Chapter 8: Dust on the Wind

The bridge stretched on, rough stone scraping under Kente's boots, its ancient cracks wide enough to catch a toe if he wasn't careful. Bright clouds hung low, their glare steady, softening the edges of a sky that didn't shift—always day, always sharp, the rift's hum a quiet pulse in his bones. His ribs ached still, a dull throb from WanLanden's hit, but he kept moving, slow and steady, the tag in his pocket warm—Zuri's tag, humming soft, a soul tether from Old Brass's dust to this endless run. The bead on his forehead pulsed faint, a quiet beat he didn't chase—not yet, not here.

Tamara stumbled close, bread gone, crumbs dusting his tunic as he panted. "How—how long's this thing?" His voice wobbled, tortoise shell flickering faint, legs dragging like they'd give any second.

"Million kilometers," Chioma said, her growl low, claws flexing slow as she paced beside 'em. "Keep up—ain't carryin' you." Her dark eyes flicked ahead, catching shadows in the haze—racers spread thin, their steps echoing off stone.

Prophet Mirror moved ahead, cloak brushing the ground, his illusions drifting slow—tiny birds circling, fading into the clouds. "Second point's near," he said, voice flat, calm cutting the air like a blade. "Jolo's pushing it."

Kente's breath steadied, tag humming under his fingers—Zuri's soul, a flicker of red eyes and pale hands tying him to a past WanLanden's fire burned away. The bridge rumbled faint, stone shifting under Jolo's blur—Wota Watini speedster, Rock Lee-fast, his grin tight as he hit the second collapse point. A crack split slow, sixty seconds ticking, and Kente glanced back—Mount Brass brutes lumbering, Ananci's lone Porcupine rolling steady, Wota Watini's pack scattering.

"Move!" Chioma barked, claws out, shoving Tamara as the bridge groaned louder. Stone dropped at the back—slow, heavy—a slab crumbling into clouds, taking six more with it. Mount Brass bulk screamed, juju blasts fading as they fell, teleported out—four down there, two Wota Watini stragglers too slow, gone in a blink. Twenty-four to eighteen now, the rift's hum swallowing their echoes.

Tamara's shell popped, catching his stumble, his yelp sharp. "They—they just dropped! Like flies!"

"Gotta be fast," Prophet said, birds scouting ahead slow, spotting Jolo's blur fading far off. "Or smart."

Kente's tag pulsed, steady—Zuri's hum—and he caught a glint ahead—silver rectangular pupils, white hair swaying calm. Kael, Goat Eye clan—not Old Brass, sharper than Sophia—stepped slow, his prey juju humming soft, wide vision catching every move. A Mount Brass brute charged—juju blast cracking stone—and Kael sidestepped, smooth as water, reflexes snapping quick, silver eyes glinting cool. The brute overreached, tumbling off the edge slow, a shout fading to silence—seventeen left.

Chioma growled, steady beside Kente. "That one's trouble—sees too much." Her claws flexed, tracking Kael's calm stride.

A roll hit—Ruk, Ananci's Porcupine—Inca Prey: Body Spikes—curling tight, spikes out, tumbling fast past 'em like a lone gust. He grazed a Wota Watini racer slow, spikes brushing stone—a yelp, a stumble, and the guy tipped off, gone to the stands—sixteen now. Ruk unrolled, pacing steady, his lone wolf hum fading ahead.

Kente's breath hitched, tag warm—Zuri's soul flickering, a boy's grin in the orphanage dark, gold robes looming as TheSun cut souls for his twisted idol. He shook it off, ribs throbbing, and glanced at Tamara—lagging, panting—"Stay close," Kente said, voice low, steady, pulling him along.

The bridge rumbled again—third point near—and a shadow loomed—Mount Brass's Dren, Reality Puncher, high-IQ brute, fingers flexing slow. He tapped an Ananci racer mid-step—light, calm—and stone cracked loud, the guy's arm snapping slow, a scream as he fell, bones hit by somethin' massive—fifteen left. Dren's smirk flickered, sharp, his eyes glinting menace, not loud, just cold.

Chioma's claws slashed air, slow and steady. "That one's mine—gonna claw that trick out." Prophet's birds circled, fading soft—fourteen ahead, Old Brass's four holding—Tamara lagging, shell weak, but close.

Kente's tag hummed, steady—a screen flashed far off in the stands, silver eyes catching light—Zaria, Old Brass girl, watching quiet, a nod he felt more than saw. His chest loosened, just a breath, and the bridge stretched on—rough stone, bright clouds, collapse ticking slow.