The tolling of the brass bells faded into the dry wind, replaced by the murmurs of a crowd already hungry for blood and brilliance. The morning sun blazed like a forge above the colliseum, casting molten light across seven arenas carved from the desert stone—each shaped after the land that birthed the warriors.
At the heart of it all, the first arena shimmered gold: a vast savannah of baked earth and tall, whispering grasses ringed by ancient baobabs. Drums rolled in steady rhythm, deep and resonant, echoing the heartbeat of the land itself.
Leonotis leaned forward over the railing, shaking his leg with anticipation.
"This is it. Low, this is the one—they say Adebayo hasn't lost a Laamb match in three years."
Low popped a roasted seed into her mouth. "Cool. Hope he doesn't win today, then. We don't need to be up against a prodigy"
When Adebayo stepped onto the field, the crowd went silent for a breath. His presence demanded reverence. Bare-chested, his skin gleamed with shea oil, his arms bound in cloth strips etched with cowrie shells and griot markings. A necklace of carved wooden beads rested against his chest—each one a story, each one earned through victory.
Leonotis exhaled sharply. "Look at him—grounded. Focused. That's how a warrior's supposed to walk."
Low shrugged. "He looks like he oils himself too much."
He pressed one hand to the ground and whispered an old Wolof prayer.
"Nenem dof, but my spirit stands unbroken. Ancestors, hold my feet steady."
The ground hummed beneath his palm. The scent of dust and grass mingled with something older—earth remembering who walked upon it.
Across from him, Namiri emerged from the shade of a baobab, half-man, half-beast, his eyes glinting amber beneath his mane of black hair. His movement was sinuous, feline, almost casual—like a predator toying with prey before the kill. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as if some creature beneath the flesh stirred to escape. His smile bared teeth too sharp to be human.
Low whistled. "Okay. That guy's cool."
Leonotis shot her a betrayed look. "You're NOT rooting for him."
"I'm rooting for good entertainment," she said, crunching another seed.
The announcer's voice boomed across the amphitheater, heavy with ritual and rhythm.
"The Song of the Savannah begins!
Adebayo, Son of Dust and Stone—Laamb of the Cowrie Crown!
Versus Namiri of the Leopard Tribes—He Who Hunts Beneath Two Moons!"
The crowd roared, a wave of anticipation crashing over the arena.
Namiri crouched, fingers splaying into claws. "You smell of the old dirt," he said in a rasping growl. "Let's see if your spirit is stronger than my hunger."
Adebayo straightened, meeting the predator's stare without flinching. "Then feed, beast," he said quietly, settling into stance. "Let's see if your teeth can bite through the earth."
The drums struck.
And the fight began.
Namiri blurred forward, a streak of muscle and claws.
Leonotis was half out of his seat. "He's fast!"
Namiri's feet tore across the golden dust with animal speed, and in one heartbeat, he was behind Adebayo. A flash of claws, a rush of hot air—Adebayo twisted, deflecting the blow with his forearm, and the sound of impact cracked like stone struck by a hammer.
Namiri's grin widened. He lunged again, low this time, his body a twisting coil of limbs and fur. His nails slashed across Adebayo's ribs, leaving shallow trails of blood. The scent of iron filled the air.
Adebayo grunted, steadying his breath. To him, Namiri seemed faster than the wind itself. But Laamb was not a dance of speed, but a dance of center.
He let his feet sink into the soil, grounding himself, exhaling until he felt the rhythm of the drums match the rhythm of his pulse. Then—he moved.
With a fluid sweep, he caught Namiri's wrist, pivoted, and slammed his shoulder into the man-beast's chest. The throw was clean, perfect—earth meeting sky. Namiri crashed into the dust, sending up a storm of golden sand.
The crowd roared.
Leonotis punched the air. "YES! That's how you THROW!"
Low nodded. "Fine. That was nice."
Namiri rolled to his feet, chuckling darkly. "Good," he said, his voice deepening into a growl. "But not enough."
The air shimmered around him as his bones shifted, spine arching. His skin rippled and split into spotted fur. The transformation came in a breath—a nightmare made flesh. His pupils narrowed to slits, claws lengthened, and his roar sent birds scattering from the baobabs.
The Leopard-Man was born.
Leonotis's jaw dropped. "He shifted? What kind of—"
Low grinned. "Oh yeah. Now it's a fight."
Adebayo set his stance again, unafraid. "Then fight as you truly are," he said. "The ancestors see all masks."
Namiri lunged, his claws flashing like curved blades. Each strike came faster than thought, a blur of muscle and shadow. Adebayo ducked, parried, rolled through the onslaught—his feet never leaving rhythm with the drums. He caught one clawed hand mid-strike and used Namiri's own momentum to send him spinning over his shoulder.
But Namiri landed on all fours, unharmed, tail flicking. "You move well… for a man," he hissed.
"I move as the earth moves," Adebayo said.
He stomped once—hard. The ground trembled. Cracks spiderwebbed through the dirt, snaking outward like lightning.
Namiri stumbled for a heartbeat, his animal instincts faltering at the unexpected tremor. Adebayo used the moment—closing distance, locking his arms around Namiri's torso, and heaving. The throw lifted both from the ground. Dust swirled like storm clouds.
They hit the earth with the weight of thunder.
A wave of sand and light rolled across the arena.
The crowd screamed in awe.
But Namiri laughed. Even pinned, his body twisted unnaturally, and his claws raked Adebayo's back. Blood ran down his spine like red paint.
Leonotis winced. "Oh no that's deep."
"You bleed," Namiri purred. "And once a man bleeds, the beast wins."
He rolled, breaking the hold, and sprang up again, this time landing behind Adebayo. His teeth sank into the young champion's shoulder.
Adebayo cried out. Pain flared—but it was quickly replaced by something deeper. The earth beneath him pulsed, reacting to his agony, his anger. Dust lifted in spirals around his feet.
He gritted his teeth, slammed his palm into the ground again.
"Earth—rise with me."
The àṣẹ answered.
The soil hardened under his feet, glowing faintly with earthen light. Beneath Namiri's claws, the ground softened—like quicksand.
Namiri snarled, jerking away, but too late. His foot sank deep. The soil swallowed his balance, dragging him off-center.
Leonotis shouted, "Yes—YES!"
Low popped another seed. "You yelling's not helping him."
Adebayo rose, spinning, seizing Namiri's trapped arm, and with a roar, unleashed a throw that felt less like a technique and more like a commandment.
The ground itself shifted to obey him.
Namiri hit the earth—and the earth struck back.
The impact sent a shockwave through the arena, a deep tremor that rippled up the baobab trunks. Dust and leaves swirled into the air. When it cleared, Namiri lay in a shallow crater, his form half-human, half-leopard again, gasping for air.
Adebayo stood over him, chest heaving, blood still dripping from his shoulder but eyes calm—steady.
"Yield," he said.
Namiri's golden eyes flickered between defiance and exhaustion. Then, with a guttural breath, he let his claws sink back into his hands. "The earth… wins," he admitted, the animal tone fading from his voice.
Leonotis whispered, soft with awe, "He did it without killing or crippling his opponent."
Adebayo offered him a hand. "No," he said softly. "The ancestors win. We only dance to their rhythm."
Namiri hesitated, then took it. Adebayo helped him stand.
The drums shifted to a slower rhythm—one of victory, not battle. Griots in the stands began to sing, their voices weaving through the crowd like wind through grass.
"He who stands upon the dust of his fathers,
Shall not fall when the storm comes.
He who roots himself in truth,
Shall shake the heavens and the earth alike."
Adebayo turned to the High Seer's dais. Jabara watched from above, her robes billowing in a breeze only she could summon. Her face was calm, but his gaze—piercing, old—lingered on Adebayo longer than any champion before him.
The High Seer raised her hand. "The victor," he said, voice like rolling thunder, "is Adebayo of the Cowrie Crown. The earth itself bears witness."
The amphitheater erupted.
Leonotis shouted along with them. "THAT'S what I'm talking about!"
Low stretched her arms over her head.
"Cool. So when's the next fight?"
Adebayo bowed, his right hand pressed to his heart, the other still dusted with soil. Beneath his feet, the trembling earth finally stilled.
Namiri limped from the ring, pride wounded but spirit intact. And as Adebayo walked toward the waiting gates, he whispered one last prayer under his breath.
"May the next battle be just as pure."
Behind him, the baobabs stood tall and silent, their roots deep and strong—like the warrior who had earned their respect.
And above, the wind carried the echo of Jabara's voice, low and uncertain, as she murmured to herself:
"The earth answers quickly to that one… too quickly."
The drums faded.
The dust settled.
And the Song of the Savannah ended.
Leonotis leaned forward on the stone railing, eyes still wide.
"Did you see that? Did you actually see that? The way Adebayo grounded himself—Low, that wasn't just technique. That was the ancestors pulling the earth for him."
Low flicked a piece of roasted nut into her mouth.
"Mm. Looked like two guys rolling around in dirt to me."
Leonotis stared at her. "Rolling—Low, he suplexed a leopard-man hard enough to crack the arena floor!"
"Yeah," she shrugged. "And the leopard tried to bite his shoulder off. Seems even."
"It is not even. Adebayo fought with discipline, heart, and ancestral balance. Namiri fought like… like a feral animal."
Low snorted.
Leonotis turned back toward the arena, shaking his head.
"No, you're not getting it. That last throw—he aligned the entire plane of his stance with the fault lines under the sand. He didn't just lift Namiri. He commanded the ground to do it with him."
"Hmm." She popped another nut. "Yeah Leonotis I saw I was right here."
"Low!"
"What?" She dusted her palms. "Me? I respect the leopard guy. He fought alone. No dirt, no ancestors, no glowing cracks. Just claws and grit."
"Claws and grit are not a strategy."
"Worked until it didn't."
Leonotis sighed, watching Adebayo limp through the victory gate.
"He deserved that win. Every bit of it. I'm telling you, that man fights with purpose. With intention. With connection."
Low leaned back, unimpressed. "He fights like someone who cares what people think of him. Namiri fought like someone who just wanted breakfast."
"That's worse, Low."
"Or more honest," she said, stretching. "Anyway, I didn't really care who won. They both looked like they were having fun."
Leonotis blinked. "FUN? Low, Adebayo almost got mauled."
"Yeah," she grinned, "and Namiri got pile-driven into a crater. That's peak entertainment. Ten out of ten."
Leonotis groaned.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're watching the same fights."
"We are," she said, brushing crumbs from her fake beard. "I just don't pick favorites. You're going to get too attached."
Leonotis's eyes followed Adebayo with open admiration.
"Some warriors deserve it."
Low popped the last nut into her mouth.
"Well… I guess we'll see if he still deserves it in the next round."
The golden dust still hadn't fully settled when King Rega stepped back from the viewing rail, his expression carved from calm precision. The crowd roared below, chanting Adebayo's name, but Rega's thoughts were calculating.
His two masked guardians flanked him, wooden faces impassive as ever. Kenya stood to his right, posture rigid, hands clasped behind her back; Zuri to his left, her mask tilted ever so slightly, as if watching the arena and the King at the same time.
Rega exhaled. "Adebayo executed that final throw with exact intention. Not luck. Not instinct. Discipline."
Kenya inclined her head.
"His grounding was superb, Your Majesty. He read the terrain before Namiri ever transformed."
Zuri added softly, "And he refused to kill, even when he had every chance. That matters."
Rega's jaw tightened.
He did not disagree—he simply hated that she could always pinpoint the part he was trying not to think about.
"He made himself vulnerable," Rega said. "Twice. Namiri's bite, and again when he slowed to offer a hand. Mercy gives openings."
Zuri turned her masked face toward him.
"Or it earns respect," she said gently.
Kenya shifted slightly—just enough to signal disagreement.
"Respect does not win matches. Precision does."
Rega nodded, almost approving.
"Exactly."
Zuri's mask tilted toward him again, as if searching for the young boy beneath the crown.
"Your Majesty… he stood over a defeated enemy and chose restraint. A king should want warriors who show control in victory."
Rega's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't scold her. He rarely scolded Zuri; she was the only one allowed to speak truths that made him flinch.
"Weakness disguised as virtue," Rega murmured.
Zuri shook her head.
"No. Strength shaped into compassion."
Kenya cut in, voice crisp as flint.
"Compassion is for after the arena, Zuri. In combat, clarity comes first."
Rega didn't comment—but the slight square of his shoulders said Kenya had echoed his thoughts perfectly.
Below them, Adebayo was being led through the victory gate, still bleeding from his shoulder, still dignified.
Rega watched him with a stare too old for fifteen.
"He fights with purpose," the young king said quietly. "Not for glory. Not for the crowd."
Zuri nodded. "Purpose is good, my king."
Rega continued, "Purpose can be shaped."
Kenya said, "He could serve you well."
Zuri added, "He could serve the people well."
The difference between the two statements hung in the air like dust motes in sunlight.
Rega looked back toward the arena.
"Namiri fights with raw hunger. Adebayo fights with method and restraint."
Kenya answered immediately.
"Your Majesty, only one of them used the arena the way a true champion should."
Zuri's voice slipped in softly.
"And only one of them tried to end the fight without ending the fighter."
Rega fell silent.
"Let the others cheer," he said softly. "This tournament isn't just for spectacle. It's also a test."
Kenya's mask turned toward him.
"A test for the champions?"
Rega shook his head, eyes sharp.
"A test for us."
And beneath their wooden masks, Kenya stood taller with purpose…
while Zuri quietly hoped the test would not harden him beyond saving.