The morning sun hung tight in the sky, a searing golden orb that seemed to pin the world beneath its weight. In the heart of the Savannah, the Great Jungle Cage lay ready. It was a massive circular pit, walled by towering, ancient trees.
These giants wove their thick, gnarled vines together in a dense, suffocating web, creating a natural lattice that hummed with a primal energy. From this living greenery, a translucent blue barrier shimmered, sealing the pit in a dome of restricted space to ensure that whatever happened inside stayed inside.
High at the corner of the cage, the Jungle Lion King sat upon a throne of living wood, His presence was a heavy anchor over the arena, his eyes cold and unmoving. Beside him, Princess Venesa sat on a lower throne.
Her regal posture remained perfect, her hands resting calmly on the carved armrests, but her gaze was fixed intently on the center of the pit.
There stood Dreleon.
He looked small against the backdrop of the massive trees, yet he did not tremble.
As the silence stretched, Dreleon bent his body into a steep, sharp bow—a perfect diagonal line of submission toward the King. The air in the pit grew thick and heavy, vibrating with the static of the barrier and the scent of dry earth.
The King's voice finally broke the quiet, a low, resonant roar that vibrated the very leaves of the cage. "Begin."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," Dreleon replied.
The transformation took hold like a violent surge of fever.
Dreleon's hands transformed, his human skin stretching and tearing as fingers elongated and hardened into jagged, obsidian-like claws.
His hair exploded into a massive, shadowy mane that framed his face like a brown crown, thick and coarse.
His body expanded with a sickening series of cracks and thuds, muscles swelling and hardening into a golden, metallic density.
His clothing—the last remnant of his status—shredded under the sheer pressure of his expanding frame until it fell away in tattered rags.
His jaw widened, teeth sharpening into lethal points, his canines lengthening into the formidable blades of a lion.
Then, his eyes ignited.
A brilliant, piercing gold light spilled from his sockets, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Beside him, space didn't warp or fold, but a weapon began to manifest from the sheer force of the soul. It was a sword, yet it bore the unmistakable texture of a sharp, like an ancient tree branch. Dreleon gripped the hilt, feeling the rough, stone-like bark against his new claws.
He reached out with his mind. He didn't feel the elements or the void; he felt the weight of the dirt. Using his space telekinesis, he gripped the fine dust of the arena floor as if with thousands of invisible hands.
The floor responded instantly.
A swirling vortex of grit and crushed stone rose in front of him.
He forced the particles together, compressing them with his mental grip until they took the shape of a human.
The dirt figure didn't stop there.
Under Dreleon's straining focus, the puppet shifted, growing a mane and claws, morphing into a perfect, grey replica of his own hybrid form.
A sword of compressed earth manifested beside the clone's hand, held aloft by the same invisible force.
Dreleon lunged.
The dust-clone moved with the same predatory instinct, driven by Dreleon's subconscious mind.
The clash of the ancient branch against the dirt-sword created a dull, heavy thud that distorted the air.
Dreleon swung with a ferocity he had never felt as a human, his claws tearing through the air.
However, controlling a replica of yourself while fighting it was a mental tightrope.
The clone was relentless.
Because it was made of dust, it didn't tire.
It lunged with a sudden, overhead strike that caught Dreleon off balance.
His feet were heavy in the sand, his muscles too strained to pivot in time.
The earthen blade whistled toward his shoulder, a strike that would have shattered bone.
In that split second of crisis, Dreleon didn't rely on his legs, He reached out with his telekinesis and grabbed himself.
He felt the invisible pressure wrap around his waist and chest, With a violent mental shove, he jerked his own body a meter to the left, sliding through the air as if pulled by a wire.
The clone's sword slammed into the ground where he had been standing a millisecond before, exploding in a cloud of grit.
Dreleon didn't waste the opening.
Still hovering slightly from his own telekinetic pull, he spun in mid-air and brought the branch-sword down across the clone's chest.
The impact was massive.
The dirt replica shattered into a million particles, the telekinetic bond snapped by the force of the blow.
Dreleon landed heavily on his haunches, his golden skin glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The dust began to settle, coating the arena in a fine grey mist.
He looked up toward the throne, his golden eyes still glowing, his body ready to pull the earth back together if the King demanded it.
Above, the Princess allowed a small, sharp smile to touch her lips, She had seen the moment he wiped out assasins himself—the moment he killed four practisaner (change from pactisaner to practisaner for better imagination).
To king this match was a display of raw, desperate control that proved he was more than just a lucky human. He was a pacter who understood the weight of his own soul.
Now there was a glint on his eyes as he was seeing dreleon.