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The Devil of the Silver Arena

Orion's grip tightened around Akazar's hair, his fingers curling into the blood-matted strands as he hoisted the lifeless head high. The grotesque display sent a ripple of silence through the once-roaring crowd, their cheers and jeers now strangled in their throats. Blood dripped from the mangled body, forming dark pools against the cracked stone beneath his boots. The air reeked of copper and sweat, the remnants of battle hanging thick over the arena.

For a long, chilling moment, Orion stood still, his cold, merciless gaze sweeping over the crowd. There was no arrogance in his posture, no need to revel in his victory. There was only the eerie calm of a man who had known the outcome before the first blow had even been struck. A man who had never entertained the thought of losing.