The arena floor thrummed—a deep, steady pulse like the beating heart of a giant beast beneath the stone.
Energy crackled in the air, swirling through the coliseum in invisible waves.
Every seat was filled.
Every spectator leaned forward, breath held, eyes glued to the battlefield.
The crowd's roar rose like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of the arena.
And yet, in the center of that chaos, silence reigned.
Two warriors stood face to face.
On one end stood Grugrim, the Iron-Blooded Dwarf.
His stance was wide, unmoving, like a living fortress. Stocky. Low to the ground. His armor clanked softly with every subtle breath, forged not for beauty—but to break armies.
Across from him stood Malik.
Tall. Crimson-skinned. Calm.
A demon lord cloaked in quiet fire.
Smoke drifted lazily from his bare shoulders like incense. His black eyes glowed, not with rage—but with the cold, focused confidence of someone who had already decided how the fight would end.
