The smoke thinned, revealing the golden spike-haired man. His lips curled into a wolfish grin, voice carrying a weight that pressed against the air itself.
"Participant No. 439," Celeron said, rolling the number on his tongue like a challenge. "You're the one shaking the board. I'll make you an offer."
His eyes narrowed, hunger blazing.
"Fight me. Right here. If you can best me, I'll tell the Association you're no threat… just a very strong recruit. But if you fall—" his grin widened, teeth bared like a beast, "—then I'll drag your broken body out and let them decide what to do with you."
Arzael's hooded gaze stayed fixed, crimson eyes glinting faintly beneath the shadow.
"…So, you're saying my freedom depends on crushing you?"
"Exactly." Celeron barked a laugh, stomping once, the ground cracking underfoot. His aura flared, wild and oppressive. Then, as Arzael began walking toward him, step by deliberate step, his grin twitched wider.
