Thirty.
That was how many rushed him.
Foolish. Reckless. Desperate.
The moment Aurex finished speaking—offering his challenge like a crown dropped in a pit of wolves—thirty candidates surged from the fringes of the ring and charged toward him.
Some used wind spells. Some called upon flame. Some simply sprinted, blades drawn, shrieking.
Aurex didn't move.
He raised a single hand. Not to cast. Not to threaten. Just to yawn.
And then mana erupted — not as a wave, but a reversal. As if the air had never belonged to them in the first place.
A pulse. Quiet.
Then pressure.
All thirty froze mid-charge, limbs locked as if caught in tar.
Then they crashed.
Not thrown, not cut — just broken by the sheer gravitational weight of his presence. Bodies hit the sand like dropped stone. Bones cracked. A few screamed before falling silent. Most didn't get the chance.
The arena held its breath.
Aurex didn't look at them. Just stepped over one crumpled figure and adjusted his sleeves.
