Though their voices weren't raised, the conversation between Aziz and Nala was loud enough to reach the ears of every Elder seated at the front.
A faint chill crawled down Diallo's spine. A strange, unsettling tightness gripped his chest as he watched Aziz's composed demeanour. Somewhere in the depths of his instincts, a quiet alarm began to ring. But it was too late to take it back.
The moment none of the other Elders voiced their opposition, the Deacon had little choice but to proceed. He turned to the two boys standing opposite one another, one radiating indignant fury, the other veiled in unreadable calm.
"This is just a practice battle," the deacon declared. "Make sure to control yourselves and not take it too far."
His words, though directed to both, were clearly meant for Gichinga.
The tension across the field was thick enough to cut with a blade. But beneath the weight of the moment, there was a quiet reverence growing. A reverence for the boy who had defied every assumption at every turn thus far.
A perfect score of 25 stars. That alone was a feat worthy of legend. So rare was it among seeded students that one could count the names who'd achieved it on both hands – most of whom had descended from truly powerful tribes.
Normally, once a seeded student achieved five stars in their chosen attribute, they would rush to become a Beast-Warrior, not wasting a second more. Few ever pursued perfection across all attributes. To do so was to seek a level of physical harmony so rarely attained it bordered on madness.
But Jabari had done it.
A slum orphan – now standing shoulder to shoulder with the prodigies of Ulo's most powerful tribes.
"Okay," the Deacon continued, "head to the racks and choose your weapons."
Jabari's fingers curled around the smooth handle of a wooden glaive, its weight significantly lighter than the one he'd trained with daily. As he spun it once through his fingers, he frowned.
"Too light." He murmured absentmindedly.
Still, it would have to do.
On the opposite side, Gichinga approached the racks with quiet purpose. 'The Supreme Elder was right…' His fingers wrapped around the hilt of a wooden scimitar. His grip tightened. 'Just because someone is physically superior doesn't mean they can fight.
I may not be a descendant of the Six Great Tribes… I may not be able to compare with the likes of August or Young Master Jamal. But I'm far from weak!
I am Gichinga Omondi, the Young Master of the Omondi Tribe. I've been taught swordsmanship since I could walk. My skill with the blade isn't something a pathetic little slum rat can compare to!'
His confidence renewed, Gichinga stepped onto the arena.
In the distance, the seated young Beast-Warriors watched the two boys enter the stage. No one spoke for a moment.
"I never thought I'd ask this so many times in one day, but…" Danso muttered, "…do you think he can really do this?"
Silence lingered.
Even Chantelle hesitated before responding. "Even if Jabari has improved, being able to fight on equal ground with a noble trained in the art of swordsmanship like Gichinga is unlikely."
"Did you…" A look of shock appeared on Danso's face before it transformed into a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. "You just called him by his name."
Chantelle blinked.
Azurian added with his usual calm. "Three times."
"Oh, grow up!" she snapped. "So what if I did? Since when is calling someone by their name a crime?"
"It's not," Danso chuckled. "It's just, up until now, it was always 'shameless punk' or 'slum rat' or something equally colourful."
It was then Chantelle realised, her opinion of Jabari had changed. Subconsciously, without even realising it, she had started to see him not as a slum rat beneath her, but as an equal. Someone worth watching.
From beside them, Jamal scoffed.
"Whether he wins or loses doesn't matter. Even if he becomes a Beast-Warrior tomorrow, he'll never catch up to me."
His arrogance took each of the seeded students by surprise, including August, whose expression barely shifted as he turned to glance at the young Shura Tribe descendant.
August's voice was just as blank as his expression as he gave voice to his thoughts.
"Narcissist."
Jamal's expression twisted. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sabre. "What did you say?"
But before tensions could flare any further, Danso quickly interjected. "Now's really not the time to compete for number one, you two."
Chantelle placed a calming hand on her brother's shoulder. "He's right, Mal. Save it for the end-of-year exams."
With a scoff and a final glare, Jamal turned away.
August didn't even blink.
His attention had already shifted. His gaze was locked firmly ahead – on the boy standing tall at the centre of the field, glaive in hand.
Jabari.
Unshaken. Silent. And more dangerous than anyone was ready for.
"Remember what I said," the Deacon warned once more, his eyes shifting between the two boys. "This is just a practice battle – don't take things too far."
But it was painfully obvious that his words held no weight with Gichinga.
The wild glint in the young man's eyes was unmistakable. He wasn't here for a sparring match. He was here for a reckoning. A purge of humiliation. A desperate grasp to reclaim whatever fragments of pride remained.
'I'll need to be ready to step in,' The Deacon's heart clenched. 'Before Jabari gets hurt too badly.'
Over the course of the assessment, Jabari had gone from a dismissed slum child to a prodigious force – the pride of the Western Branch in the making. Even those who once mocked him had shifted their perception, now seeing him as a future pillar. No one – Elder or Deacon alike – wanted to see that future crippled or jeopardised in a meaningless clash.
Still, no one dared speak against the Supreme Elder.
And so the responsibility to ensure Jabari's safety now fell on him.
Yet, as the tension grew thick enough to suffocate the field, there was one person who seemed completely unfazed by the pressure.
Jabari.
He stood tall, glaive in hand, his breathing measured, his expression unreadable – until he finally broke his silence.
"Did you know," Jabari said, his voice calm, almost weary, "I had no intention of competing in the assessment yet, but after six months of nagging, you finally got what you wanted."
A ripple of surprise washed across the crowd. Many leaned forward instinctively. For the first time, Jabari had directly addressed Gichinga – and the implication of his words left everyone puzzled.
What exactly had Gichinga done to drag Jabari out today?
Over the past half year, the boy had insulted Jabari relentlessly, spitting venom at every turn. Yet Jabari had never once reacted. So why now? What changed?
That question hung in the air like a cloud just as Jabari's expression shifted.
Gone was the calm exterior.
What emerged was colder. Sharper.
His eyes lost their warmth, replaced by a glacial stare that pierced the soul. The entire field seemed to chill under his gaze.
And for Gichinga, it felt as though he was no longer facing a fellow student – but a force of nature. A predator who had tired of being provoked.
"Yesterday," Jabari continued, his tone turning icy, "you called my mentor pathetic."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "I just want to know…
Do you regret it?"
Gichinga opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat tightened. His tongue felt heavy. Under Jabari's frigid stare, words abandoned him, and instincts took over.
He looked away and stepped back.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as, for the first time, Gichinga Omondi – the class tyrant, the self-proclaimed prodigy – flinched.
And then he saw them. The faces of his classmates.
No longer gazing up at him with awe. No longer lowering their eyes in deference. Now, their faces were filled with amusement…
With pity…
With mockery!
The kind he had once reserved for Jabari.
"ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!" Gichinga howled to the sky, his voice cracking from the pressure boiling within him. Rage contorted his features as his chest heaved in fury.
He spun around and glared at the crowd, forcing their gazes to drop. His eyes burned crimson with shame and hatred – but the source of it all still stood before him, silent and still.
"You piece of shit!" Gichinga roared, spittle flying from his mouth. "I don't regret anything! YOU'RE PATHETIC! YOUR MENTOR'S PATHETIC! YOUR WHOLE DAMN FAMILY IS PATHETIC!"
Jabari's expression didn't shift. Not even slightly.
"I see," was all he said in response before his eyes moved. Turning from Gichinga to the Supreme Elder seated above. "Can we begin now?"
A muscle twitched in Diallo's jaw.
To be spoken to so casually, so dismissively – especially in front of the entire student body – gnawed at his pride like acid. He longed to respond, to crush this upstart underfoot.
But with so many eyes watching…
He clenched his teeth and gave the Deacon a subtle nod.
The Deacon took a deep breath, torn between duty and worry. He cast one last glance at Jabari, who looked determined to challenge authority at every turn and sighed.
"BEGIN!" he shouted.
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