"Raphael Garcia is unable to continue the battle. Azrael Garcia wins the match," the Duke's voice echoed through the arena, the words reverberating in the still air.
Rael stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the broken form of his brother, the crowd's cheers washing over him like an indifferent tide. His expression remained impassive, the weight of his decision settling in his bones.
The Duke moved swiftly, using his soul energy to stabilize Raphael's damaged heart, preventing it from failing until the High Priestess could reach him. Despite the clear seriousness of Raphael's condition, the cheers rang loud and unyielding from the stands.
People shouted Rael's name, clapping, some even jumping to their feet in excitement. Whether they had supported him from the beginning or only now acknowledged his strength didn't matter. In the end, victory was the only thing that mattered. The winner was hailed, the loser forgotten.
