The stone fractured... Adebi Monta was moving so fast it felt fluid. With the blade in her hand, no restriction was intact enough.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK—CRACK
The sound echoed across the arena like bones snapping in a giant's fist.
The massive hand of stone that held her began to splinter from the inside out—thin fractures racing across its surface like lightning crawling through rock. Dust trickled down in streams. Larger chunks began to flake off and fall away.
Gilda Ali's eyes widened.
"What the—?"
Too late.
The cracks exploded outward and the earthen hand collapsed into rubble, raining down in pieces as Adebi dropped from its grasp—landing light like a feather floating down the wind, one knee slowly hitting the floor, breath ragged, body shaking…
…but free.
The crowd erupted.
"She—she broke loose!"
"How?! She was completely restrained!"
"She used the inside of the earth hand to weaken it—she stabbed it when she was grabbed!"
"No—she planned it before she was grabbed. She let herself get caught on purpose—!"
Up in the stands, even the emperor leaned forward.
Master Herold from the mage school was pale now—ashen, almost ghostlike.
"That level of spatial awareness… even while in pain…" he muttered, but it wasn't just shock anymore—there was fear in his voice. He had watched Adebi Monta for months, seen her test into the competition, but this… this was not the same girl he had studied in reports.
"When did she become this refined?" he whispered. "When did she start thinking like a mage while fighting like an assassin?"
Beside him, Mistress Elena from the martial arts school leaned back in her seat with the satisfied grin of a huntress who had just found out her prey was not only alive—but evolving.
"That girl is dangerous," Elena said, voice thick with pride. "Not because she's fast—because she thinks. She turns flexibility into a battlefield. She makes being lithe look like a weapon forged by the heavens."
She glanced at the older masters around her and smirked.
"She might be paving a new path entirely. A martial style for those who fight with space, not just strength. Maybe even the old dogs in this empire need to take notes."
Adebi slowly pushed herself upright—one hand gripping her side where the pain was worst, the other dragging her blade along the floor. Every breath sounded like it was cutting her lungs open from the inside. Blood trailed down her arm in a thin red thread.
And still—her eyes never left Gilda Ali.
He, on the other hand, stood frozen—not because he couldn't move, but because he suddenly didn't trust himself to. The fury was there, yes, raging like a furnace inside him… but layered over it now was something new.
Doubt.
"You—" he managed, voice tight.
"You look shocked," Adebi said, wiping blood from her lips with the back of her hand. Her voice was soft, but it cut sharper than any blade she carried.
"You had so much bravado earlier—speaking like the match was over before we even began. Makes me wonder…"
She tilted her head, eyes full of quiet mockery.
"Is this what they teach you at the Oradonian Mage School? Arrogance first, strategy second?"
A ripple went through the arena—whispers, gasps, laughter in the martial arts section.
"I mean," she continued, limping a slow circle around him, "the entire empire trembles at the mention of your Order. But if this is the level you all operate at…"
She clicked her tongue softly.
"I don't see it."
That was all the martial arts school needed.
Master Tenzi stood and bellowed, "YES! FINALLY, someone said it!"
Mistress Elena slapped the barrier railing like it owed her money. "That's it, Adebi! Drag their pride through the dirt! Make them feel it!"
Even the calmer teachers, the ones who preached honor and composure, couldn't hide their smiles. For once, it wasn't a mage looking down on a martial artist—
it was the reverse.
And in the mage stands, the silence was suffocating.
Not because they feared the girl's strength…
but because they were suddenly aware she might win by outthinking one of their own.
And that… was a sin the Order had never been prepared to swallow.
Then....
In a split second...
She moved.
Not fast—not acrobatic like before—but controlled. Every step was placed, precise, like someone walking the edge of a blade.
"You think I climbed onto your back because I got lucky?" she said, voice strained but sharp. "That I provoked you because I was careless?"
She pointed the blade at him—not to threaten him, but as if declaring a fact already written.
"I needed you angry. Angry mages stop calculating. They switch from refined spellwork to brute-force shaping. And brute force," she tapped the broken earth fragments with her toe, "is predictable."
Gilda's jaw tightened. His pride was now bleeding louder than her wounds.
"You—little—"
"And I needed you to grab me," she continued. "Because that was the only moment your guard dropped. The only time your magical energy was focused on controlling one thing instead of protecting all sides."
Her smile turned sharp, almost pitying.
"You didn't beat me when you caught me. You lost the moment you thought you already had."
A ripple went through the audience—chills, disbelief, awe.
She shifted her stance—low, wounded, but ready.
And now—
now it was Gilda Ali who hesitated.
He was fighting a strategist wearing a gymnast's body.
A fighter who had been losing on purpose until the exact second she needed to win.
A predator with blood on her tongue and patience in her bones.
For the first time since the match began…
Gilda Ali stepped back.
And the entire arena knew—
the mage who controlled the earth…
He hadn't just been cut.
He had been outmaneuvered—by someone who wasn't stronger, wasn't bigger, wasn't louder…
…but someone who controlled the space between movement itself.
One moment she had been several feet away, trembling, dripping blood, barely able to stand.
The next—
She was beside him.
No wind.
No warning.
Just a blur of steel and intent.
The blade sliced across the side of his leg—deep, precise, perfectly angled to cripple rather than kill. The kind of strike that said:
I studied you. I know where you're weakest. I'm not done.
Gilda Ali dropped to one knee, the shock hitting him before the pain. Then—
It arrived.
Like molten iron pouring through his veins.
He screamed, a raw, ugly sound that ripped out of his throat as he slammed his fist into the stage floor—his body reacting before his mind could form words. The earth beneath his hand cracked, splintered, responding to his fury.
He felt humiliated.
He felt exposed.
He felt stupid.
A martial artist—someone he was supposed to crush easily—had just treated him like an opponent she could study.
Adebi Monta didn't press the attack.
She stood there, shoulders trembling, blade dripping, her breath ragged… yet her gaze was sharp as a knife tip.
She watched him struggle.
She made him feel watched.
It was psychological warfare—and the audience felt it.
Every spectator, every student, every teacher on either side of the arena…
knew something had changed.
The martial artists were no longer the underdogs.
Adebi Monta was no longer "the lithe girl with daggers."
She was the one dictating the pace.
And her silence spoke louder than any boast.
Gilda Ali gritted his teeth, rage boiling up like magma. Blood trickled down his leg, staining the stage. His face twisted—pain, fury, disbelief—all fighting for dominance.
"You—" he spat, breath shaking, voice half-growled, half-broken. "You dare—injure me?"
Adebi tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable behind her mask.
"I warned you," she said softly. "A mage who controls earth should know better than to underestimate someone who controls where she stands."
Her hand twirled the blade again—slow, calculated—showing she still had more to give, even in her battered state.
Master Herold looked like he was going to be sick.
Mistress Elena? She looked like she was watching a masterpiece being painted.
The arena held its breath.
Because everyone now understood:
The match wasn't about who was stronger.
It was about who could still think while bleeding.
And Adebi Monta was still thinking.
Still planning.
Still dangerous.
Gilda Ali tried to force himself up. The earth beneath him shook, responding to his anger—but even the ground couldn't numb the wound she had carved.
He wasn't just fighting to win anymore.
He was fighting to recover his pride.
And she was the one holding the knife pointed at it.