The atmosphere in the Arclight section was utterly grim and resigned.
Nine of their representatives had fallen into my hand, one by one, without securing a single victory. Some were still lying in the medical bay, others had regained consciousness and returned to watch. The faces that remained—all of them were downcast, spiritless.
Leonhardt Halstrom sat at the end of the bench, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the back of his hand.
He exhaled slowly. The air around him felt heavy as he stood.
Every eye in the Arclight section turned to him. Several mouths opened, wanting to say something, but no sound came out. Others just stared with desperate hope—their last hope.
Leonhardt straightened his collar with one hand. Then, he walked toward the arena.
His boots crunched over the scattered marble fragments at the arena's edge. Thin smoke still rose from the craters left by previous battles. The smells of scorched earth, blood, sweat, and exhaustion all mingled together.
