MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

As the battle raged on around the arena, the air was thick with anticipation, and all eyes were on the combatants.

Among the eight representatives of the major races, not a single expression shifted.

Their faces remained as stoic as ever, their gazes unwavering.

They were watching their champions, but no one would dare to show anything but neutrality.

The champions' struggles were their own, after all, and these representatives would remain impartial, as was their duty.

But as the battle dragged on, there was an undeniable undercurrent of emotion among the parents.

Each one had their reasons, their quiet hopes and unspoken fears, and each felt the pressure of their child's participation in this grand spectacle.

Serenelle's mother stood with her arms crossed, her face set in an icy mask, but there was a tightness around her eyes, a slight clenching of her jaw.

Her daughter, so proud and fierce, had been the first to fall victim to the brutality of the arena.

A sharp pain sliced through her chest as she watched Serenelle stagger back, her form faltering for the briefest of moments.

The delicate grace of the young warrior had been marred by the first true injury of the bloodbath, and though Serenelle quickly recovered, her mother couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment that gnawed at her pride.

She had hoped for more.

Hoped her daughter would be stronger.

But there was little time to mourn for any perceived weakness; the battle was still ongoing, and Serenelle's spirit had not broken neither has she gone all out.

Yet still, the weight of the moment lingered in her mother's heart.

She had seen Serenelle grow, had raised her to be a powerful force, and now, as a mother, she felt the sting of being unable to shield her from this world of unrelenting violence.

But she would not show it.

The other parents were watching, and Serenelle's mother would not let them see her weakness.

Not now.

Anthony's mother, Mitchelle, remained as impassive as ever, though her eyes never left her son.

She didn't glance at the other champions, didn't acknowledge the bloodshed or the displays of power from the other contestants.

Her focus was on Anthony, and only him.

He moved with an ease and fluidity that filled her with pride, but also with a certain quiet intensity.

She felt the air around her vibrate with her own elemental power, but she had no intention of intervening.

Not yet.
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She would never interrupt Anthony's battle unless it was absolutely necessary.

Michael, standing beside her, watched his son's movements with a quiet admiration.

There was no outward show of emotion, but inside, a deep sense of pride washed over him.

The way Anthony wielded his sword, the way he anticipated each move before it was even made, it was effortless.

Like the blade was an extension of him, and nothing could touch him.

He could see the years of training, the countless hours spent honing his skills.

Michael marveled at his son's mastery, even as the bloodshed continued around them.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of joy.

He had no doubt that Anthony would emerge victorious, but the journey was far from over.

Rylis's father stood with a knowing grin etched on his face.

He had watched his son grow, witnessed the same sharp instincts that made Rylis such a dangerous opponent.

The boy's reflexes were extraordinary, and every movement was fluid, almost predatory.

His father saw the wildness in him, the fierce independence that ran in their bloodline.

It was a trait that set Rylis apart from all others.

The grin deepened as Rylis dodged another attack, his movements quick and precise.

His instincts were perfect, his focus unwavering.

It was clear to his father that this was a battle of wit and endurance, and Rylis was more than capable of holding his own.

Kaelthar's father remained silent, a towering figure in the distance, watching the battle unfold.

His eyes never strayed from the combat, though he said nothing.

There was no need for words.

Kaelthar was a force to be reckoned with, and his father knew better than anyone that his son would never back down from a challenge.

There was no surprise in his eyes, no hint of doubt.

He simply watched, waiting for his son's next move.

Then there was Gorath, the head of the Titan race.

He watched the arena with rapt attention, his massive hands clasped tightly in front of him, his thick brow furrowed in deep concentration.

His blood was boiling, a deep, primal hunger stirred within him.

He could feel the surge of energy from the surrounding, the thundering pulse of each clash, each blow.

He was stronger than any of these combatants, yet the sight of their power stirred something deep within him.

He longed to join in, to throw himself into the fray, but he restrained himself.

This battle was not his to fight.

However, the mere thought of it filled him with a heat unlike anything else.

He felt alive with the promise of destruction, a storm brewing within him that threatened to break free.

Gorath stood with his massive arms crossed, his expression a mix of anticipation and quiet frustration.

As he watched the battles unfold, a pang of sadness coursed through him, one he rarely allowed himself to feel.

It was the weight of his own power, a strength so vast that it rendered most fights meaningless.

Beings of his level were restrained not just by their own discipline, but by the reality of their existence.

One misstep, one strike, and entire cities could be razed, entire ecosystems destroyed.

Their strength was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

The only time he truly felt alive was when he entered dungeons or faced beasts of his caliber, and even those engagements left him hollow.

Those creatures, while mighty, lacked the intelligence to truly challenge him, to make a fight more than just brute force against brute force.

Their movements were predictable, their instincts primal.

There was no thrill of strategy, no exchange of technique.

It was monotonous, and it left him yearning for more.

Even demons of his level, those rare adversaries who could match his strength, hardly made moves.

They were as cautious as he was, bound by the same unspoken rules that kept the world from descending into chaos.

The stagnation gnawed at him, but Gorath could only endure.

It was the burden of being at the pinnacle, there was no one left to challenge you, no battles to test your limits.

His gaze shifted from the arena to the figure standing near him.

Michael, the Sword Saint, stood silent and unwavering, his focus entirely on his son.

Gorath's mind turned with an idea, and the faintest glimmer of excitement sparked in his chest.

He leaned slightly toward Michael, his voice a low rumble that carried weight.

"Sword Saint"

He said, the title laced with respect and challenge

"When this bloodbath is over, would you be in for a battle?"

The other heads of the major races, seated in their respective places, turned their attention to Michael.

Their expressions betrayed the same curiosity, the same unspoken anticipation.

They, too, wanted to see the Sword Saint's power and abilities.

Michael's reputation preceded him, his mastery of the blade, his rumoured ability to cut through space and time itself.

Even among beings of their caliber, his prowess was legendary.

But Michael didn't respond.

His sharp, hawk-like eyes remained fixed on the arena, on Anthony's every move.

His focus was undetached, impenetrable.

For Michael, there was nothing more important in this moment than his son.

The others could wait; his answers could wait.

Gorath's request went unanswered, the silence speaking louder than any refusal.

Gorath exhaled through his nose, the hint of a growl lingering in the sound.

He straightened, his massive frame casting a shadow over those nearby.

"Hmph"

He muttered to himself, his tone resigned.

If Michael wasn't interested, there was no point in pressing.

He didn't bother asking the others.

He already knew the answer.

None of them would accept.

Not because they were afraid, but because they shared the same burden of power.

To fight at their level was to risk far too much, and none of them would jeopardize the fragile balance they maintained.

Still, the yearning for a true battle lingered in Gorath's chest, a smoldering ember of longing that refused to be extinguished.

For now, he could only endure.

Gorath exhaled deeply, his frustration simmering beneath his stoic exterior.

He turned his gaze back to the arena, letting the clang of weapons and the flashes of power momentarily distract him from his restlessness.

Yet, as he stood there, something flickered in his mind, a thought, a possibility.

A slow, deliberate grin spread across his face, sharp and menacing, as the idea took shape.

It wasn't the bloodbath itself that intrigued him, but what could come after it.

The battles of the champions might set the stage for something far greater, far more exhilarating.

This bloodbath wasn't just a contest; it was a precursor, a spark for something larger.

Gorath's thoughts raced with the potential of what lay ahead, a battle tied to the outcome of this very moment.

It wasn't just a fleeting fantasy but a tangible possibility, one that ignited a deep excitement within him.

The thought alone stirred his blood, making it boil with anticipation.

His grin widened, teeth gleaming like polished steel, and his eyes burned with renewed vigor.

For the first time in ages, he felt a genuine thrill, a glimmer of the action he longed for.

Gorath straightened his towering frame, his fists clenching in anticipation.

The present was captivating, but the future now held a promise, a promise of battle, of unleashed power, and of a challenge worthy of his might.

The Titan head's booming voice cut through the tension, a low, satisfied chuckle escaping his lips as he muttered to himself.

"The future will be interesting indeed"

As the battle between the champions continued, the parents stood in their respective corners, their thoughts swirling in silence.

Each one held an unwavering belief in their child's potential, but none could predict the outcome.

The violence and chaos in the arena made it clear that the battle had only just begun.

There was still so much more to unfold, and yet, no one knew how it would end.

For now, all they could do was wait.