The man gestured toward the side of the arena where a group of red-robed assistants had already begun to move, clipboards and tablets in hand.
"Once registration is complete, pairings will be generated at random. Matches will begin immediately afterward."
The man paused.
"This is not a test of luck. It is a trial of individual ability."
His voice dropped slightly, carrying a weight that settled over the arena like a thick blanket.
"If you wish to stand before the Duke... prove that you deserve it."
With that, the man turned and walked back toward the platform beside the blue-robed woman, who still hadn't moved or spoken. Her sharp eyes watched the crowd in silence, as though taking in everything—reactions, shifts, tensions—with cold precision.
Around the arena, the red-robed assistants spread out.
Michael remained seated as one approached their row.
The assistant—a young man, likely no older than twenty—stopped before him, head bowed slightly. "Name and number tag, please."
