It was time for the last fight, Milo and Buhrama.
The arena was alive with energy, a sea of voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore.
The air itself seemed to hum, thick with heat and the restless excitement of the crowd.
A hush swept through the audience, a moment of stillness stretching taut like a rope pulled to its limit.
Then, before anyone could fully catch their breath, the first crack split the air, sharp, electric, like a whip striking stone.
The sound echoed through the vast arena, sending shivers through the waiting spectators.
Some gasped, others leaned forward, their fingers curling into the edges of their seats.
It was the signal they had been waiting for, the moment when stillness shattered into action.
The fight had begun.
Buhrama's palm crackled with raw energy, jagged streaks of white and blue weaving between his fingers like living serpents.
