The rain pounded mercilessly on the coliseum, its drumming blending with the crowd's roar.
High in the stands, the announcer, a man with a deep voice amplified by a resonating artifact, shouted to be heard over the chaos.
"And it looks like Rian Cole is in deep trouble, folks! Darion Veth has him on the ropes with those wind gusts! He can't get close, and the poor guy looks desperate for an opening!"
Charles, kneeling on the wet arena floor, gritted his teeth.
Water streamed down his face, soaking his already tattered tunic.
His hands trembled—not from the cold, but from the static building in them, a prickling burn like tiny needles.
The announcer's words echoed annoyingly, but he couldn't afford to lose focus.
Across from him, Darion Veth kept taunting, his gray tunic barely damp, shielded by that damned air barrier deflecting the rain.
'This isn't working,' Charles thought, breathing heavily.
Frustration burned in his chest, but he wasn't giving up.
