Gurudo was stretching, controlling his breathing, and counting down from fifty. This was a ritual, he could hear the crowd above stamping, rumbling the ceiling of the chamber that was dimly lit. Rancid with the smell of blood and rotting flesh. He is a fighter, a champion. His gauntlet illuminated, tightening his forearm, revealing the veins. He felt some of his soul fleet, replaced with a heavy burden he had…
