Throughout the battles, many participants began to be eliminated.
The Monarchs watched their fights with analytical inner thoughts, assessing each new diamond they deemed worthy of polishing.
In one such battle, the arena resembled a ruined sanctuary more than a battlefield. Marks from previous clashes remained fresh: energy grooves scarring the ground, floating fragments, the very atmosphere trembling.
The silence was thick. Heavy. Not as an absence of sound, but as the presence of expectation.
On one side stood Tharos, feet planted like ancient pillars, eyes calm as a valley before the quake. Their muscles resembled living sculptures, and their posture said it all: I do not fall.
Opposite them, Niko—more shadow than person. Their body seemed to dissolve at the edges, as if the world could never fully contain their form. They danced. And the dance was silent, like the step of a blade before the cut.
