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- Herausgeber: Victor Onyebuchi Katchi
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
Darkness lurks. Evil watches. One soul hangs in the balance.
In the bustling streets of Lagos, Darion Okeke stands at the edge of desperation. With his mother's life slipping away and no money for treatment, a shadowy figure offers him everything he needs - at a terrible price. When his path crosses with Mercy Eliora, a nun battling her own demons at an Akwanga orphanage, Darion discovers he's at the center of a cosmic battle. As supernatural forces close in and ancient prophecies unfold, their lives become entangled with Jairus, a fallen preacher seeking redemption. Dark presences stalk their every move, and time is running out. If Darion can't overcome the darkness within and embrace his true destiny, not only will his mother's life be forfeit - his soul will be lost forever.
The Battle for One Soul is a gripping masterpiece in the Christian Spiritual Warfare genre. If you crave supernatural suspense, divine intervention, and redemptive grace, you'll be captivated by this spiritually charged thriller.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The battle for one soul
Table of contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1: The Precipice of Lagos.
Chapter 2: The Orphanage's Quiet Shadow
Chapter 3: The Crimson Mark
Chapter 4: The Weeping Sentinel
Chapter 5: Whispers in the Sealed Room
Chapter 6: Deal of the Decade
Chapter 7: Midnight's Unseen Battle
Chapter 8: The Reclamation
Chapter 9: Chains, Charms, and Choices
Chapter 10: The Altar's Witness
Chapter 11: The Relentless Father
Chapter 12: Sifting Like Wheat
Chapter 13: The Echo of a Prodigal
Chapter 14: The Soul's True Name
Chapter 15: The Unsigned Covenant
Chapter 16: Anointed Scars
Chapter 17: Naming the Ancient Claim
Chapter 18: Beyond the Veil's Edge
Chapter 19: The Brother Beyond the Grave
Chapter 20: The Battle for One Soul
Chapter 21: The Soul Collector
Chapter 22: Fire on the Threshold
Chapter 23: Who Fights for the Fallen?
Chapter 24: The Road Back to the Altar
Chapter 25: The Sound of Chains Breaking
Chapter 26: The Man Who Almost Missed Mercy
Chapter 27: The Harvest and the Thorn
Chapter 28: Fire on the Old Stones
Chapter 29: The Night Jonah Slept
Chapter 30: One Soul, Countless Flames
Epilogue – What Heaven Recorded
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1: The Precipice of Lagos.
Chapter 2: The Orphanage's Quiet Shadow
Chapter 3: The Crimson Mark
Chapter 4: The Weeping Sentinel
Chapter 5: Whispers in the Sealed Room
Chapter 6: Deal of the Decade
Chapter 7: Midnight's Unseen Battle
Chapter 8: The Reclamation
Chapter 9: Chains, Charms, and Choices
Chapter 10: The Altar's Witness
Chapter 11: The Relentless Father
Chapter 12: Sifting Like Wheat
Chapter 13: The Echo of a Prodigal
Chapter 14: The Soul's True Name
Chapter 15: The Unsigned Covenant
Chapter 16: Anointed Scars
Chapter 17: Naming the Ancient Claim
Chapter 18: Beyond the Veil's Edge
Chapter 19: The Brother Beyond the Grave
Chapter 20: The Battle for One Soul
Chapter 21: The Soul Collector
Chapter 22: Fire on the Threshold
Chapter 23: Who Fights for the Fallen?
Chapter 24: The Road Back to the Altar
Chapter 25: The Sound of Chains Breaking
Chapter 26: The Man Who Almost Missed Mercy
Chapter 27: The Harvest and the Thorn
Chapter 28: Fire on the Old Stones
Chapter 29: The Night Jonah Slept
Chapter 30: One Soul, Countless Flames
Epilogue – What Heaven Recorded
Final Reflections
7-Day Devotional Companion
Daily Prayers & Declarations
landmarks
Title page
Table of contents
Book start
By Victor O. Katchi
Copyright Page
The Battle for One Soul © 2025 Victor O. Katchi All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Victor O. Katchi Cover Design: [To be inserted] ISBN: Email: [email protected] Country of Publication: Nigeria
Dedication
To the One who leaves the ninety-nine to chase after one lost soul — Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the broken and the Restorer of the fallen.
And to every man, woman, and child whose heart beats beneath the weight of secret battles. This story is for you.
Acknowledgement
I bow in gratitude to the God who still saves — even when the world has given up. To the Holy Spirit, who breathed every heartbeat into this work, thank You for being the Voice behind every word.
To my dear family — your prayers, your patience, and your belief in this calling have sustained me.
To readers across the globe: thank you for embracing stories that speak of mercy, conviction, and second chances. May this book meet you where you are… and carry you to where grace flows freely.
And finally, to those who fight silent wars — may your scars become your testimonies.
Prologue
The Dream That Wasn’t a Dream
The first time I saw him, I was twelve — barefoot, shivering, and lost in a room that smelled of ashes and incense. He stood at the corner of my dream, half-lit in gold, half-drenched in shadow, staring at me with eyes that pierced deeper than memory.
He said nothing.
Just watched.
But I felt it — something tearing within me. A silent war. Like two hands wrestling over my chest, one gentle and glowing, the other cloaked and cold. I tried to scream, but my mouth filled with dust. Then I woke up — gasping, sweating, alone.
I was told it was just a nightmare.
That was seventeen years ago.
Since then, the dream returned every time I came close to choosing... anything.
College. Women. Money. Church. Crime. Truth.
Every time I stood at a crossroads, he returned — the watcher in my dreams. One time his eyes burned with sorrow. Another time they flashed like fire. But he always stood at the same place: between a door and a pit. And I always woke up before I chose.
I never told anyone. Not my mother. Not my best friend. Not even the priest who once said I had the “mark of mercy” on my life.
Until last night.
Last night, I died.
At least, I think I did.
It wasn’t a dream. There was no waking up. There was no bed. There was only silence.
And then a voice.
Not loud. Not deep. Just clear.
“ One soul. One crown. One cross. But many watchers. Let the trial begin.”
I don’t know what this means yet. But I’m writing it down — everything — before I forget. Because whatever happens next… it’s no longer just about me.
This is a battle for one soul. And somehow, I’ve become the war zone.
Table of Contents
Prologue : The Dream That Wasn’t a Dream
Chapter 1: The Precipice of Lagos.
Chapter 2: The Orphanage's Quiet Shadow
Chapter 3: The Crimson Mark
Chapter 4: The Weeping Sentinel
Chapter 5: Whispers in the Sealed Room
Chapter 6: Deal of the Decade
Chapter 7: Midnight's Unseen Battle
Chapter 8: The Reclamation
Chapter 9: Chains, Charms, and Choices
Chapter 10: The Altar's Witness
Chapter 11: The Relentless Father
Chapter 12: Sifting Like Wheat
Chapter 13: The Echo of a Prodigal
Chapter 14: The Soul's True Name
Chapter 15: The Unsigned Covenant
Chapter 16: Anointed Scars
Chapter 17: Naming the Ancient Claim
Chapter 18: Beyond the Veil's Edge
Chapter 19: The Brother Beyond the Grave
Chapter 20: The Battle for One Soul
Chapter 21: The Soul Collector
Chapter 22: Fire on the Threshold
Chapter 23: Who Fights for the Fallen?
Chapter 24: The Road Back to the Altar
Chapter 25: The Sound of Chains Breaking
Chapter 26: The Man Who Almost Missed Mercy
Chapter 27: The Harvest and the Thorn
Chapter 28: Fire on the Old Stones
Chapter 29: The Night Jonah Slept
Chapter 30: One Soul, Countless Flames
Epilogue: What Heaven Recorded Closing Reflections + Devotional Teasers of Upcoming Works
Introduction
There is a battle few see — yet every soul feels. It is waged not with guns or politics, but with guilt, memories, lust, shame, and the seduction of power. It’s the battle for one soul. Yours. Mine. His. Hers.
This book was not written to entertain. It was written to awaken. It tells the story of a young man pulled between the pull of darkness and the whisper of grace. Between secrets that bind and truth that frees. Between demons that accuse and a God who still calls.
In these pages, fiction meets truth, and imagination becomes a mirror. It is a story of what could happen — and what often does happen — when spiritual warfare is ignored, underestimated, or misunderstood.
If you've ever wrestled in silence... If you've ever felt like your story was beyond redemption... This book is your reminder: One soul is never too small for God to fight for.
Let the battle begin.
Chapter 1: The Precipice of Lagos.
The night Lagos lost power, Darion Okeke lit his last cigarette with a stolen matchstick. It hissed against the damp wind and barely held flame. He sat on the crumbling edge of the flyover bridge, feet dangling over the snarling traffic below, a faint tang of exhaust and simmering desperation in the humid air. One eye on the orange sky and the other on the plastic bag beside him — the one with the gun inside.
Two hours ago, he had been at his mother’s bedside. Just two hours. Barely a blink. But two hours was long enough to sell his soul. She was dying of something the doctors couldn’t name and the hospitals couldn’t treat. All he had was time. And time, they said, was running out. The woman who once sang psalms over his nightmares, her voice a soothing balm against the shadows, was now silent — her breath shallow, her skin papery, her eyes flickering between heaven and goodbye.
Darion hadn’t prayed in years. But tonight, something in him trembled — not with fear, but with fury. A rage without a target, a furious ache that clawed at his throat, blaming everything and nothing all at once. A helpless ache wrapped in guilt. His hands shook, not from the cold, but from the weight of the decision he was about to make.
He didn’t believe in God anymore. Not really. But still, he whispered, the words barely a breath against the wind, “If You’re real… stop me.” He waited. His pulse hammered against his ribs. He held his breath, a desperate, silent plea for a sign, for anything. Nothing. The bridge was quiet, save for the distant honk of danfos and the siren of a rushing ambulance. Funny, he thought, how noise never covers silence. Especially the kind inside.
He reached for the plastic bag. His fingers brushed against the cold, hard outline of the handgun within, a stark promise of the world he was about to embrace. Inside was the handgun he was paid to carry. Not to fire. Just to carry. That was the deal: be visible, be armed, be dangerous-looking. The client would do the talking. Darion would stand beside him like thunder. That’s how the underground world worked. They didn’t pay for bullets. They paid for presence. And the client, a man whose smile never reached his eyes, paid well for it. Tonight, presence paid ₦250,000 — half now, half after. Money that could buy his mother some more time. Or peace. Or painkillers. Or one last chance.
He closed his eyes. That’s when he heard it. A voice. Not in the air. Not in his ears. But within. It was a resonance, a quiet hum that vibrated deep in his bone marrow. “He who walks to the edge without the Shepherd… may find wolves waiting.”
Darion stood abruptly. The cigarette fell. The bag nearly tipped off the bridge. His heart slammed against his ribs. Hallucinations? Or something else? He looked around. No one. Just a child, across the street, barefoot and holding a Bible upside down. She looked at him and smiled. A knowing, unsettling smile that seemed too ancient for her young face. Then she was gone. Not walking, not running. Just... gone, as if swallowed by the shadows between the buildings. He blinked twice. The city had returned. The noise, the chaos, the smell of petrol and promise. But something had shifted. His hands were still dirty. His decision still unmade. His mother still dying. Yet his soul — it had flinched.
Chapter 2: The Orphanage's Quiet Shadow
She arrived in Akwanga three nights before the dust storm, wearing a white blouse two sizes too large and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. They called her Sister Mercy — the girl with the voice like Sunday morning and a shadow no one dared to trace. The children of the orphanage loved her, clustering around her like hummingbirds for a rare nectar, especially after she’d told them stories of the old prophets, her voice soft as velvet. The old deaconesses said she had a gift, a gentle touch that eased even the most stubborn coughs. Even the market women bowed slightly when she passed, whispering of visions and answered prayers. But no one really knew her. Not the real her.
No one saw how she flinched when the wind howled, a distant memory of a child’s cry seeming to ride on its currents. No one noticed how her hands trembled during worship, her grip on the hymn book tightening as if to keep something tethered inside. No one asked why she never stayed out after dark, the encroaching twilight a tangible threat she couldn't name.
Except one.
The boy with the limp and the cracked voice — Obinna — a child whose own quiet suffering seemed to make him uniquely attuned to others’ pain, had once crept up behind her after devotion and asked: “Aunty Mercy… why do you cry at midnight?” She had stared at him, stunned, lips parted but no words formed. Then she’d smiled. That same unreachable smile. “Because heaven is loudest when the world sleeps,” she’d said. But that wasn’t true. Not entirely.
She cried at midnight because that’s when he came. Not the man. Not the pastor. Not the boy who broke her.Him.The Watcher. The same one who stood over her crib when her mother bled out during childbirth, his presence a cold breath on her infant skin. The same who appeared on her sixteenth birthday, whispering verses in reverse, twisting promises into curses she couldn’t shake. The same one who sat at the edge of her bed the night she almost ended it all — saying nothing… just watching. She didn’t know his name. Only his scent — burnt parchment and rain. He never touched her. Never threatened. But his presence carried weight. Like prophecy unfinished. Like a storm that had forgotten to strike. He was the static before the lightning, the silence before the scream. And he always came when her spirit tried to rise. She’d been prayed for. Fasted over. Drenched in oil. But still, he came. Because some shadows weren’t cast. They were born.
That evening, after feeding the children and mending a torn hymn book, Mercy walked to the chapel alone. She fell to her knees at the altar, whispering the same prayer she had spoken every night for the past seven years: “Lord… if I still belong to You… please send someone. Anyone. Before it’s too late.” A gust of wind slammed the chapel doors shut. Mercy jolted, her heart leaping. Was this the answer? Or a taunt? Then, from behind her, a knock on the side door. A stranger stepped in — tall, tired, smelling faintly of gunpowder and guilt.Darion. He looked at her, as if trying to remember a face from long ago, a shadow of recognition flickering in his haunted eyes. And she — she looked at him… And knew. A knowing settled deep in her bones, ancient and undeniable. The war for her soul was no longer hers alone.
Chapter 3: The Crimson Mark
The small chapel smelled of candlewax and old tears, a scent that both comforted and haunted. Darion stood at the threshold, unsure whether to step forward or retreat into the suffocating night. He hadn’t planned to come here. In fact, he hadn’t planned anything beyond getting paid and disappearing. Yet something had drawn him — a strange pull in his chest, a quiet hum beneath his ribs, as if someone had whispered his name through the wind. He felt a subtle discomfort, a foreign reverence, as his shadow fell across the worn wooden floor.
Inside, Sister Mercy knelt alone. The glow from the altar lantern danced across her back. She didn’t look up at first. She didn’t need to. The moment he crossed the threshold, her spirit screamed — not in fear, but in familiarity. Something ancient stirred in her, a deep, resonant chord struck by his presence, like a forgotten melody finally remembered. A soul she’d once seen before the war began. A man whose eyes mirrored the same weariness that haunted hers.
Darion cleared his throat. She stood slowly, turning. Their eyes met. And in that instant, the room changed. The air thickened, heavy and charged. The silence pulsed, like a drumbeat deep within the earth. The veil between worlds thinned. Without warning, the prayer rug beneath her feet darkened. She looked down. A crimson stain spread from beneath her — warm, fresh, impossible. It blossomed outward, a sickening contrast against the worn fabric. Darion stepped back instinctively, a primal revulsion tightening his gut. “Are you… bleeding?” he asked, his voice rough. Mercy shook her head, trembling, her face pale, eyes wide with a terrifying recognition. “It’s not mine.” They both watched as the stain deepened, forming a shape — not random, but intentional. Letters. Y E S H A Darion’s breath caught. “What is that?” “Hebrew,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It means… salvation.”
Before either could speak again, the lights flickered violently. The lantern exploded, shards scattering across the marble. And then came the sound — not from the speakers, not from the street — but from above. A scream. Not human. Not animal. It was layered. Like ten voices torn through a tunnel, writhing, angry, ancient, a chorus of pure malice that vibrated through the very stone of the chapel. Mercy fell to her knees. Darion froze, fists clenched, a cold dread seizing him. His mind, rational just moments ago, reeled. This was real. Terrifyingly real. And just as quickly, silence returned. Only the whispering of wind through the cracked windows remained, a sound that now seemed to breathe, watching them. “I’ve seen this before,” Mercy said, her voice shaking. “When I was fifteen. The same mark. The same scream. And days later… my father died.”
