The silence did not break.
It deepened.
The dust finished settling, drifting downward in slow, lazy spirals, revealing the ruined arena in full—collapsed tiers, fractured runes, dwarven constructs frozen mid-breath like titans caught between heartbeats. The air still shimmered with residual heat and mana, but no one moved. No one dared.
It felt as though the mountain itself was waiting.
Luca stood at the center of it all.
Blood continued to slide down his temple, dripping from his jaw to darken the broken stone at his feet. His breathing was uneven now, every inhale scraping his lungs raw, every exhale threatening to be his last. His body swayed—subtly, dangerously—but he did not fall.
His gaze never left Durgan.
And in his hand—
That small object.
At first, it didn't look like anything at all.
Just metal.
