Chapter 7: The Rift’s Edge

The capital hummed soft under a gray dawn, its black spires cutting the sky like old knives worn smooth. Kente stood at the rift gate's shadow—iron, ancient, runes carved deep but dull, no glow. His boots crunched on rough stone, the air thick with a stillness that pressed his chest, the tag in his pocket humming faint—Zuri's tag, warm with a soul he couldn't shake. Old Brass lingered in him, dust on his patched tunic, but this place—the capital—felt heavier, sharper, a city that didn't bend.

Tamara shuffled beside him, bread clutched tight, crumbs dusting his fingers as he stared up. "This thing's… big," he muttered, voice catching, eyes wide at the gate's stretch—10 meters across, fading into clouds that hung low and bright.

Chioma's canines glinted, her hands flexing slow. "Big's trouble," she said, her growl soft, gaze cutting through the crowd—34 racers, Mount Brass's ten hulking close, Wota Watini's twelve whispering sharp, Ananci's eight pacing steady. Old Brass's four—just them—stood small, outnumbered, the air thick with eyes that didn't trust.

Prophet Mirror stayed back, cloak brushing stone, his dark stare steady—Falther's brother, quiet as always, illusions flickering faint at his fingertips like a breath held too long. Kente's hand brushed the bead on his forehead—warm, pulsing soft—and he thought of Zuri, red eyes fading in the orphanage dark, sold to pale shadows after WanLanden's fire burned it all away.

Miss Wolo stepped up, her boots steady, crescent pin catching the light. "Listen," she said, voice low, cutting through the crowd's murmur. "Rift's a million kilometers—rough stone, five drops. First one hits a point, sixty seconds 'til half falls—keep moving, or you're out. Top twelve fight after—Sturmguard rank's the prize. Old Brass don't quit—prove it."

Tamara's bread slipped, hitting stone with a dull thud. "Sixty seconds? We're—we're just four!"

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"They've got more," Chioma said, claws twitching slow. "Gonna plot us off fast."

Prophet's illusions flared—tiny birds circling, fading soft. "Speed wins," he said, flat, calm, his eyes on the gate.

Kente's tag hummed, a steady beat under his fingers. "Why us?" he asked, voice steady, not loud. "Why this?"

Miss Wolo's smirk flickered, sharp but worn. "Capital wants its best—Old Brass bleeds, you make it mean somethin'. Gate's open—go."

The gate groaned, splitting wide, and a rush hit—stone stretched ahead, rough and old, clouds bright on all sides, high but clear, a bridge lost in haze. The crowd faded behind screens, a murmur swallowed by the rift's hum. Kente stepped slow, boots scraping, the tag warm against his thigh. Thirty-four racers fanned out—Mount Brass brutes flexing, Wota Watini sharp and quick, Ananci steady—and a blur shot past, fast as wind.

Jolo—Wota Watini speedster, drive—bolted ahead, legs a flicker, his grin tight, win-hungry. The bridge rumbled, faint, as he hit the first point—a crack splitting stone, sixty seconds ticking slow. Kente's breath caught, Tamara stumbling close. "He's—he's fast!" Tamara said, crumbs falling, his tortoise shell flickering faint.

"Too fast," Chioma muttered, claws out, pacing steady. "Triggers the drop—watch it."

Prophet's birds flew ahead, illusions scouting slow, fading in the haze. "First half's gone soon," he said, voice low, calm slicing the air.

Kente moved, slow at first, tag humming soft—Zuri's soul, a quiet pull from the orphanage dark, gold robes and cut souls fading in the fog WanLanden burned over him. The bridge stretched, ancient stone rough underfoot, and a shout hit—Mount Brass brutes, five of 'em, spamming juju blasts, light cracking stone slow. One grazed Chioma's arm—she snarled, claws slashing air, steadying herself.

A roll came—Ananci's porcupine, Ruk, spiked out—Inca Prey: Body Spikes—curling tight, tumbling fast, a lone wolf cutting past. His spikes grazed a Wota Watini racer, slow and sharp, the guy stumbling, teetering near the edge. Kente sidestepped, tag warm, eyes on Ruk's roll fading ahead.

The bridge shook—Jolo's point cracked wide, sixty seconds up—and stone dropped slow at the back, a groan echoing as half the rift fell. Ten racers—Mount Brass bulk, Wota Watini stragglers—slipped, shouts fading as they vanished, teleported out. Kente's heart thumped, Tamara yelping, "They—they're gone!"—his shell popping, catching a loose pebble.

"Keep moving," Prophet said, birds circling slow, spotting Jolo's blur far off. Chioma growled, steady beside Kente, claws ready. A shadow loomed—Mount Brass reality puncher, Dren—high-IQ brute, fingers brushing a Wota Watini racer mid-step. A tap—light, slow—and the guy crumpled, bones cracking loud, tumbling off with a scream, gone to the stands.

Kente's tag pulsed, steady—Zuri's hum—and he glanced back, Prophet weaving illusions, Chioma pacing, Tamara lagging but close. The bridge stretched on, clouds bright, rough stone underfoot—a million kilometers left, and Old Brass's four weren't dust yet.