The sand beneath the arena was crisp and untouched, the faintest traces of blood from earlier battles already washed away by the heat of the midday sun.
In the stands, the air wisped murmurs rippling through the crowd like a wave before a storm.
The noble houses, their gilded banners fluttering in the breeze, were silent for the moment. Even the commoners, packed into their rows beneath the towering stone walls, held their breath.
Two figures stood opposite one another.
Ian, the infamous Demonblade, his gray eyes locked on his opponent, blood-streaked daggers held loosely at his sides.
Old blood, crimson that just never seems to dry.
The shadow of death clung to him, his form like something carved from darkness itself. His clothes—dark and grim—rippled with the faintest, poisonous breeze that seemed to emanate from him.
No cheers from the crowd, no chants of his name.
Only cold, merciless silence, as though the world awaited the outcome of this battle.
