The final hour bled away in the shadowed prep halls of Neutral Territory. While other sectors buzzed with individual ambition or fear, the African contingent of the tournament—fighters, coaches, guards, and the families who had fought to be there—gathered in a tense, intimate circle. This was not a decision for one; it was a deliberation for the people.
The elders spoke first, their voices weaving a tapestry of caution and fire.
"This is madness!" an older matron declared, her hands gripping the shoulders of a young fighter. "I will not send my childrens here to be slaughtered for the entertainment of those forsaken whites! We will not participate in this shameful spectacle!"
A broad-shouldered man with a veteran's scars slammed a fist against his chest. "We must participate! We are Africans! We do not retreat from a challenge, not even from death itself. I feel it in my blood—not one of our children will fall today! They carry the strength of African in their heart's!" A rumble of agreement surged from many in the circle.
A quieter, older man with eyes that had seen too many betrayals raised a hand. "Pride is a shield, but do not let it blind you. Remember who we are dealing with. The others, especially the whites and their followers… they value victory above honor. They will use every shameful tactic, every underhanded trick. They have rewritten history to steal our glory and excuse their sins for centuries. They will not fight fair in this ring. Be clever, not just courageous."
Among the younger fighters, Avenger watched the debate. He saw Isaac and Nne Nne Aloguja locked in intense discussion with other coaches. The weight of the decision was a physical pressure.
He sensed a presence—large, warm, and familiar—approach from behind. He turned and looked up into the grinning face of Okonkwo Achebe.
Okonkwo stood 6'2", a mountain of corded muscle beneath dark, ebony skin. At 21, he carried himself with the relaxed power of a born warrior, his smile savage and genuine.
A matching grin broke across Avenger's face. They moved simultaneously, wrapping each other in a crushing embrace that spoke of years and shared history.
"Ko'ko! My old brother!" Avenger laughed, the sound full of real joy for the first time that day. He delivered a pounding pat to Okonkwo's back that echoed like a drum. "Life has been too long without you! How have you been?"
Okonkwo returned the thunderous pat, his spirit infectious. "Life is good, little brother! Everyone at home talks of you. Always in the lower levels, teaching the children to dance, fixing what is broken. You have become a legend to the little ones."
As they fell into easy conversation, it inevitably turned back to the bloody tournament before them.
"What do you think?" Avenger asked, nodding toward the elders. "Will they let us fight?"
"Of course we fight," Okonkwo said, his voice dropping to a confident rumble. "We are children of the divine. To refuse would insult the gods and our ancestors." His grin turned sharp. "Besides, it is a good opportunity. A chance to pay back some of the blood debt owed to our people by those whities and their boot-lickers. In a legal ring."
Avenger nodded, a fierce pride warming his chest. "They always try to twist things, to make their cruelty our shame. If they want to playa game of death and struggle, we will show them how it is truly played."
Okonkwo looked at him with deep respect—the recognition of a man who understands the true weight of responsibility. "So. The prize money. Let me guess… funding another student program in the lower levels?"
Avenger's smile was brilliant. "Close. I'm sending it all to the Department of Development. With a billion credits… I can accelerate every project in Level 3. The high-speed transit, the teleportation hubs… We could bridge Level 2 and Level 3 in 3 to 2years sooner, a path to make it one seamless community again."
Okonkwo's eyes shone with pride. "A true builder's heart." He thumped his own chest. "My plan is simpler. I will fund resonator gyms across the lower levels. Give our enhanced youth a place to awaken safely, to train close to home, to become the next generation of protectors."
Avenger smiled, patting his friend's back in approval. But as Okonkwo said the word "awaken," a bolt of pure horror shot through Avenger's veins. 895 units. The scanner's ghost flashed before his eyes. He masked the flinch instantly, his expression smoothing over so fast it might never have happened.
Their conversation was cut short as the circle of elders turned to face the young fighters. The senior matron spoke, her voice carrying finality.
"This is too dangerous for all of you. We cannot, in good conscience, send our children into a slaughterhouse."
A wave of devastated anger crashed over the contestants. Before it could take voice, the veteran raised his hand.
"But… we will allow one of you to participate. One champion, to carry the honor and hopes of Africa into that ring."
A stunned silence fell. The weight of the offer was immense. To be Africa's champion in such a vile arena was a poisoned honor—a duality of glory and horror that tightened every chest.
"All of you will receive 100,000 credits for your courage, regardless," the quieter elder added. "We will all vote. Your profiles—your skills, your records, and the true reasons you came here—will be sent to everyone here. In five minutes, we will all choose. Speak your hearts in your submissions. This choice is for our future."
A torrent of conflicting emotions—excitement, dread, pride, fear—swept through the young fighters. To be the one was the highest honor. But to be the one was to walk alone into the valley of death, with n support of ones brothers and sisters.
Avenger and Okonkwo looked at one another. Without a word, a deep, unspoken understanding passed between them. In that moment, each saw the other as the true champion.
As the voting interface appeared on their devices, their fingers moved with the same selfless intent.
Each typed the other's name.
Each whispered, almost simultaneously, "I hope you get to be the CHAMPION BROTHER."