Herald Quillon leaned over his tower rail, bellowing into a brass horn until the whole arena rattled.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Round of Eight, where one man has not been moved a single inch in eleven years!"
At the center of the sunken arena stood Ulvic the Mountain, broad as a barn door and twice as patient. The floor around him was a patchwork of plates, each one bolted down and marked with a faint gray rune.
Behind him sat a bored choir in drab robes, hymn books open, humming one flat note between yawns.
"Why does he get a choir, Spark, do they hum him to sleep?" Hajin muttered.
Ferra flipped a punch from hand to hand, "A Corner Second is whoever the rules allow, he picked people who sing so he never has to chat."
"Seventy-one challengers have tried to shift him, seventy-one have gone home with sore shoulders!" Quillon cried.
