The dust still hung in the air like a veil of silence. The stadium remained frozen. Two silhouettes knelt in the cracked arena—bleeding, breathing with difficulty, but both unyielding.
Morgan Benedict.
Zephyr Albrecht.
Both warriors had given everything. And both had fallen.
The referee stood stiffly, mouth open but voiceless. His hand trembled as he looked between the two, then toward the panel of judges hovering on the upper dais.
"Quarterfinal Match Three…" he began, then faltered. "…ends in a—"
He looked up, seeking direction. But none came.
Because even the judges were confused.
In the judge's box, murmurs turned into sharp whispers. Some exchanged scrolls. Others argued quietly behind gloved hands.
"A draw? That's impossible—this is a single elimination tournament."
"We can't eliminate both. That would be madness."
"And letting both advance? That's never been done."
The air grew tense.
Until a voice—deep and sharp—cut through the silence like a blade.
"Enough."
