[???]
The desolate wasteland arena stretched endlessly beneath an overcast sky, the wind howling across jagged rock formations and patches of dry, lifeless earth. The oppressive air was thick with tension, almost suffocating, as the group stood in a loose circle, their eyes locked on a single figure—Mikoto.
Victoria's eyes carried through the wasteland arena, sharp yet distant, as if she herself was unsure. The remnants of golden radiance still flickered in the air from where Octavia had casted a spell mere moments ago, but the true spectacle—the one that left the entire Colosseum in stunned disbelief—was not the presence of the Goddess.
It was him.
Mikoto stood motionless, his armored figure barely shifting under the heavy weight of the collective gazes boring into him. A single gauntleted hand rested idly on his hip, his posture casual, almost lazy, as though the divine presence that had just confronted him moments ago was nothing more than a passing breeze.
