For a brief moment after the wave of blood magic settled, the arena fell into a strange stillness.
The echoes of impact lingered in the air, the shattered ground still trembling from the force that had just swept through it, and all eyes—those who could still lift them—turned toward the scattered bodies of the Moonshade family.
GrandLord Dreath stood where he was, unmoving.
His hand slowly lowered.
His gaze remained fixed.
"…I used a blood spell…"
The thought passed through his mind clearly, without disguise, without hesitation.
Not because he could not strike them down without it.
Not because he needed it.
But because they—
Had pushed him to it.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
That had not happened in a very long time.
Even when he held back to an absurd degree, even when he restrained himself to a level that would be considered harmless among his kind, he still expected absolute dominance.
He still expected obedience from the world beneath him.
Yet these—
