Quarter-finals (2)
The arena was silent, the crowd holding its breath as Varen Drakov and The Monk stepped into the ring. Their auras clashed the moment they faced one another—a fierce, fiery intensity against an unshakable calm. Varen's silvery-red robe rippled in the wind, his presence radiating strength and confidence, while The Monk's simple brown attire and tranquil demeanor exuded an air of profound discipline.
SWOOSH!
Varen rolled his shoulders, his blade resting lightly in his hand. His fiery mana flickered to life around him, casting a faint glow on the arena floor. He could feel the weight of the crowd's anticipation, their eyes fixed on the two combatants.
'The Monk,' he thought, his gaze narrowing as he assessed his opponent. 'Unaffiliated but no less dangerous. His style thrives against mine—adaptive, and controlled. He'll wait for me to make a mistake. I can't give him that opening.'