The pull wasn't violent. It was patient—like standing on a floor that tilted so gently you didn't believe it until you looked up and saw that the walls had moved. Every surviving crystal on the field, mine and my rivals' and everyone's, slid along glowing lanes towards a central hex of polished stone. The shield rings shrank as they went, metre by metre, until every cell was a tight circle ten paces across. The middle rings kept their breach rule. The cores stayed untouchable until three plates had sat. But now everyone could see everyone. No more ghosts.
Twenty-four crystals were left. The map above the arena shrank with us, the icons clustering together like bees around a queen.
I reached the central hex early and took a corner with grass on my left and rock on my right. My berm became a low crescent. My three wind slits became three straight cutting lanes. I deepened the gravity drag a little, because tight circles make panicked feet heavier.
