In one of the thousand arenas, a continent-sized biome of dense jungle, a living mountain sat in quiet contemplation.
Atlas, the leader of the Titans, rested at the foot of the tallest tree, his colossal form so immense that the small, shimmering token at his waist was completely lost in the folds of his stone-like skin.
Unlike the other champions, who were locked in a frantic, desperate scramble for survival, Atlas was an island of absolute, unassailable calm.
His sheer size, visible from miles away, was a silent and terrifying deterrent. No sane lifeform dared to approach him.
They remembered the spectacle of the first round, the image of the reinforced Pillar of Might exploding into dust from a single, casual punch.
They gave him a wide, respectful berth.
For an hour, Atlas enjoyed the best time of his life, a quiet, peaceful nap in the heart of a warzone. But his rest was interrupted by the faint whisper of wings.
