The battlefield was still a storm of chaos—fighters falling left and right, alliances crumbling, students turning on each other without hesitation. This wasn't just competition—it was survival. Every blow landed was a step closer to victory, every failed defense an instant ticket to elimination.
Amari held his ground, weaving through the madness, his chains striking with ruthless precision. He wasn't just fighting—he was commanding the battle like it was made for him, like the chaos itself bent to his rhythm.
Then came the insults.
A few fighters rushed him, reckless in their aggression.
"You don't belong here," one spat, swinging his sword wildly. "You're just dead weight in this tournament!"
Another sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "You actually think a loser school like yours has a shot? Pathetic."
Amari barely reacted. Instead, his smirk deepened.
If they were resorting to taunts, they were already losing.
Then—
A voice cut through the noise, smooth, familiar.
