The Psychopath King and the spirit's curse



In the ancient kingdom of Odanre, where the rivers ran deep and the forests whispered secrets, there ruled a king whose heart was darker than the night. King Obanla was his name, a tyrant who found joy only in the sight of blood. His thirst for violence was insatiable—he did not conquer for power or glory but for the sheer pleasure of slaughter. His laughter echoed over crimson-stained fields, and his throne was said to be carved from the bones of his enemies.

Obanla was a true psychopath, a king who bathed in the fear of his people and found beauty only in destruction. Even his own subjects were not safe, for he believed their suffering was proof of his strength. Anyone who displeased him met a gruesome end, and the rivers that ran through Odanre were said to carry the blood of innocents.


Tired of the oppression, the villagers turned to the ancient ways, summoning the spirit of the forest, Aje, a powerful being of enchantment and vengeance. The elders, with trembling hands, offered sacrifices and whispered incantations beneath the sacred Iroko tree, calling upon the spirit to deliver them from the king’s madness.

Aje heard their cries. She took the form of a woman so beautiful that the sun envied her glow and the moon bowed in reverence. Her skin was the deep shade of midnight, her eyes glimmering like stars, and her laughter as soft as the rustling of leaves. She presented herself at the king’s palace, claiming to be a gift from the gods, a concubine worthy of his dark majesty.

Obanla, bewitched by her beauty, welcomed her without question. He named her Morounke, meaning “I have found what I desire.” Her presence consumed him, her touch was fire, and her gaze, a trap he could not escape. She danced for him at dusk and whispered secrets into his ear at dawn. But with her came strange dreams—visions of shadows, rivers of blood, and the taste of iron on his tongue.

Soon, Morounke bore him a child, but it was no ordinary child. It was an abomination, a being of shadow and mist, with eyes like burning coals and a hunger that could never be satisfied. The child wailed, not for milk, but for blood. And Obanla, blinded by his obsession, offered the only thing he had—the blood from his own veins.

Night after night, he fed the child, slicing his skin to let the dark creature drink. At first, it was drops. Then, it was streams. The king grew pale, his once-mighty body weakening, but he did not stop. The child’s hunger only deepened, its cries haunting the halls of the palace. Yet Obanla, lost in his madness, found pleasure in the pain, delighting in the bond they shared through blood.

But the king’s body could not bear the price. His strength faded, his mind crumbled, and soon, he became nothing but a husk. Still, the child wailed, hungry, demanding more. Desperate, Obanla tore at his own flesh, sucking from his own wounds, trying to satisfy the hunger that now consumed him.

Morounke, standing in the shadows, revealed her true form. Her beauty faded into a figure of smoke and fire, her eyes glowing with vengeance. She spoke, her voice echoing like thunder.

“You craved blood, and now it craves you. You have become your own feast, a victim of your endless hunger. And when nothing remains, only your cursed soul will linger.”

The next morning, the palace was silent. The guards found the king lifeless upon his throne, his body pale and drained, nothing but skin stretched over bone. The child had vanished, and Morounke was nowhere to be seen. Only a faint trail of crimson led back into the forest, beneath the ancient Iroko tree.

From that day, Odanre knew peace, but the tale of the Psychopath King and the spirit’s curse was passed from tongue to tongue. They say that if you walk by the forest at dusk, you can still hear the whispers of the king, begging for one last taste of blood.

 

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