The arena doesn't explode all at once. It swells.
First comes the roar from the Cruel King's Army; raw, feral, a sound without rhythm or restraint. It pours down from the upper tiers like a war cry dragged out of thousands of throats, long and wild, shaking steel and concrete alike.
Then the rest of the crowd catches it. Neutral voices, hesitant a moment ago, begin to rise, one by one, then in waves, surrendering to it without quite knowing when they chose to.
Hands slam railings. Feet pound the floor. The chant forms on instinct, not agreement, not loyalty, just inevitability.
"RYO—MA!"
"RYO—MA!"
"RYO—MA!"
The name rolls, heavier each time, until the whole arena is chanting it back at itself.
But Ryoma doesn't look up. He's still staring down.
Ramos lies folded at his feet, face turned to the side, mouth slack around the mouthpiece, chest barely moving.
Ryoma's eyes are sharp, unblinking, studying him with the same focus he'd used inside the exchange.
***
