The arena never quite returns to normal after a knockout like that. The air remains unsettled, vibrating with anticipation instead of release. Because everyone understands what comes next.
High above the floor level, in a wide unified block on the north side of the upper bowl, positioned deliberately near the red corner, the Cruel King Army finalizes its formation.
Kenji Matsuda stands at the center aisle of the block, headset resting against his collar, eyes scanning his generals. Twenty-two of them, each one holds a tightly wrapped flagpole at their feet, concealed for now.
"Second cue after blackout," Kenji says quietly. "Raise on my mark. No delay."
Two sections down, near the stair rail, the peculiar girl adjusts the strap around her shoulder and checks the valves of her trumpet. She does not rehearse a note, and she never does. But when it sounds, it must feel inevitable, not practiced.
