The air was getting heavier, thick with tension that pressed against every chest in the arena. The audience was roaring, cheering with boundless energy, but even their voices seemed to tremble beneath the oppressive weight radiating from the battlefield.
Xiao Rui and Zheng Han's eyes locked with one another—an unspoken war of will before their blades even moved.
Zheng Han unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion. Crimson patterns, like veins of blood and flame, glowed along the steel as if the weapon itself thirsted for carnage. He stretched his neck with a lazy crack, then slid his right leg forward, grounding himself in a predator's stance.
Xiao Rui's grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. Cold determination gleamed in his eyes as he slid his left leg into position, exhaling slowly.
Then—both of them moved.
