The crowd was a storm of voices—half certain Adebi was doomed, half refusing to believe a girl like her could ever be cornered.
"She's done for. One mistake and she'll be buried alive—literally."
"Do you even know who you're talking about? That girl could slip out of a coffin underwater. She's like a shadow with joints."
"Shadow or not, the earth boy didn't even move before. That confidence isn't acting—he thinks this battle is already over."
"What are the odds Adebi wins?"
"Less than zero."
"Shut it. Just watch."
───────────────
Adebi did not wait for another insult.
She moved.
A blur. A ripple. A flicker of cloth and steel.
She sprinted up the side of a support pillar, flipped over Gilda's shoulder, and slashed once—he blocked.
But then came the second strike, hidden behind the flip, and the blade carved into the inside of his leg—clean, precise, dangerously close to the joint.
A hiss ran through the crowd.
They felt that one.
Gilda Ali staggered—for the first time.
He dropped to a knee, hand gripping the wound as blood seeped through his robe. His eyes lifted slowly… and they were no longer calm.
They were furious.
And when an earth mage with that level of power is angry—
the entire world feels it.
The stones beneath the arena began to vibrate.
Dust shook loose.
Chairs rattled.
Even the emperor's platform trembled.
Gasps rippled outward like shockwaves.
"Oh no… he's not holding back anymore—"
"He's going to bring down the whole stage—!"
"Someone stop him—!!"
But Adebi Monta didn't flinch.
Her breathing was steady.
Her stance low.
Her eyes narrow, calculating, ready.
She had wanted this.
She needed him off balance.
She needed him emotional.
She needed him angry enough to stop thinking.
Because a calm earth mage is an unbreakable fortress.
But an enraged one?
An enraged one moves.
And the moment he moves—
she can use it.
The ground cracked, splitting open around Gilda like a spiderweb of destruction. Pillars of earth began to shoot upward like spears—violent, unpredictable.
The entire arena recoiled.
But Adebi?
She smiled.
Because now—
the real match finally began.
The stage did not simply shake—it groaned, as if something ancient beneath it had been awakened.
The tiles under Gilda Ali's feet cracked in a perfect circle, as though the earth itself was bowing to his rage. Dust spiraled upward in a slow, eerie column, drawn toward him like a summoned storm. The boy's eyes—normally calm, even bored—now burned with a fury that did not belong to a child of fourteen. It was the gaze of someone who had just remembered why his power existed.
Some of the students stepped back from the edge of the arena, whispering:
"Is he… is he calling the earth vein?"
"No way—he's never tried that in school training—"
"If he does that, the stage won't just break… people could die."
Adebi Monta didn't blink. Her chest rose and fell once, her pupils shrinking slightly—not in fear, but in calculation.
Her mind click-click-clicked like gears turning.
Good. I needed him angry. I needed him distracted. But I only get one shot… and this is the part where either I become a legend—or fertilizer.
The stone around Gilda Ali shot upward like a blooming flower of jagged pillars—an instant cage with no openings.
But when it finished rising…
…Adebi was gone.
Not crushed. Not buried. Not screaming.
Gone.
A ripple of disbelief rolled through the crowd.
"Where—?!"
"She didn't jump—no sound—no shadow—"
Gilda's brows tightened. He raised his hand, and the pillars shifted, sharpening like spears—
—and that was when a voice spoke behind him.
"Hey, rock-boy."
He spun—too late.
Adebi Monta wasn't above him, below him, or around him. She was on him. Clinging to his back like a silk thread stuck to a statue, one arm around his neck, the other holding her blade—pressed lightly against the pulse under his jaw.
A single bead of his blood slid down the edge.
The entire arena froze.
Even the earth stopped shaking.
Adebi whispered, close enough for only him to hear:
"You control the ground. I control the space between it. That's what you missed."
Gilda Ali's expression twisted into something feral. With a roar, he slammed his body into the ground and vanished beneath it—like the earth had swallowed him whole. The stage trembled, and a spike of stone shot upward beneath Adebi Monta, catching her mid-dodge and hurling her backward.
She hit the ground... hard. The sound was like bone meeting stone.
A pained gasp escaped her lips. She rolled, clutching her side. The impact felt like being thrown against a wall at full force—every breath tearing at her ribs like knives.
Before she could recover—
THOOM!
A giant hand of earth erupted from the stage and grabbed her, fingers closing around her body like a vice. In one brutal motion she was yanked off the ground, dangling helplessly, trapped in Gilda Ali's grip.
He rose from the earth a few paces away, untouched, unshaken, fury burning in his eyes.
"You should have surrendered when you had the chance," he growled. "I warned you. I gave you mercy. But now—" he tightened the grip, her body trembling from the pressure, "I can't kill you because of the rules, true. But I can make sure you leave this match unable to fight ever again."
The audience recoiled. Even the teachers shifted uneasily.
Adebi Monta, still caught in the earthen fist, was breathing hard—each inhale a struggle. Blood streaked down her chin. Her spine was bent at an angle that should have shown fear. Her legs hung limp, her arms pinned.
But her face…
Her face was unsettlingly calm.
Almost serene.
As though none of this was unexpected.
The pain should have broken her. Should have shattered her concentration and left her sobbing in panic like any normal fighter.
But Adebi Monta did not scream.
She did not beg.
She did not even look afraid.
Her eyes lifted to meet his.
Steady.
Focused.
Waiting.
Gilda Ali, still flushed with rage and humiliation, sneered down at her.
"Look at you now. All your acrobatics—useless. This is what happens when you martial artists think you can stand on the same stage as real power."
Adebi coughed, a wet sound—blood mixing with breath.
Then she smiled.
Not bravely.
Not arrogantly.
But almost gently, like she had just arrived at the answer to a riddle.
"…Are you done?"
Gilda froze. "What?"
"I'm asking," she said quietly, voice rough but unwavering, "are you finished talking?"
The crowd went silent again—because there was something in her tone. Something that did not sound like defeat.
Her fingers twitched.
Just barely.
But enough.
Because while one arm had been trapped against her side…
…the other had not been empty or idle.
Her hand closed.
Around something small.
Something metal.
A knife.
A second knife.
No one had seen her draw it.
No one had even realized she still had one.
But Gilda Ali felt it—
Because the blade was already wedged inside the cracks of the earthen fist holding her.
And the moment she clenched her hand—
The stone began to fracture.