None of them knew the real reason Shaw Zilo had ballooned into his current bloated state—Uncle Jed had, in their last encounter, permanently relieved him of certain male functionalities.
The humiliation had driven Shaw straight into the bottomless comfort of binge-eating.
'Pathetic', Ethan—thought, flicking a watermelon seed off his thumb. The rind followed, splattering across the Windspirit Faction's immaculate training grounds like a slap.
"Smart move, Beastfall City," sneered the loudmouth disciple from earlier—the one called Eamon. Ethan recognized him now: Eamon Galewright, heir to the Windspirit Faction.
"Sending no one this year. Otherwise we'd have added more corpses to the Blood Rite Sanctum's collection," Eamon added with a grin.
Every Sacred Assembly, the same story. The sanctum's trials chewed up participants, spat out bones. Beastfall's warriors? They might as well march in with nooses pre-tied.
Ethan yawned. "Yap all you want. But the show's starting."
