Ian was left alone for some time after Eli departed.
The chamber was silent enough for the distant hum of wind brushing through the stone-carved halls of House Elarin's estate.
A place that felt less a sanctuary and more like a tomb now. The stench of what had transpired in the arena still clung to him like soot—memories of blood, of power, of near madness.
His breathing was steady, but his body ached in a way he wasn't used to.
He had always been a fast healer.
Ever since the system first whispered to him in the pits, regeneration came as naturally as breath. But this—this wasn't just bruised flesh or torn sinew.
He had faced Eli. And this time he was actually trying.
Everything came with a cost.
Ian sat up slowly, shadows pooling at the edges of his vision, the aftershock of Soul Flame and bloodrage still tingling beneath his skin.
However even more potent was from the state he had fell into.
