Maymum's Fist

Carlon – Arena of Ferez, God-Feast Day, Year 8002 A.A.

The moment before the fall stretched thin as a blade's breath.

Above the crimson-stained sand, Prince Erezhan's spear hovered—its rune-carved shaft humming with power, the rotational force of his Orbit Arcem pulling light itself into subtle spirals. Dust hung midair, each grain caught in unseen currents, and for an instant the entire world felt poised between heartbeat and silence.

Tens of thousands watched, breath stolen. High in the stone colosseum, silk-robed nobles leaned forward behind their jeweled masks. Merchants in shaded terraces clutched bronze goblets, wine forgotten, wagers balanced on a single breath. At the base, the commoners pressed so close their sweat ran together, their prayers caught somewhere between hope and dread.

Obsidian monoliths floated around the arena, orbiting silently, their carved ouroboros sigils glowing blood-red. Mana pooled in trenches cut like sacred scars, swirling with green light that shimmered with every pulse of the prince's Arcem. Even the floating crystal slabs trembled as the air thickened with power.

In that cage of spiraling force, Trevor Maymum stood. His amber aura flickered, bent by invisible tides. Blood curled from his nose in delicate ribbons, drawn upward by the vortex that twisted around him. Gözkarin, the false staff, quivered in his grip, its amber illusion cracking as if under strain.

Then—

With the softest of sounds—shfffff—two Elemi clones stepped into being at his sides. One formed of dry desert mist, edges wavering in the swirling air; the other from sun-baked clay and grit, its surface cracking under pressure. They moved together, staves lifting, bracing against the descending spear.

The impact was thunder and shatter.

The mist clone dissolved instantly, leaving nothing but steam and memory. The earth clone withstood a single heartbeat, its clay face turned in stubborn defiance—then splintered into dust and crumbled into the waiting sand.

Trevor remained, his chest heaving, legs trembling from the residual spin gnawing at his bones.

Above, in the royal balcony, the Trisoc's breath rumbled through jeweled tusks. He leaned forward, gold chains draping from his ceremonial armor, eyes narrowed.

Beside him, Toran sat unmoved, violet gaze fixed on the arena. His fur shimmered under the morning sun, yet he sat as if carved from dusk itself. Ekene Çelik, silent at his right, watched with the stillness of coiled steel.

"Clones…" Erezhan's voice broke the silence, thick with scorn. He stepped closer, bare hooves grinding black sand into powder, tusks gleaming. "Elemi. Mist. Earth. Ozone. Frail. Tricks taught to acolytes, not Hazël."

Trevor's chest heaved, the rise and fall ragged, but the smirk tugged stubbornly at bloodied lips. His cracked glasses reflected the swirling air, each shard catching glimmers of the obsidian monoliths. "True," he rasped, voice thin. "Flexible… but frail. And Orbit…" He paused to swallow the taste of copper. "…Orbit is not brute force. It's elegance. Predictable… if you see it."

Erezhan's tusks glinted. "You speak as if you understand." He shifted the spear. "Then die knowing why words fail where power speaks."

Trevor coughed, flecks of red dotting the sand. "I know," he whispered, raising Gözkarin again. "And I'm dying… every minute your Arcem keeps spinning inside me."

Then Erezhan's voice fell like a hammer:

"20% Output: Cataclysmic Rotation."

The world convulsed.

Mana ignited in a spiral of light that outshone the dawn. The spear blurred beyond sight, a wheel of white-gold force. The trenches of swirling green mana flared to blinding gold. The obsidian monoliths cracked under the pressure, shards spinning outward like splintered night. A sonic boom shattered upward into the sky, birds fleeing in wild circles above Tashlan.

Trevor's Elemi clones, already weakened, were vaporized in an instant, their dissolution trailing ephemeral smoke.

The blast caught Trevor like a tidal wave. His body folded, twisted, and smashed backward, trailing red across the air. He hit the arena's obsidian edge with a force that cratered stone, blood spraying the glyph-carved walls.

Yet the protective barrier held.

The shockwave had angled away, drawn by Trevor's deliberate shift of stance—turning the worst of it onto himself rather than the peasant stands. Even half-conscious, his mind refused the innocent be harmed.

High above, Toran did not blink, but his claws curled against emerald cloth.

Ekene, reading the patterns of force, whispered across the private telepathic bond:

"He won't last much longer like this my King. Orbit is breaking him from inside. You need to stop him."

Toran's reply was ice over steel:

"But he's still standing."

____________________________________

Erezhan stalked through drifting dust, spear lowered to Trevor's chin. The prince's red-gold tusks caught dawn's fire, eyes smoldering with contempt.

"You feel empty," Erezhan rasped, breath steady. "No Mana signature. No force behind your name. You are a fraud. Use your Arya of Derision—or die forgotten."

The spear thrust.

Trevor vanished

—SHFFFFF—

He reappeared three paces to the right. He staggered, robes torn, chest heaving. His cracked glasses trembled, and the spiraled headband shimmered faintly.

The commoners gasped, hope flickering.

The Trisoc half-rose from his throne, wine sloshing from his goblet. The mana runes on the arena walls pulsed with alarm.

Erezhan's brow furrowed. "What trick?"

Trevor raised a shaking hand, palm outward, staff forgotten.

"Your Arcem," he panted, voice shaking, "is beautiful… but bound by shape. Spirals compress force. They consume everything until they are torn apart. Your mistake? You spin everything… even the sand under our feet."

He dropped Gözkarin. The false staff struck the arena floor.

The vibration rippled outward. A ripple that could be felt throughout Carlon. Dust stirred. The monoliths drifted a fraction from their orbits.

The crowd murmured.

Erezhan's spear trembled. "You… what did you do?"

Trevor exhaled, every syllable agony. "Redirected the rotational echo. Your Arcem is designed by merging the rotational forces with Mana and infusing those forces in what you come into contact with. What I did? Mana filtration. An old Narn technique. Split your spiral's force from my bones, from my own mana and flow—bled it into the earth."

Erezhan's aura flared crimson. "Impossible! Only I command Orbit!"

Trevor's voice cracked. "Then watch."

Lavender mist seeped from Trevor's palms. His spiraled headband glowed amber-white, each mark igniting like a constellation reborn. Mana curled around his broken frame—fragile, determined.

"First Climb…" Trevor whispered, breath ragged, "Maymum's Fist."

The monoliths paused mid-spin, gravity stilling for a single breath.

Then Trevor moved.

The strike itself was almost silent. His form blurred—a single step that crossed the distance, fist closing the gap as inevitability.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

Then the shockwave thundered, catching up.

A lavender burst spiraled skyward, scattering sand in a pattern so perfect it seemed carved by gods. The force rang through obsidian, splitting old cracks deeper. A blast of dust swept the stands. Children flung hands over their faces. Nobles recoiled behind jeweled masks.

At the epicenter stood Trevor, arm extended. His fist trembled, knuckles split and bleeding.

Erezhan had not been struck across the arena. Instead, he stood where he had been—until, slowly, he toppled backward, spear clattering from numb fingers.

His eyes rolled up, hooves twitching once. Silence consumed the colosseum.

Then the prince lay still.

High above, the Trisoc's hand loosened. His goblet fell, wine spilling in a slow arc, staining embroidered silk the color of old blood.

Toran's violet gaze softened, and for the first time that day, his lips curved—not in triumph, but in quiet pride.

Ekene let out a breath so slow it was almost a prayer.

The silence broke under a ragged voice:

"TREVOR MAYMUM… WINS!"

The third-class erupted. Cheers shook the air, raw and unbelieving. Children stood on benches, fists raised. In the merchant terraces, cautious claps grew into real applause. Even among the nobles, some rose, masks turning to face the battered figure who stood, barely breathing.

Trevor's shoulders dropped, ribs bruised, countless bones broken, vision doubled. His cracked glasses hung from one ear, headband scorched at the edge.

He lifted a paw, offering the crowd a small, weary thumbs-up.

"Monkey! Monkey! Monkey!"

The chant spread, louder than prayers, louder than banners snapping in wind. A child tossed a crown of braided petals. It landed in the sand near his feet.

Telepathically, Toran spoke, voice deep and unshaken:

"Well done."

Trevor staggered forward, pain making every breath molten. Then his knees gave out—not from defeat, but from release. The spiral that had coiled through his veins for too long was gone, and with it, the trembling fear of never breaking free.

Two medics hurried across the arena floor, robes catching the rising wind.

Above them all, the monoliths resumed their ancient orbit, indifferent as stars.

And Carlon, city of conquest and sacrifice, roared not for its prince—but for the Monkey Lord who had dared to challenge the spiral.