The arena was quiet for just a breath before the fight began.
A charged silence, stretched tight like a bowstring.
The crowd, still recovering from the previous match, leaned forward in anticipation.
The tension was different this time. Less about spectacle, more about precision.
Two fighters, standing still, measuring, calculating.
Two swordsmen.
No flashy magic, no tricks or distractions. Just skill, sharpened through sweat, time, and countless battles.
The arena held its breath, the air thick with the weight of what was about to unfold.
Erlo flexed his prosthetic arm, the movement smooth despite the mechanical nature of it. He rolled his shoulder, testing its range, as if ensuring every part of him was ready.
The metal gleamed in the sun, polished but not pristine, each scratch and dent a silent record of past fights.
It was a stark contrast to the well-worn hilt of his sword, wrapped in leather that had molded to his grip over years of use.
