The elder's arm fell. No dramatic flourish followed. No signal horn. Just the quiet certainty of authority—and the air changed. Robert Osborn felt it immediately.
Max Brooks moved first. Not fast. Not reckless. He stepped forward with measured pressure, his boots grinding against the stone as if testing it. His sword hung low, angled just enough to threaten without committing. His aura rolled outward in steady waves, heavy with exhaustion yet still dense, still sharp.
Spirit Root Realm — Level Five, Peak Stage. Even wounded, Max was dangerous. Robert adjusted his stance, his weight settling into his heels, breathing slowly and controlled. His injuries protested the moment he shifted. His ribs tightened. His arm burnt faintly where blood had already dried beneath his sleeve.
Ten minutes, he thought calmly. I can hold for ten minutes. The crowd had gone strangely quiet. They had cheered earlier. They had shouted. Now they watched. Max attacked without warning.
