In the middle of the commotion, several of the principals who had earlier rushed to aid Ibarin began to stir.
Their bodies ached, magic drained from pushing themselves too far, but their eyes fluttered open one by one. Some were in no state to stand, much less rejoin the battle, while others, despite the wounds streaking across their robes and the blood dripping down their faces, still clutched at their staffs, desperate to channel whatever scraps of mana they had left.
The instinct to help their Grand Magus was strong.
But when they tried to rise, when they tried to push forward into the ruined arena, it was their own students who stopped them.
Hands pressed firmly against their shoulders. Voices whispered urgent pleas.
"Please, don't."
"Stay down. It's over."
"Don't get involved…"
Whether out of fear, respect for the duel's outcome, or simply exhaustion, the students held their teachers back. And perhaps deep down, all of them knew the truth: the fight was already decided.
