The resting courtyard stretched out as a temporary haven, where the remaining adrenaline in their veins turned into conversations, laughter, and sometimes heavy sighs.
The compressed ground under the crowd's feet bore the marks of short but fierce battles. On scattered benches, or leaning against the stone walls, the survivors of the first stage began to gather.
In one corner, four youths sat catching their breath, with a boy of messy hair and a chaotic smile at their center. He raised a cup of water in his hand and shouted:
"By the gods! I didn't think I'd make it out of that hell alive!"
The others laughed.
"You barely fought!" one of them mocked, lightly hitting his shoulder.
"I fought smart, not hard," the boy retorted arrogantly, before leaning back and looking up at the sky. "But... seriously, did you see that boy with the gray eyes?! He moved like a hurricane!"
"You mean Zenith?" another asked.
