The battlefield grew still for the first time since the dome shattered.
The lesser demons were dead. Against all odds, the surviving applicants of the tournament had done the impossible and survived.
Demon corpses littered the cracked stone floor, ichor steaming as it seeped into the ground and yet not a single one of the applicants was among them. Sixteen blood-stained applicants panted in formation, weapons shaking in their hands.
And then the ground trembled.
From the shadows of the collapsing stands emerged the true threat, towering figures, each twice the size of a man, armored in jagged obsidian plates.
Their weapons pulsed with infernal mana; cleavers, glaives, serrated swords dripping with heat. Eyes glowed crimson like burning coals.
The aura they released made the air itself heavier. The applicants staggered under it, hearts pounding, and even Kairo could not help the chill that ran down his spine like a snake constricting around him slowly.
