The arena fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then—
"It's over!"
The commentator's voice boomed across the coliseum, loud and filled with awe. "Sir Mic Nor is the winner!"
Cheers erupted like a dam breaking.
The tension snapped like a string, replaced by roaring applause, whistles, and deafening shouts that bounced off the stone walls of the stadium.
The sound was overwhelming.
But down in the heart of it all, Michael was calm.
He let out a slow breath, his eyes lingering on the slumbering form of Uga—mouth slightly open, still smiling even in unconsciousness.
His body was battered, but not broken. If anything, he looked... satisfied.
Michael stepped back.
Behind him, Spartan had gone to pick up his discarded spear from the ground.
Michael glanced over his shoulder.
"That's enough for today."
Spartan straightened and gave a sharp, respectful nod. "Yes, Master."
Then, with no ceremony, Michael lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.
