel, already digging into the digital underworld for Kelvin's footprints.
After school, the mask truly began to slip. He'd wave off Mr. Idowu, his driver, with easy lies about "extra lessons." Instead of getting in the car, he'd often double back, slipping through the school's less-used side gate and melting into the bustling streets of Warri. His home's elaborate security system, designed to keep dangers out, unknowingly facilitated his quiet exits and entries. He knew the shifts of the gate guards, the blind spots of the cameras, the creak of the old service gate. He moved like a ghost, in and out, between two starkly different worlds. One afternoon, he saw his younger brother David, playing football with innocent joy. Tony felt a familiar pang of protectiveness; he always kept his distance from his siblings at school, a wall built to shield them from the darkness that defined his other life.
Over the next few weeks, Kunle's intelligence proved invaluable. Kelvin wasn't making dramatic moves. Instead, he was quietly strengthening his hold. Reports filtered in of Red Scorpions establishing new "taxation" points, slowly choking off Eiye's revenue. Kelvin was also forming alliances with smaller gangs, luring them with protection and a share of the burgeoning drug trade that the Lagos 'Oga' was keen to expand through Oraka Lane.
"Boss," Kunle reported one evening via an encrypted message, "Kelvin dey play long game. Him dey cut off supply, him dey make small groups join him. And this 'Oga for Lagos'... Plenty product dey flow through Kelvin." The Black Eagles, from a nearby school, were now openly aligning with the Red Scorpions, sensing the shift in power. The Omega Brotherhood at Royal Academy, however, remained neutral, too comfortable in their privilege to risk a full-blown street war. Tony knew he would soon have to confront Kene, who was still fuming over the ambush and the loss of Oraka Lane. Kene's frustration made him unpredictable, but Tony knew a rash counter-attack would only play into Kelvin's hands. The streets had raised Tony, teaching him patience, ruthlessness, and the absolute necessity of striking only when the moment was perfect. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that the perfect moment was still a few months away, in the quiet, deadly lull before Kelvin's next calculated strike. Warri was holding its breath, an uneasy silence before the storm. And Tony Black, the good student, the hidden warlord, stood at its eye.