The wind had shifted again, carrying with it the murmur of thousands, watching, waiting, whispering.
Gon walked with quiet purpose, each step deliberate, until he came to a stop before his next opponent.
The mage stood at the edge of a flattened stone plateau that had formed amidst the broken terrain.
He was younger than Gon expected, perhaps not much older than himself, but carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world.
His dark hair was tousled by the wind, his robes loose and sleeveless, fluttering around a lean but wiry frame. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Well, well," the mage said, smiling broadly as Gon approached. "So it is true. The son of the infamous Duke of Hanan, alive and kicking… with mana, no less."
Gon didn't reply at once. He simply watched the boy, cautious, calculating.
The mage didn't seem offended by the silence.
