The winged girl, Hawk, places a hand on her partner's shoulder, stopping him mid-step. "Why don't you save your strength for the next fight?" she suggests, eyes locked on Najo.
Snake pauses. The reptile ink on his arm pulses, and a living snake emerges from the skin of his hand, slithering up the outside of his arm to coil around his neck. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low and bored. Hawk smirks, unfurling her large, reddish wings. "Yeah. I can handle the rock-thrower." Snake shrugs, the tension leaving his frame. "Alright. Bet."
He strolls past Najo without a second glance and flops down on the ground near Tanaka, who is still nursing her shoulder. "Hey," he says, flashing a lazy grin.
Tanaka doesn't respond immediately. Her eyes aren't on his face; they are fixed intensely on his left arm. The serpent is distinct from him, moving with its own agency outside his skin. Her interest is piqued—not romantically, but clinically. Sentient biological manipulation... she thinks, her fingers twitching. Does it have a separate pulse? What would happen to it if I used Grace Inversion on him? Would the snake turn on him? Or wither away?
Her hand inches toward him almost involuntarily. She needs to know. Snake sees the look in her eyes—the look of someone about to dissect a frog—and his smile drops. He doesn't flinch, but he stands up smoothly, maintaining his cool demeanor. "Okay, weirdo," he says flatly. "Keep your distance." He walks a solid six feet away before sitting down again, unbothered.
On the battlefield, Hawk wastes no time. She launches herself into the air with a powerful beat of her wings. Najo immediately thrusts his arms forward, knuckles white, firing a volley of sharp rocks upward like cannon fire.
Hawk weaves through them effortlessly. She spins in mid-air, and with a sharp flap, she rains down a barrage of steel-hard feathers. Najo dances back, dodging the lethal rain, but he loses track of her position.
Whoosh.
Before he can anchor himself, talons grip his shoulders. Hawk swoops down, snatches him off the ground, and carries him high into the air.
Across the arena, the situation is dire. Aemon is doubled over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. He has completely run out of stamina. "I... can't..." Aemon gasps. Moto is fighting for two. He deflects a sword strike with his forearm guards and kicks an opponent back. "Just stay standing, Aemon!" Moto shouts, circling his exhausted teammate to protect his blind side. "If one of us goes down, we're both disqualified! Just breathe!"
High above the ground, Najo struggles in Hawk's grip. He tries to swing a punch, but he has no leverage. Hawk laughs, enjoying the helplessness of her prey. She drops him, letting him free-fall for a terrifying second, only to swoop down and catch him again just before he hits the dirt. "Having fun?" she taunts, her voice whipped away by the wind.
Najo grits his teeth. His earth manipulation is useless without a stable connection. He's a sitting duck. "Okay," Hawk sighs. "Let's see how you get out of this one. Fate is a cruel mistress, isn't she?"
She flies directly toward the edge of the arena boundary. "If only one part of your body touches out of bounds, you're out!" She banks hard and flings him.
Najo hurtles toward the white chalk line. He twists his body in the air, desperately trying to correct his trajectory. He lands hard—Thud.
The entire arena goes silent.
Najo is frozen. He has landed on the very balls of his feet, right on the white chalk line. His heels hang over the empty air outside the boundary. His body is angled forward, arms stretched out for balance, looking exactly like a swimmer about to dive into a pool.
It looks ridiculous.
Lizzo, watching from a distance, bursts out laughing at the desperate pose. Even Tanaka sighs, closing her eyes. It was a good run.
Najo stares straight ahead. A dark shadow casts over his eyes. There is no panic flailing, no pinwheeling arms. He is completely still, despite the absurdity of his position. Gravity begins to win. He starts to tip backward.
No. The frustration, the helplessness of the aerial fight, the memory of Moto's strength—it all boils over. He refuses to be made a fool of.
I am not going out like this.
He is falling. He is definitely falling out of bounds. But the balls of his feet are still touching the earth. And as long as he touches the earth, he has a weapon.
The shadow over his face darkens into a scowl of pure defiance. "If I'm no longer in it..." Najo growls, his voice vibrating with power. "THEN IT'S GAME OVER!"
He doesn't jam his fingers into the dirt. Instead, he clenches his empty hands into fists, veins bulging in his forearms. Though he isn't touching the ground with his hands, he feels the immense weight of the bedrock in his grip telepathically, dragging on his muscles as if he were physically lifting a mountain.
With a roar of exertion, Najo leans back into the fall and pulls.
CRACK.
The sound is deafening. Najo rips the entire southern quadrant of the Battle Royale arena off its foundation.
Massive slabs of earth shatter and tilt violently into the air. Dozens of fighters who were standing securely on the ground suddenly find themselves sliding into the abyss. Hawk's eyes widen in horror as the "ground" she was planning to land on is launched into the sky.
As Najo falls backward out of bounds, he takes half the battlefield—and everyone on it—down with him.