After a few tense minutes, the atmosphere in the Game arena grew heavy with unease. The slaves, bound by desperation and fear, shifted nervously, their patience fraying by the second.
Watching from above, the Ring Master smirked.
"Alright then... let's make things more interesting," he said with a theatrical wave of his hand.
A tall incense stick materialized in the center of the arena, its tip burning with a soft orange glow. The scent that wafted from it was strangely calming, almost sweet, but the effect on the slaves was the opposite. Panic spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"This incense," the Ring Master announced, "marks your countdown. When it burns out, anyone still wearing a collar will self-detonate. Beautiful, isn't it? A race against time—with your lives on the line."
The calm broke. Panic exploded.
