The vast arena, its ancient stones steeped in centuries of magical history, thrummed with the fervor of a thousand spectators.
Torches flickered along the weathered tiers, casting a warm, wavering glow over the sea of witches and wizards, their robes a vibrant patchwork of crimson, emerald, and sapphire.
The air crackled with anticipation, as if the very atmosphere held its breath, and then the announcer's voice, amplified as though by a Sonorus charm, rolled like thunder across the crowd.
He began to call the names of the eight mages who had endured the day's brutal trials, their voices rising in a crescendo of cheers.
"Milo!" The name echoed, and a wiry figure stepped forward, his dark hair tousled as if stirred by an unseen breeze. Milo's sharp eyes locked onto Gon, and a sly grin curled his lips, a silent taunt that sent a prickle of unease down Gon's spine.
