"The next round. Begin the draw."
"The draw is complete. Number Thirty-Four."
As the announcement fell, the entire arena sank into silence once more.
At this point in the fighting, silence was all either side had.
Beyond that silence, their eyes were filled with fury.
For apart from fury, there were no other emotions left.
Their chests were already filled with the flames of rage.
They wanted only to kill their opponents, or be killed by them.
"Everyone, I'm off."
The next moment, a figure slowly rose.
He made almost no sound as he stood.
The hem of his black robe slipped out through a gap in the crowd first.
He wore a black robe, its fabric as dark as ink, its texture heavy and understated. Extremely fine, dark patterns appeared and vanished across its surface in the sunlight, like deep water steeped in night.
The robe's hem hung at his ankles, its edge embroidered with a narrow band of intricate cloud-and-thunder patterns in silver thread.
The patterns were archaic yet precise, every stitch bearing the artisan's restraint.
The moment he straightened, those around him instinctively glanced his way.
He was an exceptionally handsome young man.
The contours of his face were clean and defined, his cheekbones slightly prominent, his jaw distinct without being overly sharp.
His skin had the cool pallor of someone who rarely saw sunlight, lending his whole bearing a cold, quiet composure.
His nose was high and straight, his lips somewhat thin, and the corners of his mouth level. When he was not smiling, he naturally carried a measure of aloofness.
His hair was as black as ink, tied behind his head with an equally black ribbon. The strands fell over his shoulders and back, trimmed with meticulous neatness.
But a strip of white cloth covered