The match was over—but the aftershocks of it rippled across the arena.
For a long moment, no one moved.
The noble section—previously so smug, so full of snickering confidence—had gone silent.
Even the ones who had laughed the loudest earlier now sat stiffly, eyes trained on Uga as if trying to make sense of what they'd just seen.
Uga, for his part, didn't bask in the attention.
He gave a slight wave to the crowd, muttered something about lunch, and ambled off the platform like nothing happened.
Michael leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable.
Callen Dureth's number tag was taken without ceremony. There was no argument. He didn't even get up. Assistants carried him off the field, groaning and red-faced—not from pain, but humiliation.
A noble had fallen.
And not just fallen—he'd been embarrassed.
By a commoner.
Michael's eyes slowly scanned the arena.
Fifty-seven nobles had entered.
Ten had passed.
All of them had only fought weak commoners.
