Ibaan came back to his senses.
A figure stood before him. He wore a white mask, with a skull carved on its right side. Caribbean-blue eyes gleamed beneath it. Brown hair fell over the mask, reaching his eyes, tied back with a rubber band—if it weren't tied, it would spill over his shoulders.
"Yo, Bastard 11! That's a treacherous mask!" the man said in a cheerful voice, smiling through his words.
Ibaan scratched the back of his head as he stood up.
'Oh.'
"Hi," Ibaan said, his voice stiff and broken, still confused, still scratching his head.
"Call me Bastard 01," the man replied. "But The Debate is preferred."
'So this is Bastard 01,' Ibaan thought.
"Come. Follow me." The man waved his hand and turned around.
His voice carried weight—heavy and commanding—even though he released no power at all. There was no display, no threat, no battle intent.
Yet it was clear.
This was someone powerful.
Ibaan still felt suppressed.
