A violent splash of red filled Ryn's jar.
Ryn stepped back, hissing in excruciating pain.
Arin tilted his head.
For the first time, he spoke:
"What's wrong?"
His voice was calm, devoid of emotion, "You were talking so much earlier."
Ryn gritted his teeth.
He had won fights with clever tricks and sharp words—but Arin wasn't playing his game.
Ryn tightened his grip on his sword.
He had one chance, and he had to utilize it to make Arin lose control.
"You know…" he began, circling the assassin, "Ragna was about to cry yesterday when she lost.
It was so cute.
I would know—she was easy to break.
Despite all her show of bravery and martial prowess, she was just a little girl at heart, and that too an uncouth barbarian."
The arena fell silent with this taunt of his.
It seemed Ryn no longer cared for his appearance among the audience, and the only thing he was focused on was to defeat the masked menace, who was proving to be beyond his wit.
