Adebi Monta moved—and the arena shifted with her.
It was no longer dodging. No longer scrambling for survival.
Her steps were measured, fluid, weaving through the battlefield with a rhythm older than the arena itself.
She wasn't just fighting.
She was dancing.
A dance no one had seen from her until now.
A dance reserved only for the moment she decided the match was already hers.
Master Eizo leaned forward, eyes wide, his usually stern expression melting into awe.
"That footwork… that pattern… she's entered the Sixth Flow. I never even taught her the full sequence. She derived the rest herself…"
Mistress Elena smirked and nudged him. "So that's what you get for calling her 'unrefined' two weeks ago."
"That was constructive criticism," Master Eizo muttered, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. "Good heavens… look at her balance—she's practically skating over air."
Master Tenzi puffed his chest. "Well, we all did train her, so technically—"
"Tenzi," Mistress Dissy cut in dryly, "you once told her to 'just kick harder.' Please don't rewrite history."
Laughter rippled through the teacher's booth—but it died just as quickly, because the dance changed.
It sharpened.
Every spin became angled footwork.
Every feint aligned with the golem's blind spots.
Every glide took her closer—not to the monster—but to Gilda Ali himself.
And the crowd finally understood:
She wasn't avoiding the golem anymore.
She was leading it.
Using it.
Letting it chase her exactly where she wanted it to be.
"Master Eizo's Shadow Dance…" murmured an elderly spectator. "But she's not copying it. She's… rewriting it."
"It's like she's fighting the air around her," another whispered, "and the air is obeying."
Gilda Ali watched her approach, still calm—still smirking—believing she was rushing to her own doom.
A spider waiting for the fly.
He raised his hand and the golem accelerated, pounding the earth behind her, closing in from the rear like a collapsing wall.
But Adebi didn't even look at it.
She twisted, lowered her body to one sweeping pivot, and the golem's arm passed through empty space—by a margin so small someone in the crowd fainted just watching.
Gilda Ali's smile twitched.
He had expected fear.
He saw choreography.
He expected flinching.
He saw calculation.
He expected prey.
He saw a predator walking his way, step by step, as if the battlefield had already been measured, solved, and archived.
The announcer didn't even dare speak.
The audience was silent—because they were watching something rare.
Not strength.
Not magic.
But a fighter who had already won in her mind and was simply moving her body to match the conclusion.
Adebi Monta reached the point she'd been shaping the entire fight toward—
A spot just close enough to Gilda Ali…
…and just far enough from the charging golem behind her.
Her feet stilled.
Her body stopped.
And then—she smiled.
A slow, wicked, knowing smile that did not belong to someone cornered.
Gilda Ali froze for a heartbeat. Something about that smile tugged at buried instinct—danger, trap, something is wrong—but pride drowned it out.
She was injured. She was wobbling.
And she was alone.
He was the mage.
He was the one with the grimoire.
He was the one commanding a literal walking mountain.
He forced his doubt away and snarled, "End."
The golem's massive stone fist came crashing down—enough force to pulp bone and crack the arena floor.
And Adebi Monta…
…just stood there.
Half a second.
Almost daring death to arrive.
The audience screamed—but she didn't flinch, didn't blink—until the last moment when her body shifted like silk catching the breeze. She moved just enough. Just barely enough.
Not to dodge the attack.
But to redirect the angle.
The golem's punch no longer met her—
—it aligned perfectly with its own master.
Gilda Ali didn't even have time to widen his eyes.
A thunderous crack echoed through the arena as the earthen fist obliterated his guard and smashed straight into his chest, launching him off his feet—and off the stage—like a rag doll crushed by his own creation.
Silence.
A silence so absolute it swallowed the shock.
Then—
Murmurs.
Gasps.
A wave of disbelief rippled outward like a shockwave.
"D-did she… just make him hit himself…?"
"She didn't defeat the golem—she used it."
"She played him the entire time—from the moment she got grabbed."
"She turned earth magic into a weapon against the caster…"
Ten full minutes passed, and still no one could completely process it.
Not because the move was flashy—
—but because it was perfect.
A masterclass in timing.
A trap disguised as helplessness.
A victory stolen from certainty.
Even the announcer forgot to speak.
Even the mage teachers stared in stunned silence.
And somewhere, in the highest booth, someone whispered the words that would later be written into history:
"That wasn't a win of strength.
That was a win of intelligence.
The first true tactician of the martial school has arrived."
Adebi Monta, bleeding, half-broken, barely standing…
…just straightened her back and bowed.
As if she hadn't just rewritten what "martial arts" meant in front of 200,000 witnesses.
Cheers erupted like a wave breaking across the entire arena.
"ADEBI MONTA! ADEBI MONTA!"
Her name rolled through the stands, shouted first by a handful of young martial artists, then taken up by hundreds—until the chanting shook the air itself. The students of the martial arts school were ecstatic, some leaping to their feet, others pounding the wooden railings with fists and open palms. A few even cried out in disbelief, as though what they had just witnessed shattered the rules of reality they were raised to believe in.
Strength was never supposed to lose to finesse.
Yet here they were—watching a girl with daggers defeat a man with a living mountain at his command.
For a moment, even the mages were silent.
Then, slowly, some of them began to clap too. Not cheer—just clap. A quiet, grudging respect, like nobles forced to bow to a peasant who had just earned a title through raw merit.
Up on the emperor's platform, the reaction was different.
The emperor rose to his feet—not hurriedly, but with the measured grace of someone who understood the weight of his own applause. His royal robes shimmered under the sun, and when he clapped, the sound carried—deep, resonant, authoritative.
He approved.
And everyone in the arena felt it.
The court nobles followed in a ripple, standing just because he did. The emperor's eyes were still fixed on Adebi Monta, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was rare—very rare—for a match to make him feel anything. Even the governor, seated by his side, looked stunned for a second before breaking into an excited grin.
He had been certain the mage would win. Certain. All logic, all advantage, all training said Gilda Ali had the superior path to victory.
But Adebi Monta had just written a new rule.
Advantage was not the same as victory.
A staff-bearing healing mage hurried onto the stage, her robe fluttering as she approached her. Even wounded, with cuts across her arms and a bruise forming under her cheek, Adebi stood like she was floating—light on her feet, her breath steady, her gaze still sharp and playful.
Healing light washed over her. The cuts closed. The bruises faded. A wave of warmth seeped into her bones.
This was the privilege granted to all competitors—no one was allowed to leave the stage broken. Even the unconscious were carried away and restored, so the next day would never begin with limps or regrets.
As the pain faded, it hit her—not physically, but as a realization.
They were cheering for her.
They weren't just impressed.
They knew her name.
Just like they had known Blaise Dean's—when he crushed Wilk Zoberman and fought like a boy touched by destiny against Siwa Loma. Just like the entire empire had whispered about him for hours afterward.
Now she was one of them.
A name carved into the tournament.
A fighter nobody would underestimate again.
Adebi allowed herself a smile—not the deceptive one she wore during battle, but a quiet, honest one. She glanced up at the emperor's stand, then at the sea of roaring students, then at the entrance where the next fighters would soon walk out.
She had earned her place.
She had turned fear into applause.
And somewhere in the crowd, Blaise Dean was watching too.