They had won the last round, but the next one still had to go on.
The Arena matches had never ended.
After so many rounds, the number of contestants had dwindled.
But every person left had eyes filled with fighting spirit.
Everyone had long since cast aside their misgivings and fears.
A rotten life was still a life—just fight. What misgivings? What fear?
All of it was gone.
All that remained was a thirst for battle.
Once you stepped onto the Arena, you fought.
Whoever dared so much as furrow their brow was a grandson.
"The next battle will begin shortly."
"The drawing of lots will now begin."
Hearing that familiar voice, the contestants on both sides focused intently, their eyes fixed on the Arena.
A moment later, a number slowly appeared.
"The next battle: Number Twenty-Five."
As the words fell, the Arena sank into silence once more.
"I've been waiting."
The next moment, a figure in snow-white robes slowly walked toward the Arena.
He held a folding fan in his hand.
The man in white moved at an unhurried pace, his robes fluttering lightly as though he had melded into the Arena itself.
He was dressed entirely in white.
His white robe was like snow, spotless and untouched by dust.
His white boots touched the ground without making a sound.
A waterfall of white hair spilled down behind his shoulders. Even his long brows were the color of frost and snow, making his face appear even paler.
He looked as though he had emerged from a glacier in the far north, carrying an icy chill with him.
Only the jade-green pendant at his waist stood out amid his plain white attire.
The jade was warm and lustrous, a dim glow flowing through it. It was like the only touch