"Earth faction has taken their second win! The score is now tied, 2 to 2!"
The broken form of Morpheus was carried off the battlefield by Kronos medics. The once-proud spirit master had been utterly outmaneuvered—his body limp, bound by the intricate array Klea had set.
But she, too, was in no better shape.
Blood dripped steadily from her lips. Her posture sagged with fatigue as she limped back toward Earth's corner. Every step looked painful, yet when one of the medics approached her, she waved them away.
"I will remain," she said, her voice hoarse but unwavering. She turned to the other Earth magus with determination. "We need to see who we're up against next."
A calculated decision. A common tactic in such a tournament.
If Klea stayed on the field, the Kronos faction would be forced to reveal their next fighter before Earth did—an immense strategic advantage. And though everyone could see she had no intention of actually fighting again, her mere presence served as a gambit.
