The aftermath of the battle between Ethan and Anton lingered in the air. The gathered elites whispered among themselves, the hum of their conversations filling the otherwise quiet rooftop.
The tension was thick, like a charged current, as everyone watched Anton struggle to push himself off the ground.
"Don't you think you have won!" roared Anton.
Anton's face was twisted with rage, his pride wounded far more than his body. He planted one hand firmly on the rooftop, trying to force himself upright, determined to continue the fight.
But before anyone could react, a figure appeared between Anton and Ethan, as if he had materialized from the shadows themselves.
An old man, thin to the point of frailty, with long white hair that drifted slightly in the evening breeze, stood there. His face was lined with age, but his pale blue eyes glowed with a sharp, almost ethereal light.
