Smoke curled around the jagged battlefield like ghostly fingers. Screams of magic and metal echoed through the illusion-stitched terrain.
The Trial of Right had become a spectacle of war—bloodless in truth, yet no less brutal.
Aden moved through it like a phantom.
With each motion, the black-clad warriors from the Bastion followed, striking in perfect unison. No wasted effort, no hesitation—only precision and death.
His formation broke through the eastern line, collapsing a flanking column of archers and spellcasters like dry reeds beneath a scythe.
The battlefield trembled as fire rained down from conjured glyphs, but none dared target Aden directly. Those who had tried no longer stood.
"Push toward the ruins!" Ian Vasco called out. "That's where the next group's rallying!"
Aden nodded once, his eyes already tracking movement.
Steel screamed. Magic flashed. The ground trembled beneath the weight of battle.
Aden burst forward like a spear loosed from a god's hand, cutting across the simulated battlefield with terrifying speed.
His cloak snapped behind him, soaked with blood and scorched at the edges, but his momentum never slowed. Two formations closed in—a pincer meant to box him in.
He met them head-on.
A fireball roared past his shoulder. He ducked beneath a sword aimed at his ribs, twisting low as his blade carved through the attacker's thigh.
Without pause, he rose and impaled another through the chest, then used the corpse as a shield to block an incoming bolt of lightning.
"Too slow," he hissed, dashing forward.
He was inside their lines now—too close for spells, too fast for swords. Every movement was a death sentence.
He swept a leg beneath one opponent, brought his elbow crashing down on a jaw, then pivoted and drove his knee into another's sternum, cracking bone.
Behind him, the Black Knights surged forward to widen the gap he'd carved. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell.
A swordsman screamed as Aden's blade shattered his own and cleaved through his collarbone. A spearwoman tried to parry—Aden side-stepped, grabbed the shaft, and drove her own weapon through her chest.
From above, watching scrying screens flickered with frantic movement.
The Bastion had come.
And the battlefield now belonged to Aden Vasco.
He darted forward, faster than most could follow. His sword—silver-edged and drawn from his back—sang a clean note of steel as it cleaved through a shield and armor in one fluid strike.
Behind him, the Black Knights surged. The ruins lit with the glow of defensive barriers and scrambling figures—four contenders, all bruised, disarmed, surrounded.
One of them, a noble son in blue-trimmed robes, fell to his knees as Aden approached.
"P-Please…!" he choked. "We surrender—!"
Aden's blade hovered inches from his throat.
The battlefield grew quiet around them, watching.
Then, a soft chime echoed through his wrist. The Emperor's voice poured into his ear—calm, amused, timeless.
"Now, Aden Vasco… what exactly are you planning to do?"
Aden didn't flinch. He tilted his head slightly.
"You said this test was about judgment," he replied aloud, voice low. "So tell me—what's the appropriate action here?"
There was a pause. Then the Emperor chuckled.
"You could take them hostage. Or throw them out of the arena." A shrug in his tone. "And if they make too much noise… beat them to death."
The chime ended.
Ian stepped beside him, eyes locked on the trembling contenders. "What were the Emperor's orders?"
The other Black Knight, blood-spattered but unscathed, asked, "Do we hold them? Interrogate?"
Aden's expression remained unreadable.
He looked at the kneeling noble.
Then turned back to his warriors and said, calmly—
"No need for hostages."
He raised his blade.
"Kill them all."
No hesitation. No resistance.
The blade descended.
The four contenders didn't even have time to scream.
Above, in his high tower, the Emperor sipped from a glass of black wine, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
"Well," he murmured, watching the image unfold across illusionary panels,'
"...so much for diplomacy."