The North Station Spar Arena stood proud beneath the open sky, its rooftop a wide expanse that allowed daylight to flood the bustling crowd of spectators. The air vibrated with anticipation, a palpable mixture of tension and excitement as the chatter of merchants, businesspeople, and commoners interwove into an endless hum.
The arena itself was a marvel of rugged craftsmanship, a hexagonal stage bordered by six-foot-tall walls of raw concrete rocks and stones, weathered by countless battles. Its ground, a blend of cemented granite layered with five inches of thick soil, bore the scars of clashing warriors.
Suddenly, a figure sliced through the atmosphere like a streak of light. Hung soared into view, his six wings unfurling majestically, their white feathers glinting like molten silver in the daylight. He hovered mid-air, his presence commanding and almost celestial.