Soon enough, another man came out of the arena's interior—this one wasn't dressed like a fighter or a spectator.
He wore a simple tunic, sleeves rolled up, a leather belt strapped with various keys, and a faint scent of ink and parchment clinging to him.
In his hand was a pouch, fat and jingling softly with every step he took. Coins, clearly. Probably my reward money.
Trailing behind him were two burly workers, both dressed in stained aprons and carrying what was left of Emerak's corpse.
They heaved the body onto their backs without a second of hesitation, like it was a bag of grain rather than a man who'd fought and died only moments ago.
The crowd parted, barely giving them a glance as they hauled the dead body back into the depths of the arena.
The man with the pouch stopped in front of me, bowing respectfully as he extended the bag forward.
"Your earnings, honored challenger."
