The thirty seconds were up.
Lucaris Thalric reappeared.
He was no longer the proud, living legend. He was a broken old man.
He stood in the center of the arena, his body trembling. His knuckles raw and bleeding from the hundreds of invisible blows he'd landed on Dante's unyielding flesh. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps.
His eyes, once the sharp, clear blue of a glacier, were now wide with pure, soul-shaking terror.
He looked at his own bloody hands. Then he looked at Dante, who stood before him completely unharmed. A single, healed scratch on his cheek was the only evidence that a fight had even occurred.
The living legend of the north, the hero of the 46th Trial, fell to his knees.
The roar of the crowd which had been a tidal wave of cheers for their champion died. It didn't fade. It was cut off, as if by a blade.
A deep, profound, utterly disbelieving silence fell over the tens of thousands of spectators.
Then the silence shattered.
