The anti-magic field was a suffocating, leaden blanket. A sudden, brutal amputation. The constant, low-level hum of the souls he carried, the whispers of his dagger, his heightened senses—all of it was gone. Replaced by a dull, terrifying silence. For the first time since the Crystal of Rejection, he was just a man. A simple, mortal man trapped in a dark, iron-walled box with another man who wanted him dead.
Chris looked transformed. Stripped of his flashy, S-Rank abilities and his legendary artifacts, he was something different. Harder. The arrogant, preening peacock of the academy was gone. Burned away in the crucible of his own humiliation. What was left was a lean, hungry wolf. His eyes burned with a singular, obsessive, and utterly dedicated hatred. He had clearly spent every waking moment since their last duel doing one thing. Training. Training for this single, final moment of retribution.
