The training hall was an iron and concrete bunker that smelled of scorched air and the faint, bitter scent of ozone. High above, the mana scrubbers hummed with a desperate, vibrating intensity, trying to pull the excess heat out of the atmosphere. Vane stood at the edge of the circular arena, his back to the reinforced wall. He kept his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on the two women in the center of the floor.
He felt the familiar phantom itch behind his ears. It was followed immediately by the sensation of a cold, wet hook dragging across the surface of his brain, a feeling that always preceded the activation of his authority. The world did not display a menu or a list of stats. Instead, it fractured.
