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pièce de résistance

The Master of the Silver Arena stood upon the highest level of the coliseum, draped in a luxurious black robe woven with intricate silver threads. The hem pooled around his feet like flowing mercury, each delicate stitch forming complex patterns that shimmered under the dim, flickering torchlight. A dull golden mask, adorned with swirling, abstract etchings, covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his sharp, impassive lips visible. His black eyes, cold and analytical, peered through the mask's slits, surveying the grand battlefield below with detached amusement.

At the snap of his gloved fingers, a massive screen materialized above the arena, its presence undeniable. Suspended mid-air by unseen forces, it illuminated the carnage below, freezing in time the very moment Orion had seized Akazar by the collar—a scene of undeniable brutality and triumph.