Avenger studied the updated bracket in silence.
Of the original two hundred contestants, only forty-three remained.
The European section had kept all fifteen of their fighters—corporate-sponsored, well-funded, hungry. Africa sent one. The Soviets sent two. North America sent two. The Islanders sent two. Oceania sent two.
The message from those groups was clear: We don't need numbers. We have talent.
The rest were the desperate—Neutral Territory's twelve, including Chen. No roots, no community, just raw individual ambition. South America had sent a handful, scattered and unallied.
Forty-two opponents. Forty-two tests of whether Africa's champion could win without becoming what they accused him of being—a weak savage.
As he waited in the sterile prep room, Avenger's mind shifted into analysis mode. Almost automatically, his Ancestral Crest pulsed, and the mental link snapped into place.
"Hello, bitch," Okonkwo's voice rumbled in his head, full of familiar warmth. "How's it feel being an official adult, huh?"
Avenger's mental reply dripped with exaggerated flair. "Sorry, I don't talk to broke niggas who get no bitches!"
He felt the psychic equivalent of an eye-roll before Isaac's voice cut in, stern but layered with pride. "So, my child. How are you feeling after the ceremony?"
Avenger grinned to himself. "Amazing, Isaac. Never felt more… complete. It's kinda neat—like a holo-call, but less cool. Still, useful."
Though Isaac wasn't physically there, Avenger could feel the swell of paternal pride through the link.
Then, Nne Nne Aloguja's voice entered, crisp and commanding. "That's nice, but you're aware people are staring at you like you're crazy, yes?"
Avenger froze. He scanned the room.
Every fighter nearby was eyeing him—some with curiosity, others with open suspicion. No visible tech, no comms piece, just a champion muttering to thin air.
Okonkwo's laughter echoed through his mind.
"You can speak telepathically, remember," Nne Nne continued, her tone dry. "Thoughts only. No need to vocalize."
Avenger rolled his eyes. "Would've been nice if someone"—he shot a mental glare toward Okonkwo—"told me that before I made a fool of myself."
A wave of amused warmth washed over the link—Isaac's contained chuckle, Nne Nne's quiet giggle, Okonkwo's booming laugh. Avenger sighed.
"Enough teasing," Nne Nne said, shifting gears. "As an adult now, you are part of the conversation for the greater good. The elders and I have already discussed the situation while you were recovering, but your perspective is still needed. What is your read on this tournament? On the rule change?"
Avenger let his focus drift inward, his mind organizing itself into clean, tactical lines.
"It's clear Europeans or Asians are behind this," he began. "But the 'why' matters. Three possibilities:
1. Propaganda. Their history is well-documented—edit the facts, control the narrative, make themselves look righteous and their opponents look monstrous.
2. Revenge. They're still in denial about not being the top power. The skeletons in their closets are out, and lies won't hide what they've done. This is about humiliation.
3. Shame. They want to kill Africa's future in front of everyone—to hurt our image, to make us look weak or savage. Either outcome serves them."
Through the link, he felt Isaac's pride swell, warm and solid.
"You're right," Isaac sent, his mental voice edged with anger. "Our networks confirm it—European sponsors pushed the rule change. They're betting you'll either look weak for showing mercy, or like a monster for killing. Either way, they win the narrative."
Avenger's lip curled. "Predictable. After centuries, they still play the same game."
"They haven't changed," Isaac agreed. "They can't beat us in tech, unity, or spirit—so they try to frame us as the villains. Don't give them what they want. Win clean. Win beautiful. Show them we're better at violence and restraint."
"Restraint?" Avenger asked, curiosity piqued.
Nne Nne stepped in, her tone turning serious. "While you were unconscious, the elders of our allied sectors met. A pact was made: any champion facing another from the Solidarity Bloc will treat it as an honor duel. No killing unless absolutely forced. We show unity, not savagery."
Avenger nodded slowly, the weight of the agreement settling onto his shoulders.
"I will honor it," he sent, his mental voice firm. "As an African. For our people. For our honor. For our future."
---
Nne Nne's Perspective – The Solidarity Bloc Meeting
In the military observation deck overlooking the arena, Nne Nne Aloguja sat with her counterparts—Soviet, North American, Islander, and Oceanian commanders who had fought alongside African forces for decades.
General Volkov of the Soviets spoke first, his voice gravelly. "The European sponsors think fear will divide us. They want to paint this as 'African brutality' and make our alliance look like we back savages."
The North American general—a woman with steel-gray hair and scarred knuckles—snorted. "Let them try. Our people know what justified violence looks like. We don't need the white man to lecture us on morality. If your boy kills a European in that ring, my section will cheer."
Nne Nne nodded. "He won't kill unless forced. But if it comes to that, the world will know why. Context matters."
"The question," Volkov said quietly, "is whether their media will show the context… or just the blood."
A heavy silence followed.
They all knew the answer.
---
Back in the Prep Room
The mental link faded, leaving Avenger alone with his thoughts and the humming silence of the prep chamber. He closed his eyes, feeling the low thrum of the Crests beneath his skin—the map of Africa on his back, the vows on his limbs, the promise over his heart.
Win clean. Win beautiful.
And if you can't… win anyway.
The overhead speakers crackled to life.
"Contestants, prepare. Opening ceremonies begin in five minutes."
Avenger stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked toward the tunnel.
The roar of the crowd was already building, a distant storm waiting for its lightning.