With the win of Albert Ziloman, the 5 best from the martial arts school were to be selected next from the 20 winners. The same would later be done for the mages of the Oradonian Base. Unlike the one-on-one duels that had preceded it, this would be a brutal contest of endurance, wit, and raw strength. A group battle where alliances could form and shatter in the blink of an eye. The rule was simple: twenty entered, and only five would remain standing.
The same format awaited the mages of the Oradonian Order, but first, the martial artists would test their might.
Each fighter was given medicine to mend bruises and restore stamina, along with a short window of rest. The air inside the grand arena grew thick with anticipation, as though even the stones themselves longed to witness the carnage about to unfold.
The crowd, restless and excited, filled the silence with their speculation.
"If there is someone you think would appear in the top five, who would it be?" one man called out, his voice cutting through the rumbling chorus.
"Albert Ziloman, without question!" another replied instantly. "His duel against Goruc Ayo was proof enough—he has both skill and grit. He'll carve a place in the top five, mark my words."
From another corner came an opposing cheer. "One word, Blaise Dean!" a young boy cried out, his voice breaking with enthusiasm. His statement earned a ripple of laughter, but also nods from those who had watched Blaise's quiet yet cunning performance earlier.
The names traveled like sparks through the stands. Albert. Blaise. Ayo. Natasha. And others whose strength had made the audience gasp in earlier matches. The debate was endless.
Meanwhile, the stage itself was being transformed. Wooden barriers were hauled forward, forming uneven terrain. Spikes, padded dummies, and scattered platforms rose from the ground, giving the battleground a chaotic, unpredictable layout. It was not a simple flat ring anymore; it was a miniature warzone designed to strip away hesitation and expose true warriors.
The officiator's voice boomed through the arena, commanding silence as the names of the twenty contestants were called one after the other. Each fighter strode forward, some with grim determination, others with cocky smiles, basking in the roar of the crowd.
Albert Ziloman's entrance was met with thunderous applause, his rod slung across his back, his calm steps betraying none of the exhaustion he must have felt. Blaise Dean followed soon after—quiet, almost unnoticed at first—but his sharp eyes scanned the field as though already plotting ten steps ahead.
When the final name was called, the stage quaked slightly, and the officiator raised a hand.
"Remember," he declared, his voice echoing across the coliseum, "this is not about pride or grudges. The five who endure shall rise to the next stage. The rest will fall. Now… let the trial begin!"
The crowd erupted into a frenzy, the clash of drums reverberating like thunder.
And with that, the twenty fighters shifted into their stances. Some tightened their fists, others slid into low crouches, while a few simply stood still, eyes scanning for their first prey.
The signal flare shot into the sky—
And chaos descended.
Fights broke out in every corner of the stage. For the next twenty minutes, the air was filled with the sound of fists colliding, bodies slamming, and the guttural shouts of effort. Dust rose from the wooden floorboards as boots dragged and hammered against them. The arena resembled a storm of clashing wills, yet—astonishingly—not a single fighter had been forced off the stage. Everyone fought with desperation, clawing for survival, refusing to yield so early.
At the heart of the fray, Albert Ziloman found himself cornered. Two young boys had worked in tandem, circling him like wolves. One lunged forward, gripping his arm, while the other aimed a brutal kick for his ribs. Albert twisted his body, evading the strike, but in that violent motion the wound on his arm tore open once more. A sharp lance of pain shot through him, hot and biting. Blood seeped beneath his sleeve, and for a moment his fingers trembled on the rod he carried.
But Albert was not one to fold under pain. He clenched his jaw, forcing his body to obey. With a swift drop and surge of his legs, he caught the first man between them, snapping upward with a scissor kick that hurled the unfortunate fighter clean over the stage's edge. The crowd erupted, cheering at the ruthless efficiency of the move.
Yet Albert had no time to celebrate. Even before his feet landed back on the ground, the second assailant's heel slammed into his chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and Albert's body teetered dangerously close to the stage's edge. His heels scraped the wood, the void yawning behind him. Gasps rose from the audience.
This was it. Albert Ziloman, one of the crowd's favorites, was about to fall out of the competition before the real fight had even begun.
But then—
A hand shot out like lightning, seizing Albert by the forearm. The grip was iron, steady, anchoring him back onto the stage. The crowd froze, eyes widening as they recognized the one who had interfered.
Reece Cantoe.
The First Lion of the martial arts school.
The sight stunned everyone. The audience murmured in disbelief, questions tumbling through the stands. Why save him? Why spare the competition? This was supposed to be survival, not mercy. Every other fighter was scrambling to throw rivals off the platform, yet Reece had pulled his back from the brink.
Albert staggered, catching his breath, and looked up into Reece's calm, unwavering eyes. There was no mockery there, no smugness—only a clear, calculating resolve.
No one knew what Reece was thinking. But Reece Cantoe was not like the rest. To him, the real battle wasn't this stage. His mind was already ahead, on the clash to come. Against the Oradonian mages, they would not just need strength—they would need brilliance, resilience, and the presence of warriors who could inspire confidence in others.
Albert Ziloman was one of those warriors.
If their side was to have any chance of glory in the greater trial, men like Albert could not be allowed to fall here.
So, Reece had acted—not out of kindness, but out of necessity.
The crowd slowly erupted into thunderous cheers, not just for Albert's survival, but for the audacity of Reece Cantoe's choice.
On the stage, Albert rose to his feet, pain radiating through his wounded arm, but with a renewed fire in his eyes. He gave Reece a short nod of acknowledgment. No words passed between them, but the meaning was clear: he understood.
The fight roared on around them, chaos unrelenting. But now, a strange alliance had been forged in plain sight.
And every rival on that stage took notice.