Eventually I grew bored with the lacklustre attempts at martial prowess the combatants in the arena showed, and left to train on my own—a simple grind to raise my stats, one hundredth of a point at a time. That was always more useful to do than simply sit and watch others fight. That forced the Master of Sin to descend to the ground, but he still held an elevated seat.
I left a mental projection with him to watch some fights, but paid most of my attention to the ways to strain my body to its farthest limits in the shortest amount of time. Even in my head, I solved mathematical problems that Pest created on my command to train my intelligence.
the syndrom of cunt in the sender field