Northern grimaced as he watched the strange guy floating above.
'A gift? To me? I don't even know your crappy ass.'
Regardless, he had to act—something had to be done about the rift, about that guy, about the lives of the students that were now hanging by a thread.
Just as he made to move, figures blurred past him, landing at scattered points across the arena. Each stood still, eyes locked on the rift with a cold, unwavering focus.
Northern's gaze swept the coliseum. Aside from the academy instructors—easily identified by the black shoulder capes adorned with the academy's sigil—there were four others. Well, technically three. One, he recognized.
The first was a man who radiated danger without needing to raise his voice or unsheath a blade. His robe, half-draped over a lean, scar-marked torso, hinted at old traditions—but the look in his eyes made it clear he no longer lived by them.
