Elon was making the arena into an extension of himself.
Atlas pressed forward into it and immediately understood the problem in his body before his mind had finished naming it. Walking into the column was not like hitting a wall — it was like pushing through a river running sideways across him, constant and grinding, each step forward costing more than the last and returning less. He tried raising stone columns from the ground to use as cover, but the wind gradient sheared them sideways before they could fully form, catching them mid-rise and toppling them harmlessly. He tried flat slabs dragged low along the surface — harder to catch, lower profile — but the current near the floor was worse, faster, more concentrated, and they flipped and scattered before reaching their target.
He was being locked out of the fight from the inside.
