The atmosphere had begun to stabilize—tense but quiet. Candidates huddled in corners of the basin, meditating, tending to wounds, casting wary glances at rivals and enemies alike. Mana was being restored. Plans were being made.
And then the ground shifted.
Not literally.
But perceptibly.
The air grew heavier. The mana thinner, like something massive had entered the field and drawn attention without sound or speech. Lucavion's head tilted slightly, his gaze already locked on the southern arch of the safe zone.
There—between the crumbled stone and shifting light—
He entered.
A figure whose presence felt carved, not born.
The young man who stepped through was built like war given skin—broad-shouldered, shirt torn across the ribs, blood drying in streaks across dark bronze skin. His cleaver—less a weapon and more a slab of steel shaped by fury—rested across his back like an extension of his spine.
And he radiated intent.
Not killing intent.
Not threat.
But challenge.
