Have you ever heard the sound of mochi being pounded?
It's a rhythmic, almost hypnotic noise—like striking a stone with a hammer, but with a layer of something soft, a slimy cushion that mutes the impact.
You hear the sharp crack of the hammer, but it's muffled, like the blow isn't quite reaching the stone beneath. To make mochi, it must be pounded over and over.
Yes, over and over.
Each strike softening it a little more. The more it's struck, the softer it becomes.
This sound—the gruesome rhythm of relentless pounding—echoed through the Arcaneblade arena. But there was no joy or celebration in it. Instead, it was accompanied by the low growls of tigers, intensifying the already suffocating atmosphere.
The audience trembled, some covering their mouths in horror, while others squeezed their eyes shut as if doing so would block out the sickening noise. A few couldn't endure the sight or the sound any longer and fled the arena altogether.
