He pulled one down, lips moving as he read the titles: The Sun God Ra, Zeus and His Thunderbolts, The Folklores of Old Japan. His eyes narrowed.
"I wonder..." He cleared his throat and shouted, "JOY! Come out!"
He grit his teeth "Get out here now!"
Silence. Only the flutter of a page turning somewhere in the distance.
Levy stomped his foot, annoyed. "Tch. He answers Braxill but ignores me? Some god you are." He folded his arms and sulked, muttering about "unfair gods" under his breath.
Meanwhile, Braxill had stopped before a cracked, heavy spine that nearly seemed to whisper to him.
Skin Daddy: The Monster.
The title made his skin prickle. He slowly slid it from the shelf, skimmed a few grotesque sketches inside, faces twisted, limbs sewn, skin stretched like leather.
His eyes lit green as he stored the images into his memory.
He turned away, walking past another sign carved into the shelf.
AFRO HISTORY.
Curiosity pulled him in. He flipped through volumes filled with faded sketches of warriors, inventors, poets, people who looked like him. His fingers stopped on a book thicker than the rest. The spine read:
The Ninja Way.
His heart pounded. His hand trembled as he pulled it free.
He whispered, "Ninja..." as though the word itself carried weight.
The first page lit up in his eyes, words bold and inked deep:
The Afro Ninjas — Tyrants of Sound.
During the Rise of the Artist, before humanity ascended to the Skylands, the Afro Ninjas were among the deadliest Sound-Class artists. Governments and corporations alike funded their art to spread violence, fear, and war. Their sound bent air into blades, shattered walls with bass, and drowned cities in rhythm meant for killing.
The next page split the tribe into factions:
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Ninjas vs. Rockers.
One tribe, two identities. The Ninjas wielded silence and stealth, turning beats into weapons. Their glock nines could shoot out soundwaves like bullets. The Rockers fought with noise, chaos, and fury, their guitars could slice through tanks. But history showed only one victor. The Afro Ninjas dominated, not in strength but culture, their shadows crawling across continents, their legacy painted in blood and basslines.
Across several pages, in jagged handwriting, were words repeated over and over in bold:
"Cursed people. Cursed people. Sons of the vibe. Sons of anarchy. Hip-Hop."
Braxill's brow furrowed as his eyes skimmed the hateful words. His chest tightened, unsure how to make sense of it all.
He turned another page.
And there, written larger than any of the others, was a name.
The Activists: Kengerriagama.
Braxill's eyes went wide. He mouthed the name.
"Kengerriagama..."
His hands shook. He repeated it again.
"Kengerriagama... Kengerriagama..."
Each time he said it, his voice cracked more, his eyes swelling with tears.
Until it wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a scream of anger.
"KENGERRIAGAMA!!"
KENGERRIAGAMA BRAXILL'S MOTHER
The entire library quaked. Dust fell from the arches. The shelves rattled, books tumbling as if the building itself trembled in fear. Even Levy, far away, stumbled and grabbed a shelf.
Braxill's breathing quickened. His voice deepened. "I am Ninja... I am Ninja... I AM NINJA!"
Green Abi light surged through him. His afro unraveled, stretching downward, twisting into long black braids that swung across his shoulders. His body blurred, phasing in and out of view. In one blink, he was gone, disappeared completely.
"I am ninja."
"BRAXILL!" Levy's voice echoed as he rushed in, sprinting toward the shaking shelves. He spotted Braxill flickering into sight again, trembling with power, hands clutched around The Ninja Way.
Levy grabbed his shoulder. "BRAXILL!"
The shaking stopped. The light faded.
Braxill blinked, confused, dazed. His braids hung heavy against his head.
Levy's mouth dropped. "What happened to your hair?!"
Braxill turned to him, still catching his breath. Then he gave a small, awkward grin. "Don't worry about it... I'm good, homie."
Levy tilted his head, baffled. "homie?"