As Alonso walked forward, he noticed the eyes of everyone around him, some glancing subtly, others more openly. There was no mistaking the tension in the air. Every gaze followed him like a shadow, scrutinizing his every move. Some faces were indifferent, a few curious, but the overwhelming emotion he felt coming from them was undeniable—contempt.

It clung to him, thick and heavy, like the humidity of the island itself. He could feel it in the way their lips pressed tight, the way their bodies stiffened as he passed. Even those who tried to mask it couldn’t fully hide the contempt in their eyes. A few whispered among themselves, but their sharp glances said it all.

They just came to watch me fail. They came… to watch me die.

"Humans have always been like that," Houston's voice echoed in his mind, calm and cold. "Since ancient times, they’ve basked in the brutality of death and violence. From the coliseums of Rome to the blood-stained arenas of every civilization, there’s a primal hunger in them. It’s been buried under modern society’s polished surface, but make no mistake—that long history of savagery is still there, lurking. A couple hundred years of 'civilized' society can’t hide what hundreds of thousands of years of evolution have carved into their instincts. They crave it."

The flicker in their eyes, the anticipation—it wasn’t just for the spectacle. It was for the blood. The failure. The death. They wanted to see the moment when the strong fell, the moment when their own fears and weaknesses were laid to rest by witnessing another’s destruction.

"Natural selection," Houston continued, his voice colder now. "Survival of the fittest, written into their DNA. They want to see who deserves to live and who deserves to die. You... you're just the entertainment today."

Alonso remained calm, his stride steady and natural. A quick scan of the crowd told him he had arrived early; the main players weren’t there yet.

He didn’t see anyone who resembled the image Ayu had shown him of Siddharth, and Chiara was also nowhere to be seen. So, without a word, he positioned himself in front of the circle of cleared ground, closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and… waited.

A couple of seconds later, Alonso’s EM field picked up Ayu approaching. Her expression was tense, nervous, and she seemed agitated.

Don’t worry, Ayu. I will pay you back many times over. I promise.

Three minutes later, he sensed a shift in the crowd’s focus, though his EM field didn’t pick up anything new. Chiara? Siddharth?

He opened his eyes and looked in the direction everyone else was staring.

There stood Chiara.

Her poker face was intact, but there was something darker about her today. Even if just a flicker, Alonso could tell she was angry—disappointed, maybe. In him? In how this whole situation had spiraled? He wasn’t sure. Would she be relieved or sad if he won?

He held her gaze for a second, but decided not to nod or acknowledge her. All that needed to be said had already been said.

A few minutes later, Alonso noticed a rather handsome Chinese man with long, sleek black hair approaching Chiara. His features were sharp yet elegant, with high cheekbones and a calm, collected demeanor.

His long hair was tied loosely at the back, giving him a casual yet refined look, as if he didn’t need to try too hard to stand out. His clothing, simple but well-fitted, moved gracefully with him as he walked.

The man hesitated for a moment as he neared Chiara, clearly intending to speak. But when he saw the intensity of her expression, he stopped. His lips pressed together in silence, choosing not to break the tension. His gaze then shifted toward Alonso, his eyes cool and indifferent, as if sizing him up briefly before dismissing him as unworthy of further attention.

The sentiment is the same.

Another minute passed, and Alonso noticed another figure emerging from the crowd, moving with an air of quiet authority. This man was slightly tall, with sharp, angular features that gave his face a hardened, almost sculpted look. His skin had the deep, warm tan characteristic of southern India, and his dark eyes surveyed the scene with a calculating calmness. He moved with a natural confidence, his posture straight, his steps measured.

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Three others followed closely behind him, walking with a kind of deference that marked him as someone important.

There was a certain aura about this man, something in his demeanor that spoke of experience, of self-assuredness that came not from arrogance but from knowing exactly where he stood in the pecking order. However, Alonso knew instantly—this was not Siddharth. The man wasn’t bald, after all.

Siddharth’s right hand?

His gaze shifted again, catching sight of someone he hadn’t noticed before. A towering figure stood among the crowd, nearly a head taller than everyone around him. The man, of African descent, had dark, gleaming skin and a massive, muscular build, with muscles that seemed carved from stone.

What stood out most was the stillness in his demeanor—his eyes were closed, yet his presence was commanding.

Alonso quickly realized this man was no ordinary spectator. The group around him—Siddharth’s men, Alonso presumed—stood respectfully, almost reverently, in his shadow.

Another one of the big guys in Siddharth’s faction?

Alonso’s attention shifted as yet another figure approached the growing crowd. This time, a tall, fair-skinned man entered the scene. His blonde hair, neatly parted, caught the sunlight, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the surroundings with a casual indifference. His movements were relaxed, almost lazy, as if he were strolling through a park rather than stepping into the tense atmosphere of a pre-duel gathering.

German, perhaps? The man had that unmistakable air of Central Europe about him.

What stood out most was the odd contrast in his mannerisms. Despite his calm demeanor, there was something off about him. The slight droop in his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes gave him a perpetually tired look, like someone who was bored with life but still forced to participate.

He paused for a moment, yawning casually as he scanned the scene, his indifferent gaze eventually landing on Alonso. There was no malice in the man’s eyes, just a faint, tired curiosity, as though he was mildly interested but not enough to invest any real energy.

Strange guy.

And so the minutes passed until, eventually, he came.

Siddharth’s entrance was unmistakable. A ripple went through the crowd as he appeared, every head turning to watch him approach.

He was a bald, strong, middle-aged Indian man, his presence commanding without effort. He wore light armor—simple, yet functional—its design emphasizing mobility over protection, and it clung to his muscular frame as if it were built specifically for him.

The reactions from the crowd were immediate. Whispers passed through the onlookers like wind through the trees, a mix of respect and awe as Siddharth strode confidently toward the center of the clearing.

His steps were calm, unhurried, yet each one carried an undeniable weight, a gravity that drew every eye. Some people nodded in recognition, while others simply stepped back, almost as if instinctively making way for him.

Alonso could feel the change in the atmosphere—the palpable reverence and tension surrounding Siddharth’s arrival. The complete opposite of his own.

This was the arrival of a champion.

But it wasn’t the man’s armor or his imposing presence that caught Alonso’s attention. As Siddharth reached the center, something else drew his gaze—two long sheaths strapped to his back. Two swords?

Alonso’s eyes narrowed slightly. Did he borrow one from someone else? Or was it perhaps a sword fashioned from the scorpion’s exoskeleton?

The whispers grew louder, but Alonso remained focused, his heart steady as he took in the sight of his opponent. Siddharth's reputation suddenly seemed more real, more dangerous, now that he stood there, before him. But… he was ready.

Their gazes finally locked..

There were several emotions in those sharp eyes: curiosity, calculated confidence, and something darker—like he was already predicting the outcome.

Alonso could also sense a quiet amusement, as though Siddharth found the challenge slightly entertaining. But beneath it all was an unshakable assurance, the kind that came from absolute confidence in one's own skills.

Suddenly, Alonso noticed most of the crowd perform a slight bow, their hands pressed together at chest height in a gesture of respect. It was a reverence unfamiliar to him, yet the motion was smooth and synchronized, almost instinctual. As they bowed, a low murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Rishi," they whispered, almost in unison.

Siddharth’s gaze swept over the crowd, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. For a moment, he paused, his gaze settling on what Alonso calculated to be Chiara’s position. Then, he continued, scanning the rest of the gathered spectators before giving a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

He could feel it. His instincts told him so. Siddharth was strong. Very strong.

Alonso’s heart began to beat faster, the rhythm quickening, but not from fear.

A slow exhale escaped him, his chest rising and falling with controlled anticipation. The stillness of the moment only seemed to fuel the energy building within him, like a storm gathering just before it breaks.

His gaze locked onto Siddharth, steady and cold. There was no hesitation in his eyes. The world around him—the crowd, the whispers, even the weight of expectation—faded.

What remained was the electric hum of facing someone worthy.