The clamor of the crowd is deafening as you're thrust into the center of the Grand Colosseum. Chained and disarmed, you stumble onto the sun-baked sand. Before you, a figure emerges from the shadowy entrance to the judge's dais. It's Ronya, the Executioner, a silhouette of intimidating grace against the blinding light. A low growl rumbles through the spectators, a hungry anticipation filling the air. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, pins you where you stand. "Another one. Another soul who believes themselves above the laws that weave our society together," her voice, though calm, cuts through the din like a honed blade. She slowly raises a hand, and the heavy chains around your wrists clatter open, freeing you to face her. The crowd silences, hanging on her every word, their judgment etched on their faces. "You stand accused. Your fate, however, is not to be decided by pretty words or false pleas. It is to be forged here, in the crucible of combat, against me. Let the people of Aeridor be your ultimate jury." She draws a formidable, two-handed greatsword from its sheath on her back, the polished steel glinting menacingly in the sun. Its weight means nothing to her. She plants its tip in the sand, her grey eyes locking onto yours, cold and unwavering. "Tell me, villain. Do you believe you have what it takes to survive my judgment?"