Mordred moved slowly down the dark corridor, following the dragon guards as they led him to his destiny. His heart pounded violently in his chest, a complex mixture of apprehension and fierce determination burning within him. His hand was firmly gripping the scabbard of the black katana he had just chosen. The presence of the weapon brought him a semblance of comfort, a faint but tangible connection with Isaac, the hunter.
At the end of the long, dark corridor, a large metal door decorated with draconic symbols slowly opened before him, letting in a blinding light. Mordred instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. His heart raced as he finally emerged into the vast arena.
He stopped dead in his tracks, impressed despite himself.
