The transit field dissolved, leaving Rhys standing on hot, black rock. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and burning stone, and the heat was a physical wave that hit him even through his robes. He took a quick, assessing look around.
He was on a small, jagged island made of dark, volcanic rock. A river of glowing, orange lava flowed sluggishly nearby, casting an ominous, flickering light on the surroundings. In the distance, across narrow, precarious bridges of cooled lava rock, other islands rose from a sea of molten fire. High above, the simulated sky was a perpetual, angry twilight, choked with thick clouds of black ash. This was Sector Delta, the arena for the second round.
Around him, ninety-nine other combatants materialized, scattered across the island and the nearby bridges. The brief moment of disorientation was even shorter this time. The survivors of the first round were veterans now.
