Winning was never simple when politics and pride collided.
For three long heartbeats after the victory declaration, the arena remained utterly silent. Then the noise erupted all at once—cheers crashing into shouted arguments, celebration bleeding seamlessly into political calculation spoken aloud without restraint.
I stood at the center of the arena, chest heaving as I forced air into aching lungs. The scent of disturbed earth and sweat hung heavy in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of blood—some of it mine. My body throbbed from repeated impacts, every muscle protesting, bruises already forming beneath torn fabric. But I remained upright, boots planted firmly in the churned dirt. Standing. Victorious.
The arena floor was scarred from our battle—deep gouges where claws had struck, patches of scorched earth where power had manifested too intensely. My hands trembled slightly as adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the bone-deep exhaustion of pushing past every limit.
