Book 1: Chapter 26 – Slap!

Having watched nearly 300 other trialists before him, Jabari strode towards the weapon rack with a calm, measured gait. His decision had already been made long before this moment, and as he reached the racks, he moved without hesitation towards the straight swords. They were light compared to many other weapons, had a decent range, and were relatively simple for beginners to wield. His fingers hovered mere inches from the wooden blade-

Then, without warning, his spirit surged with excitement.

Jabari stiffened, his instincts responding before his mind could catch up. Subconsciously, he turned his gaze in the direction his spirit was tugging him towards. That was when he saw it – a wooden glaive resting quietly among the other weapons. His brows furrowed. He hadn't even considered the glaive before, yet something about it felt oddly right. Without fully understanding why, his hand reached out, grasping the wooden pole.

The moment his fingers wrapped around its shaft, a wave of calm washed over him. A deep, inexplicable sense of peace and belonging settled in his core.

'This is it. This is my weapon!' The certainty struck him like a thunderclap, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Around him, the crowd buzzed with murmurs, a mix of surprise and barely concealed amusement. Everyone knew that Jabari had grown up in the slums, a place where formal weapon training was practically non-existent. For him to choose a glaive – a weapon with a notoriously high barrier to entry – during a combat assessment that could shape his future?

It was nothing short of madness.

Mocking whispers rippled through the audience, but Jabari paid them no mind. His grip on the glaive tightened as he stepped onto the stage, still absorbed in the unfamiliar but undeniable bond he felt with the weapon.

"Are you sure that's the weapon you wish to choose?"

Kwame's voice cut through his thoughts, drawing his attention away from the wooden polearm in his hands. Jabari looked up to meet the older warrior's gaze.

"I'm sure!" he declared without hesitation.

Kwame studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. What about your opponent? Who would you like to-"

"Number 7!" Jabari interrupted, pointing directly at the teen who had tried to pick on him earlier.

A stunned silence filled the air. It was as if the entire arena had misheard him – Kwame included.

"What was that?" Kwame asked, his expression unreadable.

"I choose Number 7 as my opponent," Jabari repeated, his voice steady, unconcerned by the disbelief washing over the crowd.

Chaos erupted.

"Is this slum brat serious?!"

"Does he actually think that just because he did well in the reaction test yesterday, he can take on a top ten first-year?"

"He's lost his mind! Setting a record must have gone straight to his head!"

"He'd struggle against most of the trialists here, let alone a genuine first-year ranked in the top ten!"

The cacophony of voices swelled, but Jabari stood unmoving, his expression unreadable.

Kwame, however, was watching him closely, a deep frown settling on his face. Like the rest of the audience, he couldn't help but think Jabari was being reckless. "I suggest you pick another opponent," he advised, his tone carrying a note of sincerity.

Jabari could tell that Kwame's words weren't meant to belittle him – he was offering a way out, a wiser path. But Jabari had already made his decision. It wasn't arrogance. He knew that, realistically, his best chance at a decent score was to challenge the lowest-ranked first-year available – someone in the fifties. Even then, he would likely lose.

And yet, something deep inside him refused to step back.

It wasn't about strategy anymore. It wasn't even about proving himself. No – something told him that if he backed down now, if he allowed himself to be cowed by Number 7's earlier provocation, he would lose something far greater than a match. He would lose a part of himself that he might never reclaim.

"Thank you," Jabari said, his voice polite yet unwavering, "but I've made my decision."

Kwame studied Jabari's expression carefully. The boy was resolute – unshaken, unwavering. Seeing that there was no point in trying to dissuade him, Kwame exhaled quietly before turning his gaze to the crowd.

"Amadi, come on stage. You've been chosen as the opponent for this match."

A ripple of excitement passed through the spectators as Amadi – Number 7 – processed what had just happened. For a moment, he was stunned, unable to believe that the little rat he had mocked earlier was genuinely foolish enough to challenge him. Then, as the reality of the situation sank in, a wicked grin stretched across his face.

Amadi licked his lips, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. Without hesitation, he strode onto the stage, a wooden short sword resting easily in his hand. His steps were confident, his smirk widening when he noticed Jabari's peculiar stance.

Then he saw it – the way Jabari was studying the glaive, almost mesmerised.

Amadi couldn't help himself. He laughed. Loud and mocking.

"Forget wielding one – have you ever even seen a glaive before?" he jeered.

Jabari stood with the weapon resting against the floor, his hands gripping the base of the shaft. He hardly seemed to register Amadi's words.

"Huh? What was that?" Jabari asked absentmindedly, his focus never leaving the weapon in his hands. The warmth it radiated, the quiet sense of familiarity it carried – it was like reuniting with an old, cherished friend.

The moment felt…

Right.

"Oh, right." Jabari finally recalled Amadi's taunt. "No, I've never seen one before," he admitted simply, his tone devoid of shame or hesitation.

The crowd gasped. Some scoffed. Others outright laughed.

Amadi, on the other hand, bristled. He saw Jabari's indifference as an insult, his lips curling in irritation.

But Jabari paid him no mind. His fingers ran along the wooden shaft as he whispered, "So, you're called a glaive, huh?" There was an odd reverence in his voice, as if he were speaking to a living entity rather than an inanimate weapon.

Kwame, sensing Amadi's growing fury, quickly intervened. "Both fighters, take your positions!" he commanded. The last thing Jabari needed was to make things harder for himself.

Jabari obeyed, stepping back and adjusting his grip on the glaive. The way he held it – both hands gripping the base like a baseball bat – was enough to make the spectators erupt into laughter.

Amadi was openly smirking now. "You've got to be joking," he muttered.

To any trained fighter, Jabari's stance was a disaster. His form was clumsy, completely unsuited for the weapon he held. It should have been embarrassing.

And yet…

Kwame narrowed his eyes.

Despite his glaring technical flaws, Jabari's presence exuded something unexpected.

Calm.

Focus.

It was a strange contradiction – his stance was abysmal, but his state of mind was flawless.

Kwame frowned, shaking the thought from his mind. 'I must be imagining things.'

Raising his hand, he signalled for the match to begin.

The instant his hand dropped, both boys surged forward.

Jabari knew he was outmatched in every possible way. Strength, speed, skill – Amadi dwarfed him in all of them. If he had any hope of defying the odds, it would be by seizing the momentum and keeping his opponent on the defensive.

The moment the fight began, Jabari activated his spirit-enhanced vision. Time seemed to slow as Amadi rushed toward him, and without hesitation, Jabari swung his glaive with all his might – like a man wielding a baseball bat in a desperate home-run attempt.

The sheer ferocity of the attack caught Amadi off guard. His eyes widened in surprise as he instinctively abandoned his charge, leaping back rather than trying to block the incoming glaive with his short sword.

That was exactly what Jabari wanted.

With his vision sharpening every movement, Jabari saw Amadi tense, preparing to retreat – so he surged forward before his opponent could even fully react.

The battle's rhythm shifted in an instant. Jabari's glaive came crashing down again and again, each strike relentless, each swing forcing Amadi to dodge repeatedly. From an outsider's perspective, it looked as if Jabari had taken control, pushing his opponent back and dictating the fight's pace.

Many among the crowd gasped in astonishment.

"He's actually forcing Amadi back!"

"Is this slum brat really dominating the fight?!"

But the veterans among the spectators remained silent.

They saw the truth.

'He can't keep this up for long. The moment he slows down, it's over.' Kwame sighed inwardly, watching with the knowing eyes of an experienced warrior.

Amadi wasn't struggling – he was waiting. Effortlessly sidestepping each wild swing, he showed no panic, no urgency. He knew his moment would come.

And so did Jabari.

He wasn't delusional – he understood the reality of the fight better than anyone. Every desperate strike was a plea for a miracle, his only chance against a superior foe.

But he could already feel it.

The weight of the glaive, a solid five kilograms, was beginning to take its toll. His swings grew slower, his arms heavier. Not even twenty seconds had passed, and his body was already betraying him.

Amadi's eyes flashed with anticipation.

Jabari swung again – wild, sluggish. Amadi dodged effortlessly and took a step forward, closing the distance-

Then, something made his instincts scream.

A chill ran down Amadi's spine as the hairs on his neck stood on end.

"YAAAH!"

Jabari roared as he threw every last ounce of strength into one final, desperate swing.

The glaive whistled through the air, faster, wilder, stronger than any strike before. Amadi's pupils shrank. He had already stepped forward, convinced Jabari was spent. Now, with the attack barrelling toward him at breakneck speed, there was no time to retreat.

For a fleeting moment, Jabari's heart surged with hope. His weapon was closing in – mere inches from slamming into the side of Amadi's head.

But it still wasn't enough.

At the last possible instant, Amadi ducked, the glaive missing him by a hair's breadth.

Jabari's attack had been so powerful, the momentum carried him forward, spinning his body around – exposing his back to his opponent.

Amadi grinned.

A golden opportunity had just fallen into his lap.

With a flash of malice, he lunged, driving his short sword straight for the back of Jabari's neck.

The crowd held its breath.

It was over.

Or so they thought.

In that moment of certainty, Jabari reminded everyone why they had been so captivated by him in the first place.

With reflexes bordering on the divine, Jabari twisted his neck at the last second, the wooden blade narrowly missing its mark. The momentum from his previous attack carried his spin, and even though his glaive was too long to strike at close range-

SMACK!

A crisp, resounding slap echoed through the arena.

Gasps filled the air as Jabari's open palm struck Amadi clean across the face. The force of the unexpected blow sent Amadi stumbling, his head snapping to the side.

Before anyone could process what had happened, Jabari leapt back, finally putting distance between them. He gripped his glaive tightly, panting heavily as he struggled to catch his breath.

Across from him, Amadi stood frozen, his hand slowly rising to his cheek.

The shock in his eyes was unmistakable.

Jabari had just slapped him.

In front of everyone.

For a long moment, Amadi simply stared, his mind struggling to accept reality.

Then his expression warped.

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