Serio Nem tenta (Seriously, Don’t Try.)

Ding! Ding! Ding! The match began.

Maizo didn’t move.

Instead—CLAP!

A sharp pop of sparks leapt from his hands.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Each strike of palm against palm spat a few more embers into the air, little sparks drifting between us.

The crowd caught on almost instantly, like they’d rehearsed it. By the third clap, they were all clapping with him, the sound swelling and echoing inside the cage.

On the fifth clap—WHOOOSH!—his hands burst into flame, fingers curling into blazing fists.

The crowd erupted.

He spun his wrists, the fire licking up his arms, and began to sway in a slow, deliberate motion. It wasn’t a stance—it was a dance. Every pivot of his foot and sweep of his arm sent the flames trailing like ribbons in the air.

I matched his movement in reverse, keeping my distance, circling in the opposite direction.

“This world,” he called out, voice calm but carrying over the clapping, “was built on the sun prevailing over all else. Today will be no different. I will put on a show… for the god.”

His feet pounded into the sand once, twice, and then he launched. Spinning forward, fire flaring behind him, he unleashed a flurry of punches.

I caught the first with my forearm, the second with my glove, the third I managed to push off-line—but the fourth smashed into my arm. The heat bit straight through the fabric, and I staggered back.

That’s when I smelled it—sharp, acrid, burning.

“RILKE! THE CLOAK!”

Cassian’s voice cut through the roar. He was pointing wildly from the stands.

I turned just enough to see it—orange creeping along the hem of my disguise.

Biting down hard so I didn’t scream, I yanked at the burning edge, slapping at it with my hands.

Shit, shit, shit—

The crowd broke into laughter.

“STOP, DROP, AND ROLL!” Cassian yelled.

I blinked at him as if to say: “What?”

“ROLL ON THE FLOOR, IT’LL PUT IT OUT!”

I glanced from him… to Maizo, who was just watching me, flames dancing lazily around his fists. When our eyes met, he shrugged.

So I dropped to the sand and rolled. Back. Forth. Back again.

“This is the best fight ever!” someone in the stands howled.

“What the hell is that guy doing?!” another laughed.

By the time I stood, the fire was out, though I was now covered in sand.

Maizo tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “Interesting… but effective technique.”

I sighed. Cassian grinned and flashed me another thumbs-up. Great. He’d made me look like an idiot again.

Maizo clapped his flaming fists together, the sound snapping the crowd’s attention back. “Allow us to continue…”

“Clever trick. Won’t work twice.”

The clapping started again. Clap. Clap-clap. Clap-clap-clap. Faster now. The crowd’s palms slammed together in sync, feeding his rhythm until the entire arena was a living drum. Every beat seemed to pump more fire into his fists. The air shimmered around him, distorting his silhouette.

He blurred forward.

A hook came for my ribs—too fast. I barely twisted away, feeling the heat kiss my side. A jab followed, then a spinning backfist. I caught it on my forearm, but it still felt like getting whacked with a burning pipe. I stumbled, vision flashing white for a second.

He didn’t stop. Every move chained into the next, like a dance I didn’t know the steps to.

“You’re on the back foot already,” he taunted, driving a blazing knee toward my stomach.

I dropped my guard to block—wrong move. His fist whipped over the top, clipping my temple. Stars burst in my vision.

I was losing ground fast. My body screamed for me to retreat, to keep dodging, but he was faster, and every missed block let the fire get closer to my skin.

Think.

He lunged, fist streaking toward my face.

I caught it in my palm.

His eyes widened. He jerked back instantly, retreating a few paces.

“What’s this?” the commentator’s voice cut in.

Maizo’s face twisted, his other hand clutching his forearm. “What did you do to my hand?!” His tone was a strange mix of anger and confusion.

The glow caught my attention—deep burgundy, faint but visible, crawling along his skin.

Cassian’s voice echoed in my memory: When you touch something, you can change its density. Five seconds, tops.

I glanced at my left palm. It’s this one, right?

Curling my fingers into a fist, I pressed down.

Maizo was yanked forward like something had hooked him to the earth. Sand sprayed as his flaming fist drove into the ground—and stuck.

“The hell?!” he barked, straining to pull free.

The smoke from his flames thinned, revealing him hunched over, his arm trembling as he tried to lift it. The harder he pulled, the less it budged. Until, finally, the glow vanished.

Maizo tore his hand free from the sand, grains cascading off his knuckles. The sudden release nearly sent him crashing backward, catching himself just in time.

Rilke slapped her chest twice—smack. Smack. The sound echoed sharply and deliberately. Her feet dug into the dirt, stance rooted like iron. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, her body began to pulse with a low, steady rhythm.

A faint glow shimmered beneath her skin, as if her very bones were charging up. With controlled intensity, she started bouncing—small, quick hops, light on her toes, every movement precise and measured.

His grin returned, razor-edged.

“Nice trick man. Too bad it won’t save you—“

“One Mississippi.” It was low; he could barely hear it over the crowd. From beneath the cloak, he could hear a voice.

“Two Mississippi.”

He smirked. “What, counting down to your surrender?”

The crowd chuckled with him, the laughter swelling in waves.

“Three Mississippi.”

“Stalling won’t save you,” Maizo said, circling, his flames flaring in the dust.

“Four Mississippi.”

“Your voice is sweet!” He said mockingly, “Either you’re a woman or your balls haven’t dropped yet—“

Something shifted. The arena’s rhythm dimmed—like the noise was being swallowed, drawn into the space between them. The jeering dulled, replaced by a strange tightness in the air.

“Five.”

The word cut clean through the silence.

She was already there, darting forward faster than the eye could track. Her palm slammed into his chest with the precision of a blade, crushing the air from his lungs. Maizo’s breath escaped in a ragged, helpless gasp as his body lurched.

Her left hand flattened. The sudden weight change sent his balance spinning out from under him. His legs scrambled against nothing.

Her right hand hooked his arm. Her shoulder slid beneath it.

He left the earth.

For a suspended heartbeat, Maizo hung above her, his flame-fists flaring uselessly in open air.

Then she clenched her grip.

The sky pulled him down.

The impact struck like a falling star—sand erupted outward, the steel frame of the cage shuddering under the force. The crowd inhaled as one, the sound sharp and cold.

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

The arena fell silent, the echoes of impact still reverberating through the air. Every eye was fixed on the spot where Maizo had crashed down, the force of the throw leaving no doubt, this was no ordinary move.

Yet, no one in the crowd, not even Cassian himself, could name what had just unfolded before them.

This was a technique born in the shadows of ancient dojos, crafted by masters centuries ago, warriors who understood that true power wasn’t in brute force, but in precise timing, balance, and using an opponent’s strength against them.

A move passed down through generations, whispered in secret circles and fading texts, carried by only the most disciplined of fighters. Its name lost to time, until now, when instinct, necessity, and raw survival merged into a perfect execution.

Even Rilke didn’t know its name. She acted on instinct alone, a flash of pure intuition driving her body to perform flawlessly what many masters would spend lifetimes perfecting.

A technique as elegant as it was deadly, capable of turning the tide of any battle with a single, devastating motion. Its name: Ippon seoinage, the “one-arm shoulder throw.”

The wind from the impact swept through the cage like a roaring gale, tearing the hood from her head. It tumbled away—free at last—and the crowd caught sight of her face. No flowing strands of long hair fell out, only the sharp edges of someone reborn.

For years, she hadn’t been allowed to fight at all. Forced aside, made to watch from the shadows because she was a woman. They never gave her a chance.

 They never saw her as a fighter. Just someone who didn’t belong in that cage, only a shinier one.

But today, she stepped forward and tore down their walls—not with words, not with fire, but fury.

The arena fell deathly silent, every eye wide with shock. The tyrant they had feared, the “man”  they had underestimated… was not a man at all.

Without a word, she walked to the center of the cage, every gaze burning into her. She raised her fist high—a symbol of every barrier broken, every doubt shattered, and a new champion.

“RAHHHHHHHHHHH!”