Book 1: Chapter 25 – Emmanuel Vs. Ibrahim

"Students from the slums tend to stick together at the institute," Kwame chuckled upon noticing the young slum-dwellers' surprise and confusion.

"You mean he was from the slums too?" Ibrahim asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

Kwame smiled gently. "He was. But now he's an institute student with a promising future. And if you stick with it tomorrow, you could be too." He turned to the crowd. "Ibrahim of the Uzo Tribe's Slums: Lost in 6 seconds – 1 star."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but Ibrahim barely noticed. His mind raced with the revelation he'd just received. 'If others could do it, there's no reason why I can't either.'

Jabari, watching from the sidelines, shared Ibrahim's surprise. He'd known that a handful of slum-born candidates entered the Beast-Warrior Trials every year, but seeing one in the flesh was different. The boy onstage looked younger than Jabari, yet he'd dismantled Ibrahim effortlessly. After just a year at the institute, the teen was stronger than the enforcer Jabari had fought in the slums – and likely even stronger than the tribe guard who'd tried to kill him. And that was before he'd become a Beast-Warrior.

The next dozen trialists were all slum-born children, and their inexperience showed. Exhausted and injured from the previous day's trials and lacking any real combat training, they fell quickly to their opponents. Yet, instead of despair, most of them wore faint smiles as they left the ring.

Jabari recognised the look. Hope. They'd seen slum-born fighters standing where they now stood and realised that escape from their harsh lives wasn't a fantasy. It was possible.

Once the slum trialists finished, the weaker children from the main settlements stepped forward for their turns. Jabari noted the stark difference immediately.

While the settlement-born children were better fed and better trained, they lacked the desperation he'd seen in the slum-born fighters. The slum children fought through pain, pushing forward even when outmatched – several had to be physically restrained by the invigilator after refusing to yield.

The battles continued, the level of skill rising incrementally. Jabari observed how some of the stronger trialists began to challenge the weaker first-years, and though a few trialists performed admirably, none had managed a win.

So far, the highest-scoring trialist had managed seven stars, lasting barely two minutes before succumbing. The matches blurred together until the 180th candidate stepped into the ring.

The boy's name was Emmanuel, and he hailed from the Jaraki Tribe – a minor tribe with no particular reputation. His frame was lean but solid as he selected a sabre and shield and climbed onto the stage.

Kwame's voice cut through the air. "Who would you like to challenge for your combat assessment?"

Emmanuel's chest rose and fell as he steadied his breathing. He turned and raised his weapon to point at the fifth-ranked first-year.

"I want to challenge Ibrahim Jaraki!"

A ripple of surprise spread through the crowd. Kwame arched a brow. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Emmanuel answered firmly, his eyes locked onto his chosen opponent.

The crowd stirred. It was rare for someone to challenge a first-year ranked so highly this early. The surprise was written on everyone's faces – none more so than Ibrahim himself.

"Are you sure you want to challenge me?" Ibrahim asked, his voice cold and detached as his sharp eyes settled on Emmanuel. "I won't hold back just because we're from the same tribe."

Emmanuel straightened his back and clenched his fists before answering with a boldness that sent a ripple of shock through the crowd. "I'm in love with your sister!"

Gasps erupted from the audience.

Emmanuel's jaw tightened, but he pressed on. "The Patriarch knows of my feelings. He said if I can earn at least two stars against you today, he'll give me her hand in marriage."

Ibrahim froze. For a moment, it seemed as though he hadn't heard correctly. His head snapped toward the crowd until his gaze landed on his family. His sister wore a worried expression; his father gave a silent nod of confirmation.

The tension shattered as Ibrahim burst into laughter – a deep, hearty sound that filled the arena. Still chuckling, he made his way to the weapon rack, retrieving a wooden spear with casual ease. He spun it once in his hand before pointing it directly at Emmanuel.

"I respect your courage for choosing me," Ibrahim said, his grin fading into a sharp, predatory smirk. "But if you want my sister, you'll have to prove you're worthy."

Kwame raised his hand. "Begin!"

Emmanuel gripped his sabre and shield, watching warily as Ibrahim closed the distance with slow, measured steps. His heart hammered against his ribs, his hands slick with sweat.

When Ibrahim reached five metres, his body blurred. He lunged forward, spear darting toward Emmanuel's chest like a lightning bolt.

Emmanuel reacted on instinct, raising his shield in time to block the strike. But the force behind the blow jolted through his entire arm, sending him stumbling backward. He managed to regain his footing after two shaky steps, the impact leaving his forearm numb.

'He's a monster,' Emmanuel thought, breath ragged.

Before he could recover, Ibrahim attacked again. The spear shot forward, faster than before. Emmanuel once again raised his shield reflexively – too late.

Crack!

The spear smashed into the shield, splintering it on impact. Emmanuel staggered ten steps backward, nearly falling over. His sabre trembled in his grip as he looked up to see Ibrahim closing the gap, disdain etched into every feature.

"How do you plan to protect my sister with strength like this?" Ibrahim's voice was thick with disappointment. He shook his head and advanced without haste.

Emmanuel's cheeks burned with shame. His mind screamed at him to surrender, to end the humiliation. But when he thought of Ibrahim's sister – of the future he wanted – something snapped.

A guttural roar tore from his throat as he charged forward, sabre raised high. He didn't care about form, about technique – only the burning resolve to prove himself.

Ibrahim's eyes narrowed. His spear flicked out in a blur.

Thud!

The wooden tip slammed into Emmanuel's chest with brutal precision. The force lifted him off the ground, ribs cracking beneath the impact. Emmanuel crumpled to the dirt, gasping for breath as agony tore through his torso.

Ibrahim turned away with a sigh, assuming the fight was over. So did the crowd.

But Emmanuel rolled to his knees. His face twisted in pain, his breaths ragged and shallow – but his eyes still burned with defiance.

Ibrahim stopped mid-stride and glanced back. Surprise flickered across his face before it vanished beneath his usual indifference. 'He's still standing.'

A quiet nod of approval stirred within him. He turned and walked back toward Emmanuel, stopping two metres away.

"Pick up your weapons." His tone was flat, but his words sent a fresh wave of shock through the crowd. "If you can stay on your feet after my next strike, you win."

Murmurs filled the arena. The difference in strength had already been laid bare; most assumed this was nothing more than Ibrahim toying with his opponent.

Emmanuel's chest heaved as he staggered toward his discarded weapons. He bent down, groaning as the movement sent fiery pain lancing through his torso. Still, he retrieved the shattered shield and sabre and turned to face Ibrahim.

Ibrahim shifted into a squat and gripped his spear with both hands.

A subtle change rippled through the air. The more experienced fighters in the crowd tensed, sensing the shift in his aura. It was as though the carefree boy who'd mocked his opponent moments ago had vanished, replaced by a predator honing in on its prey.

Emmanuel felt it too. His body trembled – not from mere fear, but from the primal instinct whispering that death would follow if he faltered.

'One strike,' he reminded himself. 'Just one more strike.'

Ibrahim's spear tilted slightly downward, his muscles coiling like a drawn bowstring.

Then, without warning, he moved.

Emmanuel, caught in the centre of Ibrahim's suffocating focus, held his breath without realising it. His chest tightened, the sheer weight of his opponent's intent pressing down on him like an invisible boulder.

In that moment, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Instinctively, his eyes darted toward Olamide. She stood in the crowd, restrained by her father, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her anguish was clear – she didn't want the fight to continue.

The sight triggered a memory.

"How do you intend to keep my sister safe with such little strength?"

Emmanuel clenched his jaw as Ibrahim's disdainful words echoed in his mind.

'For you, I won't lose!' The thought steadied his heart. He inhaled deeply, forcing his nerves into submission. His grip tightened around the shield as he tossed his sabre aside and raised the shield with both hands, anchoring himself in place.

Across the stage, Ibrahim's eyes opened. His gaze sharpened. His muscles coiled.

Then, without warning, he struck.

The spear shot forward with terrifying speed. [Thrust] – the simplest, most fundamental spear technique. But when executed with precision and intent, it was nearly impossible to stop.

The spear tip met the shield with a deafening crack. The moment of impact seemed to freeze in time. Then, both weapons splintered into jagged shards. The force hurled Emmanuel through the air like a broken doll.

The crowd collectively sucked in a breath as Emmanuel crashed into the ground and lay motionless.

Kwame stepped forward, raising his arm. "Winner, Ib-"

"I'm...

Not...

Finished!"

The voice was faint at first – like the buzzing of a distant insect. But with each word, it grew louder, more forceful, until it reverberated through the Colosseum.

Gasps spread like wildfire as Emmanuel, trembling and pale, forced himself to sit up. Pain contorted his face with every movement, but his eyes remained locked on Ibrahim.

His hand brushed against something on the ground. The wooden sabre he'd thrown away earlier. He grasped it, using the hilt as a crutch to push himself upright. His legs wobbled beneath him, and his knuckles turned white as he leaned on the sabre for support.

Still, he stood.

And the glare he levelled at Ibrahim carried no fear – only defiance.

Ibrahim's lips parted in surprise. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"I give up!" he declared, slamming the butt of his shattered spear into the stage. "You win!"

With that, Ibrahim turned and descended the steps, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

For a moment, no one reacted. Then Emmanuel's knees buckled, and his body collapsed in a heap.

Kwame blinked, breaking free from his daze. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Emmanuel of the Jaraki Tribe: winner – one minute and one second! Five stars!"

The Colosseum erupted.

Everyone knew Ibrahim was the stronger of the two. Everyone knew Emmanuel only won because Ibrahim allowed it. But no one cared. The courage, resilience, and sheer stubborn will Emmanuel displayed had won the crowd's respect. They rose to their feet as one, applauding the unconscious boy with cheers that shook the arena.

The matches continued, but the energy in the colosseum had shifted.

The next trialists, most of whom had little combat experience, earned one or two stars at best. None managed to claim three. The gap between the first-year and the trialists became more and more clear with each battle.

'The institute did this on purpose,' Jabari realised as he watched the matches unfold. 'They want us to see the difference. To show us what's possible.'

And it was working. The more he watched, the more his anticipation grew.

His thoughts were interrupted as Kwame's voice echoed across the arena.

"Next: Trialist 207 – Jabari of the Khaldun Tribe's Slums – nine stars!"

The crowd stirred with interest. All eyes shifted toward Jabari.

He exhaled slowly, then stepped forward. 'Finally.'