Every eye in the crowd was locked onto the arena, breaths held in anticipation. Even Alistair himself seemed convinced—it was over.
Mikhail lay motionless, face-down on the battlefield. His battered form was still, his gun resting uselessly at his side. And standing above him, victorious, was Alistair Rhaegis.
The red aura that had once bled from his body had long since faded, dissipating into the air like embers swallowed by the wind. His grip on his claymore loosened slightly as the weight of battle finally lifted from his shoulders.
The match had been decided.
But just as the moment settled, something shifted.
A low tremor pulsed through the ground, faint at first but unmistakable. It was subtle, yet Alistair's brows furrowed ever so slightly as he took a step back. Before he could react further, the ground beneath him lurched.
Then—
BOOM!
A sudden burst of light from directly below.
A projectile tore out of the earth, aimed directly at him.
