The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with the scent of sweat and earth, as the man at the podium harnesses the crowd's restless energy with the command of his presence. He stands tall, his voice not just heard but felt, resonating through the throng of aspirants like a drumbeat calling them to war.
"Among you, from the original one thousand five hundred and forty," he booms, his hands gesturing as if to physically draw the crowd's attention, "a mere two hundred souls remain, poised on the cusp of eternity!"
In the expansive tent, twenty people sit, their postures a blend of eagerness and relax. They watch the four arenas carved into the earth before them, where dust swirls and dances in the slants of light, as if alive with the spirits of battles past.
Around them, the air vibrates with the collective breaths of ten thousand spectators, a living entity waiting for the spectacle to unfold.