When I first heard the CATF was being held above Nairobi in a stadium that literally floats above the skyline, I thought it was just another rumor but no. The damn thing was real.
By the time Radellei and I made it to the transit hub, it was already late morning.
The prices to get into the stadium were brutal. I don't mean just expensive. A shuttle ticket from the ground floor of the city up to the floating dome was worth the same as three months' rent in an apartment. Vendors were yelling about "discounts" like ninety percent of people didn't have to pawn heirlooms just to buy their way in.
But no one cared. Everyone was here for it because the CATF wasn't just some fancy show. It was survival, recognition and in some cases, the closest thing people would ever get to touching glory. I was standing there, next to Radellei, watching the crowd surge forward like an ocean of souls waiting to be judged.
We finally got scanned and floated up in one of the levitation lifts. I pressed my forehead against the glass, watching the city sink beneath us. The streets were crammed with food vendors, banners in Swahili and English, and little kids wearing hand-painted cloaks pretending to be Fluxers. Even through the storm clouds above Nairobi, the floating stadium shone like a second sun.
When we stepped off the lift, the stadium was already roaring.
And that's when it hit me. This was across the continent. Every spring, the CATF pressed the reset button on its power, rankings and status. It was the reset or at least, that's what people wanted to believe. Radellei walked beside me as though she didn't feel the eyes burning holes through us. People were staring at us.
"Um... you do realize everyone is staring like we just stole their life savings, right?"
She didn't even flinch. "We are House Fluxers, Mr Phaser. They're supposed to stare."
"That's not an answer. You're not even going to disguise yourselves?"
"No need. This isn't the underworld. This isn't some back-alley blood-ring. This is the CATF. There is honor here. Disguises would insult that."
"Right. Honor."
I rolled my eyes but followed her anyway, walking through rows of polished seats until we found ours. They are House seats at the front row of the section above the rest. Everyone around us had House crests gleaming like medals. You couldn't sit here unless you carried a name worth something and if I'm being honest, I didn't like that. Not one bit.
Radellei must have noticed my silence because she leaned closer as we sat down.
"You still don't understand, do you?"
"Understand what?"
"The CATF isn't about who wins or loses. It's about reminding the continent that the strong rise and the weak get recycled. That is why Father sent us here. Training means nothing if the world doesn't see you."
The arena thundered with drums, horns and amplifiers. The crowd roared. Out of the shadowed tunnel, a man walked forward. He was tall wearing a sharp suit of deep purple clinging to him. His shoes clicked against the floor like they were part of the music.
"Karibuni, mabibi na mabwana, to the Continental Arcanum Tournament of Flux!!"
His Swahili accent was amazing and elegant. Even without my system translating the words, I could feel the weight of them. Out of nowhere a choir appeared. Voices soared on the stadium grounds. Spotlights broke through the mist and a famous artist stepped onto the stage, his voice carrying an old Swahili song.
I couldn't understand it at first, not really. But my system kicked in, translating line after line, and suddenly, it was like I'd been punched in the chest. The crowd went feral. Hands clapped. Feet stomped. People shouted and sang along.
Radellei's voice cut through the noise.
"Do you understand now, Phaser? This is why the CATF is seen as a continental event!"
I leaned back in my seat, staring up at the glowing dome above us.
"Yeah. I get it."
The music had stretched on for minutes. Just when I thought the crowd was about to combust from anticipation, the host lifted the mic back to his lips. He exhaled, chuckled, and said with a grin:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I haven't danced like that in years!"
The audience erupted into laughter, whistles cutting through the air. I have to admit, the man has charisma.
Then he dropped his voice. The crowd hushed like someone had pulled a plug.
"But we are not going to waste your time with endless introductions or noise. We start with a challenge. Ladies and gentlemen, our first competitor needs no introduction but I will give her one anyway."
The crowd was silent now.
"From the noble House of Rameses, she stood in this very stadium before as a past fighter. She is a young woman of forty-nine victories and nineteen defeats. She has clawed her way here once more, determined to rise higher than before!"
The floor panels in the center of the coliseum began to glow. A circle split open and from beneath, an elevator-lift hummed upward. She was barefoot, her loose light-gray pants swaying gently with the wind that always seemed to circle these floating arenas. A simple black T-shirt clung to her frame. A fancy cloth was tied tight across her eyes. Despite her lack of sight, she didn't stumble.
The host's voice boomed again: "NEFIRA RAMESES!"
The audience split in two, half exploding in cheers for the House name, half murmuring at the audacity of a blind girl walking barefoot into a continental stage.
"She's calmer than usual," Radellei whispered.
But the host wasn't finished. His tone swelled, carrying a theatrical pause that drew the crowd taut.
"And who will meet her challenge? It is none other than a son of the soil straight from Lagos, Nigeria. He is no House-born, no noble's puppet, but a Commoner who has carved his own legend in this tournament. With fifty-one victories and nineteen defeats to his name…"
The ground trembled again. Another lift rose until the figure atop it emerged into the floodlights.
"I present to you, OBASANJO EKUNDAYO!"
The man was actually strong. He was broad-shouldered, his skin gleaming like polished bronze and dare I say this, good looking. He wore a green sleeveless tunic with golden embroidery along the hems, trousers tucked into thick boots. His hair was twisted into tight black locks. In his right hand was a spear, its shaft wrapped in charms and talismans.
He lifted it high, and the Nigerian section of the crowd cheered. Flags waved, horns blasted, voices merged into one overwhelming chant:
"DAYO! DAYO! DAYO!"
Even I had to admit, I felt my pulse sync with theirs. Radellei folded her arms.
"He has more wins than Nefira."
"Two more, actually. Not much of a gap. But those talismans aren't just for show."
She gave me a sideways glance. "You can tell?"
"Yeah. Those are layered with Xana. He's not walking in naked."
On the field, the host stretched his arms wide, basking in the energy.
"In this late morning, two warriors will rise but only one may ascend. Whoever claims victory here will rise to the next rank. Whoever falls will have their name buried beneath the weight of this crowd's memory."
The host turned to the combatants, lifted his mic, and roared in Swahili:
"Wacha onyesho lianze!"
My system translated instantly: "Let the show begin!"
Lights snapped to full blaze. Flux panels beneath the fighters flared, reacting to their energies. Nefira shifted her stance, her bare feet spreading slightly. Dayo spun his spear once, its charms rattling.