Two days passed since Reid learned he had passed the first trial.

  He woke in his room as usual, dressed quickly, fastened Genusrosa to his belt — and headed straight for the arena. This would be the last day of the Combat Trial, and unlike before, he walked alone. Harven and the other judges always arrived early to set the stage before the candidates.

  When Reid stepped into the arena, he froze.

  The massive ring had been carved into eight smaller arenas, each separated by shimmering mana-walls. It looked less like a dueling ground and more like a battlefield divided by fate.

  He scanned the crowd until he spotted a familiar blue head of hair.

  “Quill!” Reid called, weaving through the students to sit beside him.

  They exchanged small smiles.

  “Hey, Quill,” Reid asked, eyeing the divided arenas. “Do you know why they split it like this?”

  Quill folded his arms thoughtfully. “Probably to finish the duels faster. Eight matches at a time instead of one.”

  Reid nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Before he could ask more, a ripple went through the stands as Wynne Spencer stepped into the center arena — his enchanted binoculars glinting under the morning sun.

  “Welcome,” Wynne’s magically amplified voice echoed. “If you are here, it means you have successfully passed the first trial. Congratulations.”

  Reid glanced around as Wynne spoke.

  Flint. Maverick. Corbin. Quill.

  He felt relieved — and grateful — that Maxim wasn’t among them.

  But then Wynne’s tone sharpened.

  “The second trial will differ greatly from the first. Of the one hundred thirty-two who began, eighty-four have been eliminated. Forty-eight remain.”

  A murmur raced through the stands.

  “These forty-eight duels will take place across the eight fields. However—” Wynne paused, allowing silence to fall, “you will not be fighting one another.”

  Reid leaned forward, heartbeat quickening.

  “You will be fighting,” Wynne continued, “your upperclassmen.”

  An armored door at the far end of the arena swung open.

  And forty-eight older students marched out.

  Their steps echoed. Their armor gleamed. Their presence alone felt like pressure pushing down on the candidates’ lungs.

  Then Reid saw her.

  Emilia.

  Hair tied back in her usual tight knot.

  Red armor fitting her form like flame-wrought steel.

  Her gaze focused and deadly.

  Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a shred of fear.

  Reid felt his stomach twist.

  “Please check your matchups and the round your duel will be in,” Wynne announced.

  All candidates rushed downstairs.

  Reid squeezed between bodies, scanning the massive board on the wall — rows and rows of names and pairings.

  When he found his name, his breath caught.

  Reid Corvane

  Round 4

  Opponent: Emilia Ryn

  He stared at it.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  His chest tightened. Cold crept down his spine.

  Slowly, he looked up.

  Across the room, Emilia was already watching him.

  Her lips curved into a big, monstrous grin — mocking.

  As if she knew this pairing was inevitable.

  As if she’d been waiting.

  Reid swallowed hard.

  This wasn’t a duel.

  This wasn’t a test.

  This was a storm he had no choice but to walk into.

  After checking their matchups, the candidates returned to the stands to wait for the battles to begin. A tense silence settled over the arena — forty-eight students staring down forty-eight upperclassmen who looked stronger, sharper, and far more experienced.

  Then the first round began.

  A bell rang across the divided arena, and eight simultaneous fights exploded into motion.

  Reid’s focus immediately locked onto the second field, where Maverick Lester faced a thin boy with unruly dark hair — Slunt Pint. Unlike Maverick, who looked confident and solid as a boulder, Slunt held a strange sword in his hand. At first glance it looked normal… but when he raised it, the blade sagged slightly, almost like rubber.

  Maverick scoffed. “Your sword is bent.”

  Slunt just smiled. “Is it?”

  The signal sounded.

  Maverick dashed in first, swinging hard. Slunt twisted his body with fluid, almost serpentine grace — and flicked the tip of his sword forward.

  Maverick grinned and stepped aside, easily predicting the angle…

  …and then froze.

  The sword changed direction midair.

  It bent — curved — like a whip of metal, slicing toward Maverick’s ribs. Maverick barely jumped back in time, the blade passing close enough to cut a strand of hair.

  “What—?!” Maverick gasped. “How did you do that?!”

  Slunt blinked, genuinely confused by the question.

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  “Didn’t you know?” he said innocently. “If you pour enough energy into an object, you can alter its physical properties. Elasticity is the simplest one.”

  Maverick stared blankly. “I… what?”

  Slunt sighed — not unkindly, but with the weary patience of someone realizing the gap between them was too large.

  “Well, don’t worry. Then this match will end quickly.”

  Maverick inhaled, ready to retort — “I’ll be the one who—”

  But the words never left his mouth.

  Slunt blurred forward.

  In a motion too fast for the eye to follow, his elastic blade snapped forward like a striking snake, stopping just at Maverick’s neck. Maverick froze, sweat rolling down his spine.

  Wynne’s voice echoed across the arena:

  “Second bout — winner, Slunt Pint.”

  A collective murmur rose from the stands.

  And then the other seven fights finished just as fast.

  Some ended in a single blow.

  Some ended before the first-years even understood what their opponents were doing.

  Not a single participant won.

  Eight fights.

  Eight losses.

  Eight reminders of the gulf between the first-years and the Academy’s upperclassmen.

  Reid swallowed hard.

  His palms were sweating.

  The message was clear:

  This second exam wasn’t just a trial.

  It was a declaration —

  You are still far below the Academy’s true strength.

  And then the second round began.

  Quill rose from his seat and headed toward the stairs. His steps were steady, but Reid caught the truth — the slight tremble in Quill’s hand, the sheen of sweat forming at his temples.

  “Good luck, Quill!” Reid called out.

  Quill turned with a confident smirk… but it was forced, thin at the edges. His eyes betrayed him — anxious, tense, bracing.

  “Of course,” he replied, trying to sound light. “It’ll be fine.”

  Reid watched him descend.

  Another figure stood up at the same time, moving in a straight line toward the stairs as if the world itself parted for him.

  Corbin Monz.

  Cold expression.

  Stiff posture.

  Eyes like a blade pressed to the throat.

  No fear.

  No hesitation.

  Just lethal focus.

  Even the crowd quieted when he passed.

  The two of them — Quill with nervous resolve, Corbin with unshakable killer’s calm — disappeared into the lower arena.

  The signal for Round Two rang.

  Quill’s match took place in Field Three. His opponent stepped forward — a small, wiry boy with twin daggers, each one curved and shimmering with faint mana. He looked young, but his stance was sharp, dangerous.

  Quill bowed politely. “Good luck.”

  The boy returned the gesture. “Good luck to you too.”

  The fight began.

  The dagger-user exploded forward with incredible speed, blades flashing like streaks of silver. He attacked relentlessly, darting in and out, his movement almost too quick for the eye to follow.

  But Quill…

  Quill didn’t flinch.

  Even in the cramped ring, where space was almost nonexistent, his footwork remained calm — elegant. He slipped between dagger strikes as though he were stepping through raindrops. Every swing missed him by a hair’s breadth. Every thrust met empty air.

  Reid watched, breath caught in his throat.

  This was Quill’s true strength.

  Not power.

  Not speed.

  Not brute talent.

  Clarity. Control. Balance.

  Even when pressured, even when cornered, Quill moved like he was dancing on a line only he could see.

  But still — he refused to attack.

  The dagger-user grew irritated. His brows lowered, his motions sharper now. He feinted, twisted, struck low and high in rapid succession…

  Yet Quill evaded all of it.

  And as always… he didn’t strike back.

  A murmur swept the stands.

  “Why isn’t he attacking?”

  “He could’ve ended it twice already.”

  “Is he scared?”

  “No… it’s something else…”

  Reid leaned forward, tension tightening in his chest.

  Quill was calm.

  Focused.

  But something in his eyes — a flicker of doubt, of fear — told Reid he was fighting more than just the boy in front of him.

  He was fighting himself.

  The dagger-user’s frustration sharpened into cunning.

  He began to test Quill — faint steps, slight shifts, gathering information with every clash. Then suddenly, he pivoted right, cutting Quill’s angle off, forcing him left.

  Reid straightened.

  He’s reading him.

  Quill didn’t realize it at first, but the space around him was shrinking. Step by step, angle by angle, he was being herded.

  And then — the boy did something Quill had never even considered possible.

  He sprinted straight toward the mana barrier.

  And climbed it.

  His feet slid across the barrier’s shimmering surface as though it were solid ground. Gasps erupted around the arena. Even Quill’s eyes widened — a rare crack in his focus.

  The boy used the high angle to launch attacks downward, daggers slashing with impossible trajectories. Each strike forced Quill further back, and his elegant footwork began to falter under the pressure.

  He’s pushing him… Reid realized.

  Pinning him into a corner.

  The dagger-user leapt down in a blur, metal flashing.

  Quill parried the first strike — beautifully.

  Dodged the second — barely.

  But fatigue clung to his shoulders like lead. His movements were still graceful, but slower now, his breaths sharp, uneven. The arena was too small. The rhythm was too fast. And the kid’s relentless speed was wearing him down.

  Then came the finishing blow.

  The dagger-user thrust straight toward Quill’s chest — but it was a feint. The moment Quill shifted to dodge, the boy vanished from his line of sight.

  Reid’s heart lurched.

  Behind you—

  Quill realized a fraction too late.

  The boy appeared behind him, blades crossed at Quill’s throat in a perfect execution of victory.

  Wynne’s voice cut through the arena, amplified:

  “The winner is Lyon Creen!”

  A soft murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Quill lowered his gaze. Not devastated — but undeniably stung. It wasn’t like losing to another examinee. He had been defeated by his upperclassman — by someone who should be stronger.

  Still… it hurt.

  He stepped aside with dignity, though his eyes were dimmer than before.

  One after another, the rest of the duels concluded quickly.

  Except one.

  “Corbin Monz vs. Murk Blean!”

  A hush fell.

  Corbin stepped onto Field Six with the exact same expression he always wore — the empty stare of someone who felt nothing. No tension. No doubt. No mercy.

  His opponent, Murk Blean, was broader, armored, and well-regarded. His chestplate shone with pride, and he bowed politely.

  “Good luck,” Murk offered.

  Then Corbin lifted his eyes.

  Murk froze.

  The respectful smile collapsed from his face as if ripped away. A tremor passed through him, small but unmistakable. Those eyes — cold, emotionless, predatory — pierced through every layer of his confidence.

  Reid swallowed, his stomach twisting. Even from afar, Corbin scared him.

  The duel began.

  But neither boy moved.

  They stood there… staring.

  Seconds passed.

  Then a minute.

  Then two.

  The air itself felt heavy, as if the arena were sinking under invisible pressure. Murk’s breath grew unsteady, his grip tightening on his sword.

  It wasn’t a physical fight.

  It was a mental one.

  And Corbin was winning.

  Finally, unable to bear the tension, Murk broke first. He let out a shout, channeling mana into his blade, and lunged forward with all the strength he had.

  In the time it took Murk to blink—

  Corbin vanished.

  He reappeared behind him, blade already slashing downward.

  Gasps erupted from the crowd.

  Murk spun at the last second, pouring everything he had into a defensive arc. The blades met — once, twice, three times — each impact echoing like thunder.

  Corbin slid backward in the dirt, but his expression didn’t change.

  Not even a flicker.

  Murk smiled, sweat dripping down his chin. “I understand now,” he panted. “You’re a demon boy, aren’t you?”

  It was a joke — a boast — a jab meant to shake Corbin.

  It did something else entirely.

  Corbin’s expression twisted.

  The air around him darkened.

  His eyes — those dead, empty eyes — ignited into something feral. Something hungry.

  Rage.

  Pure, unfiltered, murderous rage.

  He moved.

  Faster than before. Faster than anything the arena had seen.

  Blow after blow hammered Murk.

  Each one heavier.

  Each one closer to breaking through.

  Murk deflected desperately, his blade sparking wildly. He stumbled. Slipped. Recovered by instinct alone.

  And then Corbin lifted his sword into the air.

  Pure mana surged into the blade, the steel glowing with a violent red aura — raw, unrestrained power gathering for a single devastating strike.

  But before he could bring it down, his body faltered.

  He suddenly collapsed.

  The aura around the sword flickered out as Corbin fell forward onto his knees, breath ripping from his lungs. The strain of the fight — the speed, the rage, the mana — had drained him completely, leaving nothing behind.

  Thud.

  He crumpled into the dirt, sword slipping from his hand. His chest heaved. His limbs twitched.

  He had used every last drop of mana.

  Wynne stepped forward, his expression strangely grave.

  He had watched the entire fight from afar, and his eyes narrowed—not in relief, but in concern.

  “The winner is Murk Blean.”

  Silence.

  Even Murk didn’t smile. He looked at Corbin as one might look at a dangerous animal behind glass — shaken, unsure if it was truly contained.

  With that final match, the second round ended.

  And yet Reid could not shake the feeling burrowing deep into his chest.

  Precision like Quill.

  Speed like Corbin.

  Power like Maverick.

  They all lost. And then…

  Emilia.

  His next opponent.

  He swallowed, his throat dry.

  This trial wasn’t just difficult.

  It was merciless.

  And the hardest part was still waiting for him.