The moment the deacon called for the battle to begin, Gichinga exploded into motion like a beast unleashed. Fury twisted his face, and his eyes gleamed with madness. He charged across the ring, wooden scimitar raised high, a roar tearing from his throat.
Jabari didn't move. He didn't even look at his opponent. Instead, his warm, confident gaze was fixed on one man – Aziz.
And for the first time since the assessments began, a smile, calm and brimming with quiet pride, spread across Jabari's face.
"DIEEE!" Gichinga bellowed, slashing downward with enough force to break bone, his weapon cleaving the air as if he meant to split Jabari in two.
'This one's for you, old man,' Jabari thought to himself, still smiling as he activated his bloodline.
The Deacon's eyes widened, and his heart lurched as he prepared to intercept Gichinga. 'It's over-'
But then Jabari moved.
A single step.
Effortless.
Fluid.
The blade missed entirely, slamming into the ground with a muffled thud.
The Deacon blinked, stunned, and so did the crowd. Jabari had evaded the attack with such ease that it was almost as if he'd known the trajectory of the strike before Gichinga had even made it.
Yet what followed shocked them more.
Jabari didn't counterattack. He didn't create distance. He simply stood. Waiting. Calm. Composed.
Gaze steady on his opponent, like a teacher allowing a student to burn out their temper.
"For him to go this far…
Just because someone insulted you," Grand Elder Nala said quietly, her tone soft with a mixture of surprise and amusement. "You must've made quite the impression on your apprentice."
"I have that effect on people," Aziz replied with that same shameless grin he wore whenever he was being utterly sincere and completely unbearable.
Yet beneath the humour, Nala saw the emotion swelling in his eyes. It caught her off guard.
Even he hadn't realised why Jabari had chosen today of all days to make his grand entrance.
But now?
Now, the pieces clicked into place. And that warmth Aziz rarely let show was impossible to hide.
Nala rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. "You really have got yourself one hell of an apprentice."
"You have no idea," Aziz murmured, his voice low, reverent, almost wistful.
What the others didn't know – what none of the students or even the other Elders were aware of – was that Jabari had begun combat training almost five months ago.
After mastering the art of lying down, walking, and even running under the influence of the Electric Muscular Stimulating Needle in just a month – something that would have taken even the most talented of warriors months, if not years, to complete – Aziz had begun sparring with him, first with open hands, then with weapons.
All while the needle remained in his brain.
Aziz would match Jabari's physical abilities exactly, limiting himself to Jabari's level, but in every other regard, he fought like a demon. Each session was brutal. One-sided. Unrelenting.
Jabari was forced to dodge blow after blow while managing every fibre of his body to avoid collapse.
To this day, Jabari still wasn't any closer to even attempting a counterstrike.
Even with his bloodline activated – enhancing his perception, his senses, even his timing – Aziz always remained one step ahead. Every attempted counter was crushed before it began.
But Jabari never complained. He never backed down. And each day, he grew stronger. Faster. More precise.
Aziz had seen the spark of genius before, but Jabari's physical growth stunned even him. His strength had skyrocketed. His control reached supernatural levels. And his endurance…
It bordered on the impossible. It was like fatigue had no place in his vocabulary.
'He's hiding something…' Aziz had thought on more than one occasion.
Still, he never asked.
Because he understood better than most: all those who stand at the summit of power in this world have experienced their own fortuitous encounter. Be that being born into greatness, stumbling upon a mystical inheritance of some kind, or awakening a fearsome bloodline, the path to greatness was always paved with secrets.
Aziz wasn't jealous. He was happy for him!
"Why isn't he attacking back, though?" Grand Elder Nala asked, her brow creased in confusion as she continued watching Jabari dance effortlessly around Gichinga's frenzied blows.
It was obvious to everyone – students, Deacons, Elders alike – that Jabari was in another league altogether. And yet, despite the countless openings, he hadn't struck once.
Aziz merely shrugged. "Who knows what goes through that brat's mind."
Of course, he neglected to mention one crucial detail.
In all their time training together, Aziz had never taught Jabari how to attack.
"Stop running like a coward and fight me! Fight me like a man already!" Gichinga spat through clenched teeth, frothing with rage. "Did your pathetic mentor only teach you how to run and hide like a pussy?!"
The insults were sharp, the hatred real, but Jabari didn't so much as blink. Gichinga's words shattered against the wall of his indifference.
Each missed strike drove Gichinga further into madness. With every dodge, every feint, every moment he failed to land a blow, his fury grew. Logic abandoned him, replaced by blind hatred.
"ARRRGHH! FIGHT ME ALREADY!"
Roaring, Gichinga lunged forward with all the rage in his body, his blade aimed directly at Jabari's neck – fully intending to decapitate him.
But Jabari simply leant back.
Calm.
Fluid.
Unhurried.
The blade missed entirely, the air whistling from the force of the swing. The momentum spun Gichinga in a full circle, leaving his back exposed – an opening so wide even a novice could've capitalised.
And yet Jabari didn't take it.
Instead, he lightly pushed off the ground and landed several metres back, as calm and unreadable as ever.
Gichinga turned, panting, eyes blazing – only to see Jabari had shifted.
Gone was the passive stance. Now, he crouched low, both hands gripping the glaive, the tip angled forward like a drawn bowstring – poised, focused.
The sudden shift made Gichinga's heart lurch. But he drowned his instinct in madness.
"Finally!" Gichinga barked, a deranged grin spreading across his face. "Let's end this!"
He dashed forward again, this time convinced that Jabari had finally taken the bait. In his delusion, he saw victory within reach.
But Jabari remained perfectly still, eyes locked on his opponent, mind focused not on Gichinga's approach, but on a memory.
He recalled the spear thrust from Ibrahim, the second-year student during the selection – a flawless strike that had left a lasting impression.
Jabari's breathing slowed. His heartbeat steadied. And when Gichinga entered range, Jabari moved.
His body snapped forward, every muscle synchronising with perfect harmony, the result of months of brutal, painstaking training under Aziz.
His glaive blurred. A single, devastating [Thrust].
The air cracked as the wooden weapon screamed forward, cutting through space with terrifying force.
The crowd didn't even have time to gasp.
There was only the sharp crack of bones breaking – and then silence.
Gichinga's eyes widened in horror. Then everything went black.
His body was launched off the ground like a ragdoll, hurtling through the air before crashing unceremoniously at the referee's feet.
The Deacon barely reacted in time to check his breathing.
Gasps erupted from the spectators like a tidal wave, the silence shattering beneath waves of disbelief and awe.
Elder Zaire stood from his seat with such speed that his chair nearly toppled.
As the most talented spearman in the Western Branch, he knew greatness when he saw it. And Jabari's [Thrust] was something special. Something rare.
"Marvellous…" he muttered, eyes gleaming. "Truly a marvellous [Thrust]!"
But even as his voice carried across the field, a heavy sigh escaped him. His gaze shifted to Aziz, who stood motionless with that same mysterious, maddening smirk.
Zaire's jaw tightened with unmistakable envy.
'Why couldn't that boy have chosen me?'
"Three minutes…" Elder Idir muttered beneath his breath, his sharp eyes fixed on the youth standing tall in the centre of the arena.
"What are you talking about?" Elder Bamidele asked curiously, though his tone was hushed.
But it didn't matter how softly they spoke. Every Elder heard it. Yet none responded – at least not immediately. They were still too caught up in the lingering shock of what they'd just witnessed.
Only when Idir leaned back with a sly grin did comprehension start to ripple across their expressions.
"I'm talking about Jabari," Idir clarified, voice low and amused. "He won the fight in exactly three minutes."
A sudden pause settled over the elders. Then, realisation struck like thunder.
The challenge condition... The Supreme Elder had stated it himself – Jabari needed to last at least three minutes in the duel to retain his seeded status.
And Jabari had not only lasted.
He had waited.
Waited in silence, calmly dodging, evading, without a single counterstrike…
Until the moment the clock struck three minutes – then struck once, decisively, flawlessly, and ended the fight.
It wasn't just victory.
It was a slap in the face.
The smirk on Idir's lips grew. "Interesting indeed."
Back on the arena floor, the Deacon knelt beside Gichinga, checking his breathing and issuing orders for him to be carried to the infirmary. The entire crowd – students and staff alike – remained silent, still absorbing the weight of what had just transpired.
Then Jabari turned, walking to the front of the stage with the same calm confidence that had become his trademark. His voice, when it rang out, was clear and firm, filled with purpose.
"There seems to have been a lot of discussion recently," he began, "about whether I regret my choice of mentor."
Whispers returned instantly, like the spark of dry grass catching flame.
Jabari's gaze swept over the sea of students, then over the rows of Deacons, before finally locking on the stormy eyes of Supreme Elder Diallo himself.
"Well, allow me to put those discussions to bed once and for all," he continued, voice unwavering. "If I had chosen anyone else as my mentor, I'd be lucky to have accomplished half as much as I have here today."
Gasps spread like ripples on a pond.
He didn't just praise his mentor. He publicly declared that the Supreme Elder – the most powerful man in the Western Branch – was only, at most, half the teacher Aziz was.
A thick vein pulsed angrily at Diallo's temple. His fists clenched tightly beneath his robes, the fury within him only barely restrained by decades of self-control.
He wanted to respond. To crush this insolent brat. But one wrong word here, and he'd lose all credibility.
It wasn't just the Elders who were shocked. Down below, Jamal's hand had subconsciously moved to his sabre, his eyes burning with rage. He was seconds from drawing it when Chantelle grasped his wrist to calm him.
"Don't," she whispered. "Not here. Not now."
Even some of the Deacons – those who had revered Diallo for years – looked upon Jabari with a mix of outrage and disbelief.
But Jabari?
He didn't care.
He didn't care for their stares, their whispers, their thinly veiled fury. Because, as far as he was concerned, none of them was worth even a single strand of Aziz Amin's hair.
Then, in front of the entire student body, Elders, and faculty, Jabari lowered himself onto one knee.
His glaive rested in his left hand.
His right fist crossed over his heart.
His body turned to face the man who had been everything a mentor could be and more.
His eyes closed as he bowed his head deeply.
"If the offer still stands…" Jabari said solemnly, "then I, Jabari, would love to be the official disciple of you, Aziz Amin."
Silence.
Pure, deafening silence.
Not a whisper. Not a breath.
Even the wind stilled to hear the answer.
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