The magical panels hovering in mid-air shifted again.
Quarterfinal Match 2: Prince Rowan Hale vs. Arven Skell
The murmurs returned—sharper, heavier.
"Prince Rowan…"
"The Third Prince of the Hale Dynasty. That kid's the real deal."
"You mean the one who finished both his matches in five minutes? Yeah, nobody even scratched him."
"Calm, lethal, and smarter than half the nobles in this arena. That's Prince Rowan for you."
"And who's the other guy? Arven something?"
"Arven Skell. Disciple of the Chainbound Sect. Fights like a damn whirlwind with that chain."
"Yeah, you see the way it moves? It's like it's alive—like part of him."
"That's high-level wind manipulation. Real control."
The arena gates creaked open from opposite ends.
From the left strode Prince Rowan Hale—straight-backed, clean-cut in a crimson cloak traced with a gold crest. His golden hair was neatly combed. His steps were silent. And his gaze, it was calm. There was no excitement. No pride. Just focus.
