Nothing moved.
Not a whisper.
Not a breeze.
No cheering.
Only silence.
A silence so thick it pressed against the chest like a weight, dense with confusion, laced with discomfort. The kind that doesn't follow a victory, but something else. Something uglier.
And then—
FWOOSH.
A soft pulse of golden light flared above the arena, casting long shadows over the fractured battlefield.
The proctor reappeared midair, cloak billowing behind him, his boots touching down on the edge of the scorched platform with smooth, practiced grace. He landed lightly, but the tremor that followed wasn't from his weight—it was from everything around him trying to make sense of what just happened.
He raised one hand high, and his voice—amplified by arcane runes carved into the stadium's walls—boomed across the coliseum.
"VICTORY GOES TO MALIK VORAHN! THE FLAMING DEMON! HE WILL FACE ALEX KNIGHT IN THE FINALS! AREN'T YOU EXCITED!!"
Normally, the arena would erupt.
But not this time.
