"Next bout, Number Twenty-Two."
The drawing of lots came to an end.
A figure slowly emerged from among those who remained.
He was a middle-aged man, lean and straight-backed, dressed in a gray robe washed almost white.
Several patches of fine stitching marked the hem, all neatly mended, showing that although its owner was not wealthy, he cherished his clothing.
The sleeves were rolled up three inches above his wrists, exposing two sturdy forearms.
His skin was wheat-colored and covered in fine old scars, each reduced to a faint white mark, like records the years had etched into his flesh with a knife tip.
A gray hemp cord was tied around his waist, with a palm-sized wine gourd hanging from it.
The gourd was purplish red all over, rubbed as smooth as jade and covered in a thick patina, its mouth tightly plugged with red cloth.
Even from far away, the rich fragrance of wine could be smelled seeping through the gaps around the stopper.
His hair was loosely pinned up with a withered wooden hairpin, with a few silver strands at his temples.
His face was square and composed, with slightly high cheekbones, a clean jawline, and an exceedingly faint old scar on his chin.
It extended from beneath his chin to the edge of his left jaw. His features were unremarkable, but his eyes were still-as still as a thousand-year-old well, without the slightest ripple.
He rode an imposing exotic beast.
The beast was jet-black all over and a full size larger than an ordinary steed, its four hooves thick as pillars. Each hoof was covered in heavy black scales whose edges gleamed with a dark golden sheen.
Its head was square and majestic, with a short, thick horn growing from its forehead. The horn was jet-black, but