The last song of the ancestors

Eji walked towards his teammates. The other two were waiting to be selected by the monitor. One of them, Okan, was a young woman, the other, Meta, had an androgynous appearance. The latter, in a manly voice with an effeminate timbre, said:

"It could have taken a bit longer, we need to keep up appearances."

"I couldn't help myself, that mediumic said she was going to join Ojwang."

Okan clapped his hands, rose from his seat and walked towards the ring.

"Well, now it's my turn. Let's see if I can beat Mr. Eji's record."

"Argh! You're not taking me seriously, are you?"

"Not at all, Meta."

Okan climbed into the ring. On the other side was a young woman wearing a camouflage uniform and high boots. She sported a military haircut. There were several holsters on her body and sheaths with daggers. Her name was Nyota, and she was an expert knife thrower. Seeing her opponent in a daze, she pulled a knife from its sheath and licked the blade.

"You have the advantage, but I'm going to tie things up now."

"Dream on, girl! Veil of Reality."

A dense cloud of Axé emanated from Okan's body. It filled the ring from floor to ceiling. It spread like a plasma mist. The ionized gas blurred vision due to the large amount of energy scattering particles in all directions. Inside, not even the best tracking equipment would work.

Her opponent was intimidated. Nyota came at Okan with all her blades. The camera drones couldn't pick up anything, not even thermographic or night vision. All that was left was the audio. There was an intense sound of fighting and stabbing.

Suddenly, everything fell silent. The plasma mist disappeared. Okan stood in the same place, as if he hadn't moved. Nyota, unlike her opponent, had several bruises all over her body. She was bleeding from her nose and the corner of her mouth. All her knives had been thrown at her enemy, but none had hit their target. Okan said:

"Looks like it's two-nil on the scoreboard now."

"You cow! It's impossible. I hit you with all my blades. I saw you fall to the ground, begging not to die. What kind of witch are you?"

"Unfortunately, your aim is grimy."

Okan turned her back on her opponent with disdain. This angered Nyota. She pulled out one last knife and threw it at the other woman's back. Okan crumbled into a pile of plasma particles. The real one came up behind the mercenary and kicked her in the ribs, sending her rolling several meters.

"Tsc-tsc, I was hoping you'd have given up by now."

Nyota fell unconscious to the ground. Victory was declared for Okan. She retreated from the ring of the Grand Arena, and the medical team removed her unconscious opponent. The last fight of the third round was decided. Meta and Shakarri climbed into the ring.

Shakarri Lewis Whitaker-Hagler was an African-American MMA world champion. With her six feet and eighty-seven kilos of pure muscle, she imposed fear in octagons around the world. Her distinctive hair was somewhere between a mohawk and black power. She wore black gloves with red flames on the top of the cuff, and shorts in the color of her country's flag.

She was heir to one of the largest martial arts academies in the United States. In the second half of the 20th century, when boxing dominated television and boxers began to star in movies, the Whitaker-Hagler family became famous in the rings and in the gyms. They began to offer sponsorship to boxers.

However, with the spread of MMA in the 1990s, boxing saw its audience decline. In order not to lose their momentum, the Whitaker-Haglers began to invest in MMA, when the rest of the boxing community turned a blind eye. The family reaped good rewards from the investment and maintained influence in both worlds.

However, from the day she was put in charge of the family business, she was rejected by the community and the brand's investors. Shakarri was hostile to the press, got involved in sex scandals with men and women, took drugs and alcohol at parties, and evaded taxes.

He diluted a large part of the family estate with his hyper-consumerist fetish. Due to the strength of her legacy, it was impossible to remove her from the throne. But the queen has fallen. Caught in an anti-doping test, she was expelled from the sports league and from the management of the Whitaker-Hagler gym chain.

She wasn't in the Big Arena to get back on her feet or turn things around. There was no redemption in her story. The underground fight was the only stage she had left.

Facing Meta, she stretched her arms, flexed her legs and jogged around her side of the ring. He was practicing his martial rite before the fight. Useless in that place, but the force of habit is always greater than conscience. Seeing the crowd and having an enemy in front of her made her forget that she was out of shape, that she hadn't trained in years.

"All right, let's get started."

"It's already started, darling."

Meta raised one leg, crossed it, then the other, and floated in the air like a Buddhist monk. Shakarri stood guard. He bent his knees a little, held his breath and unleashed a right straight at his opponent. Her opponent dodged. The fighter made a pendulum swing, waiting for a counter-attack that didn't come.

She threw a left uppercut, but the other dodged, without moving. The woman threw a right cross at Meta's face, to no avail. She took advantage of this moment to apply a knee to his ribs.

"Mirror Shield."

Before she could hit him, a circle of silver energy appeared. The reflective surface revealed what had happened. On touching the shield, the force Shakarri applied was converted into repulsive energy and applied against the attacker's body. The African-American didn't shy away, she went for it with a sequence of jabs and rights.

She complemented these sequences with knees to Meta's abdomen and side kicks. All of them ran into the mirrored shields that made her attacks turn against her. The air began to penetrate her lungs like a handful of needles. Age and lack of training took their toll.

Her heart rate went through the roof. In his youth, Meta would have been an incredible opponent. She probably had a chance of winning, but in that state, she would have been massacred. For those expecting a great fight, she raised her injured arm and said:

"I give up."

"I thought you'd be more stubborn, Miss Whitaker-Hagler."

"You're not an ordinary fighter… are you?"

Meta smiled and moved from her floating position to walk in the opposite direction. Shakarri shivered. Even with that string of blows, she hadn't hit any of them. Meta's Ofó was only visible to people with mediumistic arts. For a boxer, she was fighting someone invincible, untouchable and of superhuman strength.

She left the ring. The fourth round was about to begin. She walked out feeling all the pain of the fight and the shame of having been overtaken by history. He shook his head. When he returned to America, he would have a good story to tell. She fumbled in the pockets of her shorts. She was itching for a cigarette.