The roar of the crowd had dulled to a restless hum by the time Leonotis and Low reached the Contenders’ Perch. The air still smelled of sweat, blood, and dust—the scent of victory and ruin intertwined. Below them, servants swept the sand of the arena clean, erasing the marks of their battle as if the fight had never been.

  Low slumped into her seat, removing Grom’s heavy gloves with a hiss of pain. Her knuckles were raw from the clash with Leonotis, her hands trembling faintly. Leonotis, still in Lia’s form, lowered himself beside her, his heart heavy but steady. They had survived the King’s trial—for now.

  The herald’s voice cut through the murmurs:

  “By His Majesty’s decree, the final match of the Semi-Finals—Silas of the White Veil versus Neema of Iron Will!”

  The stands erupted again. The very name Silas seemed to vibrate through the arena like a curse. Even the sunlight seemed to dim as the pale fighter entered the ring.

  Neema stood on the opposite end, a mountain of calm fury. His chest was bare save for the ritual paint marking his clan, and the ground beneath him seemed to respond to his presence, trembling slightly as his earth a?? stirred. He was a warrior molded by discipline.

  Yet across from him stood Silas—the void given flesh. His pale eyes carried no expression, no trace of humanity. The same oppressive stillness that had devoured Amara’s light now pressed down on Neema like an invisible weight.

  The horn sounded.

  Neema struck first, the ground cracking beneath his heel as he launched forward. His fist, wrapped in a glow of brown and gold a??, slammed into Silas’s chest.

  Silas didn’t move.

  Leonotis frowned. He couldn’t even see the counter, only the result—Neema’s body twisting midair, his momentum reversed, his feet barely touching the ground before Silas’s hand pressed forward. There was no visible strike, just a collapse of balance as though Neema’s body had forgotten how to obey itself.

  “He’s absorbing everything,” Low murmured. “Every ounce of a?? Neema uses becomes his weapon.”

  Neema roared, summoning the strength of his spirit. The sand hardened into stone beneath him. Pillars burst upward, forcing Silas back. The crowd gasped as the arena trembled.

  For a moment, it seemed Neema might overpower him. His fists glowed brighter, his breathing deepened, and his movements became heavier—more deliberate. He was the mountain now, immovable and unstoppable.

  Silas extended one hand.

  A whisper of black smoke escaped his fingertips.

  The next moment, Neema’s entire body convulsed. His punch slowed, then faltered entirely, the glow fading from his limbs. The a?? around him shivered, twisted, and broke like glass. He fell to one knee, clutching his chest as though his heart had been pierced.

  Leonotis’s hands gripped the railing. “What did he do?”

  Low’s face was pale beneath her disguise. “He didn’t block the power—he turned it inward. Neema’s own a?? just imploded.”

  Neema staggered upright, eyes burning with pain. His jaw clenched. “I will not yield.”

  He threw another punch. Slower this time. Desperate.

  Silas met it with a palm to the chest.

  A burst of force threw Neema across the arena. His body hit the far wall and didn’t move.

  The crowd went quiet.

  The silence that followed was worse than the sound. It pressed down, suffocating, as attendants rushed to the fallen warrior. Leonotis could see them checking Neema’s pulse, their faces tightening.

  “He’s dead,” one called, voice shaking.

  The herald’s voice cracked as she announced, “Victory… to Silas of the White Veil.”

  The cheers that followed were forced, uncertain. No one knew whether to celebrate or to fear. Even the king’s court looked uneasy.

  Leonotis’s throat was dry. He glanced at Low, who stared silently into the arena. “He’s gone,” she said at last. “Silas broke him without breaking a sweat.”

  Leonotis nodded grimly. “That was just an execution.”

  The King rose from his throne. “A splendid display!” he declared, voice amplified by a spirit whisperer. “No wasted energy, no mercy squandered. This is the perfection I seek in all warriors!”

  The crowd forced themselves to cheer again, though their eyes said otherwise.

  King Rega lifted a hand for silence. “Thus the final two are decided!”

  The herald read the names aloud:

  “Silas of the White Veil!”

  “Grom Stonehand!”

  The crowd erupted anew. Low’s breath hitched. Leonotis turned toward her, searching her face. “We’ll find a way,” he whispered. “You won’t face him alone.”

  She forced a small, defiant grin, but her eyes betrayed her fear.

  Rega wasn’t finished. “Tomorrow, the Finals will commence! Before the match, however, I will present a special spectacle for the people’s amusement!”

  The announcement set the stands ablaze with excitement. But Leonotis felt a chill crawl down his spine.

  The King smiled, his teeth flashing like ivory blades. “Rest well, my champions. Tomorrow, glory shall be claimed.”

  The crowd continued roaring long after the competitors had left the stands.

  Later, as the arena emptied and dusk fell, Leonotis lingered near the prizekeeper’s pavilion. The attendants were packing away trophies, relics, and sealed weapon chests for the coming ceremonies.

  Leonotis approached. “I was told the third-place prize—the Ada Ogun—is to be awarded to me?”

  The attendant, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, looked startled but nodded. “Ah, yes, Lia of the Greenwater. Since Sir Neema is… unable to compete, you have been formally declared the third-place victor.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Though, I can't release prizes before the closing ceremony…”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Leonotis smiled faintly. “Please. I would rest easier if I at least held it myself.”

  Something in Leonotis’s tone made the man relent. He fetched a long chest carved with the symbols of Ogun: the hammer, the flame, and the sword. When he opened it, the dim torchlight caught on steel so pure it seemed alive.

  "You can hold it for just a minute," the man said.

  The Ada Ogun.

  The metal was almost pulsing, as though it still remembered its last wielder. His breath hitched; for a moment, he could see Gethii’s face. The weight of memory crushed him.

  I’ll free you. I swear it, he thought.

  He picked up the sword.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said behind him.

  Leonotis stiffened and turned. A tall figure stood at the edge of the torchlight, wearing a wooden mask carved with the sigil of the royal guard. The mask’s smooth features gave an inhuman calm.

  “Come,” she said softly. “We should talk. In private.”

  Leonotis forced a polite nod. “Of course," Leonotis said giving the sword back to the man.

  She led him through the torchlit corridors to his chamber lined with drapery and mirrors. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud.

  Then the woman reached up and removed her mask.

  “Zuri?”

  She gave warm disarming smile. “Congratulations on making it to third place, I admit, I had hoped you’d make it to the finals.”

  “I’m just happy to still be breathing.”

  Zuri chuckled. “Ah, don’t take it the wrong way. I only meant—it would have been nice to see a woman make it to the finals for once. It’s always men.”

  Of course—to the world, the final match would be between Silas and Grom. Two men.

  “You’re right. Maybe next time.”

  She nodded. “So, the Ada Ogun. I wonder what a warrior like you plans to do with something like that.”

  The answer came without thought. “I’m going to give it to my swordmaster.”

  “Really? Most people would keep it. A blade of such heritage—it’s worth kingdoms.”

  “He’s more than my teacher. He’s… family. My swordmaster is like a father to me.”

  The truth in his voice surprised even him. The weight of the words hung in the air, real and raw.

  Zuri’s expression softened. “Then he must be proud of you.”

  Leonotis looked down. “I hope so.”

  A silence passed between them—gentle, unguarded. Then Zuri sighed and placed her mask back over her face. Instantly, the warmth vanished. The wooden visage gave her an aura of cold authority, her presence expanding to fill the room.

  Leonotis blinked. The shift was so complete it was almost supernatural.

  “Rest well, Lia,” she said, her voice once again distant and formal. “Tomorrow will be a fight worth remembering.”

  She turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

  When the door shut, Leonotis exhaled for what felt like the first time.

  “Gethii, I’ll bring you home.”

  He looked at his wooden replica of Ada Ogun, set it beside his bed, and lay down. Outside, the desert wind howled softly against the palace walls. The torches flickered low, and sleep crept over him like a shadow.

  But in the darkness, the wooden blade hummed faintly.

  Leonotis blinked, and the world around him changed.

  He was back in the forest again. Mist clung to the ground like breath. Trees towered upward in impossible shapes, their branches twisting like grasping fingers. The air felt still, as if the whole forest were holding its lungs.

  At the center clearing stood the old, familiar oak.

  And beneath it… the bark boy.

  His woody body was cracked and bound with veins of black sap. His wooden head was bowed, knees pulled to his chest like before—lifeless, eerie, wrong.

  But this time, Leonotis wasn’t empty-handed.

  He held a sword.

  Not a wooden training blade. Not a replica.

  A heavy, real blade, the Ada Ogun.

  The boy lifted his head.

  His hollow eye sockets burned with fury.

  “Give it back.”

  The voice sounded like wood creaking.

  Leonotis stumbled back, instincts flaring.

  The bark boy rose to his feet—jerky, unnatural, each movement creaking like a dying tree straining against a storm. He started toward Leonotis, steps thudding heavily against the forest ground.

  “Give… it… back.”

  Leonotis tightened his grip, fear lightning through his veins.

  When the boy lunged, Leonotis swung the blade in pure instinct.

  A silver arc cut across the darkness and the wooden boy burst into a cloud of black smoke that dissolved instantly into the wind.

  Leonotis froze, chest heaving, staring at the sword in his hands.

  This was the actual Ada Ogun.

  The blade began to vibrate, humming in a low, metallic whine—alive.

  Startled, Leonotis dropped it.

  The sword hit the forest floor and the ground rippled like water.

  Before he could step back, the blade stretched, twisted, elongated. Metal melted into limbs, hair spilled from the hilt like a waterfall of black silk.

  A woman rose from the transformation, tall and skin the color of steel, her long black hair cascading down and covering her bare chest like curtains of night.

  She tilted her head.

  “Hello, Leonotis.”

  Leonotis spun around so fast he nearly tripped, face burning hot.

  The woman blinked, puzzled—then her eyes widened as realization dawned.

  “Oh.”

  She looked down at herself.

  “Ohhh. You’re a child.”

  Her form shimmered, metal sliding like liquid. In a breath, she stood clothed from throat to ankles in intricate dark armor shaped like folded petals.

  She crossed her arms, amused.

  “You are definitely more innocent than Gethii ever was.”

  Leonotis peeked over his shoulder.

  “Wait—Gethii?”

  He turned fully, eyes wide.

  “Are you the Ada Ogun?”

  The woman smiled, proud and unbothered—as if the world around them wasn’t made of shifting dreams.

  “That’s correct. I am able to speak through your wooden forgery after you touched the real me. And thank you for winning me by the way.”

  “I would hate to be stuck with one of those slimy, arrogant warriors. Imagine being swung around by sweaty palms all day—ugh.”

  She shuddered slightly.

  Leonotis stared at her, open-mouthed.

  He was speaking to Gethii’s sword.

  Gethii’s sword was a person.

  “Are you really… the daughter of Ogun?” he asked quietly.

  Ada flicked her hair over one shoulder.

  “Yeah. He’s my father. Occasionally terrifying, frequently annoying, always loud.”

  She waved a hand dismissively.

  “But enough about my divine family issues. I want to know where's Gethii?”

  Leonotis swallowed, nerves prickling.

  “The semi-finals… they’re tomorrow. And I—”

  Ada stopped him mid-sentence.

  Her eyes darted around the dream-forest, taking in the twisted trunks, the drifting mist, the unnatural hush. Her expression shifted—from amusement, to confusion, to something bordering on offended.

  “…Okay, what is up with your mind?” she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why are we in Zizi La Lufu?”

  Leonotis blinked. “Zizi… what?”

  Ada sighed dramatically. “Zizi La Lufu. Seriously? You don’t recognize it?”

  She waved a hand around the forest.

  “Oh—right. Your generation calls it the Dark Forest now.”

  Leonotis nearly stumbled.

  “This is the Dark Forest?”

  “In your head, yes,” Ada muttered. “Which means two things: one, your subconscious is a mess. Two—” Her face suddenly sharpened with alarm. “—I got distracted. Gethii is in trouble. I can feel his lifeforce draining away like sand from a cracked bowl.”

  Leonotis’ chest tightened.

  “He’s in the palace dungeons,” he said quietly. “They’re going to… they’re planning to drag him out before the Finals. Use a beast to execute him in front of everyone.”

  Ada’s nostrils flared, fury flashing in her eyes.

  “And you’re just standing here?!”

  “I’m not,” Leonotis snapped back, voice thick but steady. “I’m going free him before the Finals. Before they roll him out. That’s the only chance I have.”

  Ada paced in a tight circle, metal boots whispering across the dream-grass.

  “Tomorrow… tomorrow…” she muttered, calculating.

  Leonotis took a breath.

  “And my friend Low—she’s in the finals. Against Silas.”

  Ada stopped cold.

  Leonotis’ voice cracked slightly.

  “Silas is powerful. The strongest in the tournament. I don't think she can beat him on her own.”

  Ada raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You’ve been fighting with Gethii for years,” Leonotis said desperately. “You’ve must seen warriors like him. You know tricks and tactics we don’t.”

  He swallowed.

  “You might be the only person who can tell us how to keep him busy long enough.”

  Ada folded her arms. “Not interested. I care about Gethii. Not your friend. Not your tournament.”

  Leonotis stepped forward, fists clenched.

  “But we need to know how to beat Silas. If we're going to free Gethii and the King finds out he might send him after us before we can get him out..”

  That landed.

  Ada froze.

  For a moment, the dream-forest fell silent, as if waiting.

  Ada exhaled slowly, pinching the sleeve of her armor between two fingers as if irritated to her soul.

  “Alright,” she muttered. “Tell me about this Silas person and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  Leonotis’ eyes went wide with excitement, hope sparking through him.

  “You will?”

  Ada looked annoyed.

  “Yes. Now speak, child. And do it quickly. I want Gethii back—and I want vengeance on whoever thought they could yank him around like a puppet.”

  Leonotis nodded as he stepped closer.

  “Okay,” he breathed. “Here’s everything I know about Silas…”