The moment my boots touched the arena floor, a low murmur rippled through the audience. Excitement, anticipation, and the lingering shock from Lucifer's display all hung in the air like charged electricity.
Across from me, Ian Viserion rolled his shoulders, golden-red flames flickering in the depths of his pupils. His presence alone exuded a quiet menace, his mana coiling around him in the shape of ethereal dragon wings, barely visible but unmistakably real.
Ian was a Viserion. A prince of the Southern Continent. A descendant of dragons.
A born fighter.
And he wasn't planning to lose.
"I knew I'd be facing you at some point, Arthur," Ian said, rolling his neck. A grin tugged at his lips, sharp and eager. "Honestly, I was hoping it would be later. You're a tough fight to start with."
