In Elegosi, stories were currency. They built reputations, toppled regimes, and started wars. But few knew that the truest stories—those capable of changing the marrow of a nation—were not written in ink, but in blood.
The announcement came quietly. A cryptic flyer, distributed only at dawn, folded into the pages of daily bread loaves and left tucked into taxi seats. It read:
"The Lost Scroll of Ọmụma has surfaced. It knows who betrayed the river, and who drank when the people thirsted. Join us at the Chamber of Echoes."
No signature. No location.
Yet by nightfall, thousands gathered at the old publishing house in Ije Circle. Odogwu, flanked by Zuru and Ngozi, stepped into the crowd. They weren't leading—only watching.
Inside, under dim lanterns, sat an old woman dressed in pages.
Not clothes made from cloth, but from literal paper—pages of banned books, burned manifestos, torn love letters, forgotten poems.
"I am Ndidiamaka, the Scribe of Silence," she said.
And then she unfurled the scroll.
It was not long.
Only five lines.
But it bled. The ink shimmered, not black, but deep red. And every word pulsed like a wound.
"We swore the truth would be spoken with ink. But the ink dried. And so we bled. This is the new covenant: All stories must cost the teller something."
Zuru asked, "Is it real?"
Ndidiamaka nodded. "The scroll writes itself, only in the presence of sacrifice."
The crowd was stunned.
One man stepped forward, a journalist who once doctored evidence to save a politician. He knelt and placed his press badge on the scroll.
Immediately, words appeared.
His name.
The date of the betrayal.
And the name of the innocent woman whose life had unraveled as a result.
The man wept.
The scroll hummed.
Thus began the era of Blood-Tested Truths.
Not literal blood.
But soul.
For each person who wished to tell a story, a piece of them had to be offered.
A song from childhood.
A memory too painful to speak.
A secret.
Only then would the scroll accept their words.
In one week, stories poured in:
A nurse who buried children during the plague and carved their names into her skin.A poet who had ghostwritten speeches for tyrants.A child who'd been born mute, but when he placed his drawing on the scroll, it spoke aloud: "This is how my father looked before he disappeared."
The Chamber of Echoes grew into a movement.
It was no longer about Odogwu or Oru.
It was about a people finding voice, even if that voice cracked.
Then came the counterattack.
A powerful media mogul released a rival scroll—The White Ledger.
Unlike the Scroll of Ọmụma, it required no sacrifice.
Just applause.
It accepted flattery, propaganda, and beautiful lies.
It spread like wildfire.
Soon, citizens had to choose:
Write your truth and bleed.
Or write your fiction and be praised.
Odogwu stood before a crowd at the heart of Elegosi.
"I know it's easier to be celebrated for lies than crucified for truth," he said. "But we are not here to win popularity. We are here to heal. And healing demands pain."
Zuru added, "A story that costs nothing is worth nothing."
Aisha whispered, "If you do not bleed for your name, who will?"
Then, the miracle.
A child, born in Oru's school of memory, barely six, approached the scroll with a doll.
She placed it down and said, "She holds the story."
The scroll lit up.
And began to write in fire:
"In the year of the silent rain, a woman saved twenty children and vanished into the smoke. Her name was Nwamma. She is remembered."
The girl smiled.
"That was my grandmother. They said she was mad."
Now the city knew she was a legend.
From that day, the Scroll of Ọmụma moved. It was no longer stationary.
It appeared at bus stops.
In maternity wards.
At prisons.
In refugee camps.
Wherever truth needed a doorway.
And always, the price was the same: give a piece of yourself.
It became known as "The Blood in the Ink."
Odogwu visited it one night alone.
He placed a feather from the iroko grove.
And the scroll wrote:
"This one remembered the forgotten. And so shall he never be erased."
He bowed.
Not in pride.
But in reverence.
And when he left, the wind carried a new song:
"We do not fear the pen. We have made it holy."