Grim awoke to familiar surroundings—his bedchamber in the Ambrose manor. Sunlight coming onto his bed through the window. His body ached, muscles protesting even the slightest movement. The mana exhaustion had taken its toll, leaving him feeling hollow, drained.
[You lost,] the voice observed, its tone neutral.
"Yes, I know," Grim replied aloud, his voice raspy from disuse. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. Hours? A day?
[Yet you seem... satisfied.]
"I ended it on my own terms." Grim pushed himself up against the pillows, wincing at the effort.
[I don't understand,] the voice admitted, a rare concession. [You were defeated.]
Grim smiled thinly. "I knew exactly how much mana I had left, and with the exhaustion from the previous matches, I knew precisely which technique would deplete me entirely. I simply chose to use it when it would appear most impressive."
[But you still lost.]
"I did not yield," Grim countered. "I simply chose when the match would be over."
