His breathing was so faint that each exhale sent only the thinnest wisp of white mist drifting from his lips.
His eyelids drooped heavily, and his vision had begun to blur.
But he was still standing.
His feet were planted firmly on the ground, his back straight as a stone post that would not topple even after thirty thousand years.
He turned slowly and walked toward the edge of the Arena.
As his first step fell, the stone tile beneath his foot gave a faint, crisp crack. The sound came from the sole of his foot.
Frost had covered the bottom of his foot. Every inch of his skin radiated a bone-piercing chill, and a fresh layer of white frost formed the instant it touched the stone.
At his second step, his left knee buckled slightly.
A web of fine icy cracks spread from the bend of his knee, climbing along his leg bone all the way to his ankle.
He paused for a breath, shifted his weight back onto his right leg, then took a third step.
At the fourth, a mouthful of blue-glowing blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
It struck the stone tile and quickly froze into a blue bead of ice. The bead rolled twice, then shattered into powder.
At the fifth, his footsteps finally stopped altogether.
He stood three steps from the edge of the Arena, facing the silent faces watching him from below.
His vision was so blurred that he could barely make out their outlines, but he could feel something.
The weight of their silence, the gravity of their gazes, and a kind of respect that had nothing to do with victory or defeat.
He slowly opened his mouth.
"I..."
His voice came out hoarse and broken, like the creak of