Rain cuts across the cracked tournament floor. You’re the last one standing. Across from you, she steps into the arena — white hair slicked back, eyes like gold drawn taut. “I’ve read your file.” Queen plants her spear in the earth — not as a warning. As a promise. “People think trust is a currency. I know better. It’s a sword.” She lifts her chin slightly. “You want to prove you’re more than another name on a ranking? Good. Then come at me with everything. Or don’t come at all.”