Book 1: Chapter 27 – Domineering Display

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Amadi roared, his eyes burning red with fury.

Jabari knew he had no more time.

Gripping his glaive once more like a bat, he reactivated his spirit-enhanced vision, and the world around him slow. Every detail sharpened – every movement of his opponent, every breath, every twitch of a muscle.

Then, something strange happened. His eyes glazed over.

A memory surfaced – clear as day.

Ibrahim Jaraki – the first-year ranked fifth.

He recalled the simple yet devastating [Spear Thrust] Ibrahim had used in the previous match. It was an elementary move, yet brutally effective.

'The glaive isn't a spear...' Jabari subconsciously mused. 'But the principle should remain the same.'

Under the watchful, puzzled gazes of the spectators, he shifted his stance. He bent his knees, grounding himself lower to the earth. His right leg bore most of his weight, his left adjusting to balance. His right hand gripped the glaive's base while his left moved to the centre of the shaft.

His breathing steadied. His focus narrowed.

His prey was coming straight to him.

Amadi stormed forward, all reason lost to rage, then-

The moment he entered range, Jabari exploded into action.

With a sudden, controlled burst of power, he pushed off with his right leg and thrust his glaive forward – straight for Amadi's throat.

A shiver ran down Amadi's spine.

For the first time in the match, he felt real fear.

That bone-deep, primal instinct – the one that warned warriors of impending danger – flared inside him. It snapped him out of his blind fury just in time.

His pupils shrank as he caught sight of the glaive's tip racing toward him.

Pure instinct took over.

Clang!

Amadi twisted, parrying the strike at the last possible moment, shifting his body just enough to avoid the lethal thrust.

Jabari's eyes widened – he had missed!

Before he could even pull his weapon back, Amadi retaliated with brutal precision.

With all his strength, he slashed at Jabari's throat, aiming to end the fight before there could be any more surprises.

Every fibre of Jabari's body screamed at him. Warning him that he needed to move. Unfortunately, despite easily being able to follow the strike, his body wasn't able to keep up with his perception – he couldn't dodge this one.

Instead, he did the only thing he could. He leaned back slightly, raising his shoulder to absorb the impact.

CRACK!

The force of the short sword's blow sent shockwaves through his body.

Despite the weapon's small size, the sheer force behind the strike was enough to send Jabari flying.

The crowd gasped as his body tumbled across the stage, rolling several metres before skidding to a stop.

Jabari barely had time to register the pain before he heard the thunderous footsteps of his charging opponent.

"JUST DIE ALREADY!"

He instinctively tensed, bracing himself for the beating of his life-

Then he heard something else.

A muffled groan.

Confused, Jabari turned his gaze back toward Amadi.

His opponent had stopped mid-strike. His face twisted in frustration as he tried to move his weapon-

But it wasn't budging.

The reason?

The invigilator.

Kwame stood between them, gripping the tip of Amadi's short sword between his thumb and index finger, his expression unreadable.

"This is a spar," Kwame said coldly. "Not a fight to the death. Get down."

Silence swallowed the arena.

Amadi clenched his jaw, his fists trembling with unreleased fury. But under Kwame's piercing gaze, he had no choice.

He yanked his weapon free and stormed off, throwing one last glare at Jabari before returning his wooden sword to the rack.

Kwame exhaled through his nose before turning his attention to Jabari, who was still sprawled on the ground.

"What is it with you and dislocating your shoulders?" he muttered as he knelt beside him.

Jabari smiled wryly, about to respond when-

POP!

Jabari's face barely reacted as Kwame casually snapped his shoulder back into place.

Kwame rose to his feet.

"Jabari of the Khaldun Tribe's slums – lost in 57 seconds. One star."

Hearing his results, Jabari could only manage a bitter smile. To him, the fight had felt like it lasted at least ten minutes. He had genuinely believed that, even if he didn't earn three or four stars, he would at least be awarded two.

"Thank you," he said politely to Kwame, the invigilator who had just saved him from what could have been a devastating injury. With that, he turned and walked toward the glaive he had dropped when he was sent flying.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the wooden shaft, he hesitated.

"Sorry," he murmured sincerely, lifting the weapon once more.

The crowd fell into stunned silence.

Had he been hit too hard? Was he actually apologising to a wooden weapon?

But for Jabari, the emotion was real. He felt as though he had let the glaive down. He had performed miserably, lost in under a minute, and worst of all – he had dropped it. The sensation of guilt gnawed at him, even though he couldn't quite explain why.

Kwame, watching from the sidelines, stroked his chin thoughtfully.

'This kid…

His reactions are incredible, but his perception is where he truly shines. First, he copied Danso's lifting technique. Then Chantelle's footwork. And now Ibrahim's spearmanship...'

Kwame's eyes narrowed. 'That last spear thrust – though not perfect – was remarkable for a complete novice. It would take most people several months of diligent practice to reach that level…

This is the kind of talent we need.'

As Jabari walked off the stage, the other trialists eyed him, whispering among themselves.

The other slum kids murmured in awe, calling his performance impressive despite his loss. But the children from the main settlements were far less kind.

"His form was terrible."

"He was too arrogant, picking someone in the top ten."

"Good reflexes don't make you a good warrior."

Jabari heard every word. Even without activating his spirit-enhanced hearing, his senses were sharp enough to pick up their hushed conversations. But none of it mattered.

This fight – among other things – was a painful reminder of how large the gulf between him and Oluwa was.

The next few fights were far more intense, as only the strongest trialists remained.

Chidi of the Nuwanu Tribe lasted over six minutes against his opponent before finally losing – an impressive feat that earned him four stars.

Chantelle, on the other hand, showcased exceptional footwork and swordsmanship. She wielded a wooden rapier with graceful precision, weaving around her opponent – ranked 18th – striking only when she was sure. Her patience paid off, and after wearing her opponent down, she claimed victory in just over five minutes.

Danso was a different story entirely.

Wielding a massive war hammer, he overwhelmed his opponent from the very start, his raw strength and relentless aggression leaving no room for retaliation. His opponent barely lasted two minutes before succumbing to the onslaught.

But the trialist who impressed Jabari the most was Azurian from the Shura Tribe.

Wielding a curved sabre in each hand, Azurian's twin-blade technique was nothing short of breathtaking. His movements were fluid, fast, and powerful, but what truly stood out was how independently his swords moved – almost as if two separate warriors were wielding them whilst still working in unison. His opponent, ranked 10th among the first-years, never stood a chance. The fight was over in just 52 seconds.

Watching that battle, a revelation struck Jabari like a hammer to the chest.

Raw physical ability wasn't enough.

If he wanted to stand among the elite, true mastery of his chosen weapon was just as – if not more – important.

The next candidate called onto the stage was August.

The moment his name was announced, the entire arena fell into a tense silence. Trialists, students, spectators, and even the invigilators all fixed their eyes on him. August was one of the two favourites to claim the top rank in the trials – everyone wanted to see what he was capable of.

As he made his way to the stage, he stopped at the weapon rack, scanning the selection without a hint of urgency. Then, he reached for the largest twin-sided battle axe available.

It was a monstrous weapon, nearly four feet tall, its blade alone larger than Jabari's entire torso.

August swung it a few times with effortless ease, testing its weight. Then, with a slight frown, he muttered, "Too light."

A ripple of disbelief spread through the audience.

Turning to Kwame, he asked, "Anything heavier?"

Kwame could only shake his head helplessly.

With no other option, August sighed and stepped onto the stage, wielding what he considered a lightweight battle axe.

When August reached the centre of the stage, Kwame addressed him. "Who would you like to choose as your opponent?"

Without saying a word, August raised his hand and pointed towards the first-year students.

All eyes followed his gesture.

A hushed murmur spread through the crowd as they realised exactly who he was pointing at-

Amadi.

The first-year ranked 7th. The same first-year who had defeated Jabari earlier.

Confusion flickered through the audience.

"Why would he choose Number 7?"

"If he wanted to show off, he should've picked someone from the top three."

"Yeah, and if he wanted an easy win, there are still plenty of weaker first-years left."

"Maybe they have a history?"

Speculation ran rampant, but those who had witnessed Jabari's earlier clash with Amadi understood immediately – this wasn't random. August was retaliating on Jabari's behalf.

What they didn't understand was why.

Why would someone like August – a direct descendant of the Asare Tribe – go out of his way to settle a score for a slum-born trialist?

Meanwhile, Amadi, now returning to the stage for the second time that day, did his best to mask his unease with cold indifference. But the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

"Is there really any need to go this far for an irrelevant slum rat?" he muttered.

August didn't react. He simply stood there, battle axe resting lazily on his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Yet, his silence only made the pressure worse.

Amadi took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

'Even if he's a direct descendant of one of the Asare, I refuse to believe I can't win. He's just a trialist, whilst I've trained for a year under the institute's gruelling regimen.'

Kwame glanced between the two warriors before signalling the start of the match.

"Begin!"

Amadi moved instantly.

Unlike his fight with Jabari, there was no arrogance in his approach this time – only ruthless focus. His cold, disciplined expression made it clear: he was taking this fight seriously.

August, however, didn't move.

He remained perfectly still, as if he hadn't even noticed Amadi charging straight at him.

The crowd watched with bated breath.

Then-

Just as Amadi stepped into range, August finally made his move.

The battle axe came down.

A single, devastating swing.

The air itself seemed to split as the massive blade carved through the space between them.

Amadi's instincts screamed.

His pupils constricted to pinpricks as raw terror flooded his body. He hadn't even felt the impact yet, but instinctively, he knew what was coming.

He tried to stop.

He tried to dodge.

But August's attack was too fast.

Amadi barely had time to raise his short sword in a desperate attempt to block-

CRACK!

His wooden blade snapped like a twig.

The sheer force of the impact split the webbing of his palm, sending his now-useless weapon flying from his grip. The recoil sent him staggering backwards-

And then-

A palm smashed into his face.

The force spun him in a full 180 before he crashed onto his back, dazed and disoriented.

Before he could even register what had happened, he felt the cold press of wood against his neck.

The arena was deathly silent until…

Kwame's voice rang out. "August Owusu of the Owusu Tribe – victory in 7 seconds. Five stars."