Gary Peverell

The arena's sand, a memory of countless fights, crunched underfoot. The air hummed with the roar of the crowd, eager for the spectacle. In the center stood two men: a grinning fighter with 517 wins under his belt—and Gary Peverell. A loner. An enigma. The only A+ rank holder in the capital.

"I'll finish this quickly, one-eyed!" the enemy shouted, swinging his two-handed blade.

Gary stood serenely, his black-and-white hair motionless. His milky eye peered through reality, while his living one slid coldly and indifferently over his opponent.

Suddenly, the previously dark counter behind him flashed. The numbers began to creep up: one hundred, five hundred, one thousand… The crowd's roar gave way to astonished whispers. The fighter's grin faded, giving way to alarm.

Gary slowly bowed his head. “And I thought you would resist,” it sounded quiet, but with metallic clarity.

At that moment, the counter passed seven thousand, a blinding white light eclipsing the enemy's pale countdown. Seven thousand. A number that speaks for itself.

The fighter felt the ground shift beneath his feet. He was a predator, realizing he was trapped in a cage with a being of a higher order. What would happen next? Would he retreat, or would terror give rise to a desperate attack? The fate of the moment hung in the balance.