He ripped off his own mask, proudly flashing his square-jawed face. His thick moustache was matted with sweat, and fresh bruises bloomed along his temple. But he raised his arms high anyway, flexing while the exoskeleton exhaled a hiss of steam in showy timing. The nobles whistled, hooting as he pumped his fists and winked toward a group of sponsors.
The ringmaster hesitated for a moment—then gave a short nod.
The gate creaked open.
"Look, kid, you look malnourished. Plenty like you come here thinking they're tough. Without proper gear—like that exosuit—you won't last a minute against this guy."
No reply. Just a small shake of the masked boy's head.
Still, Sylene stepped forward.
The ringmaster sighed under his breath and handed over a temporary exoskeleton—an old, scraped-down model barely holding together. Not fit for champions, but enough to stand. The boy accepted it without a word, fingers brushing over the frame like observing new toys.
