The pace quickened. Each match announcement was followed by a unique ripple through the crowd — bursts of cheers, scattered groans, low murmurs of speculation.
Students clapped their friends on the shoulder or muttered into their sleeves. Others froze, gripping the hilts of their swords like lifelines, mentally rehearsing footwork or visualizing counters for imagined strikes.
The arena itself became a living mosaic of reactions — pockets of roaring approval, corners heavy with tense silence, and the occasional sharp laugh when two unlikely fighters were matched.
The air was thick with the heat of bodies and the faint tang of polished steel, all under the constant shimmer of the Orb's golden threads weaving fate.
The Orb kept choosing.
By the fortieth pairing, the Orb's glowing threads had slowed slightly, each draw feeling more deliberate, as though the great artifact were pausing between heartbeats, weighing and measuring.
