The silver rune at the back of Tamer's hand pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried under layers of exhaustion. Its glow, once fierce and steady, now flickered. The forest had drained him. His breath came out ragged in the frostbitten air, each exhale forming clouds of mist that danced over the bloodied ground, where mutant corpses lay still, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles.
He was lying on his side, barely conscious. The roots beneath him were as cold as stone. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his blade even in his sleep—out of instinct more than awareness.
Then the forest changed.
The wind howled like a creature denied its prey. What was once a dense, death-filled woodland had become a world of white and silence. Snow fell in sharp, slicing flakes. Trees crackled and groaned as frost invaded their trunks, making them snap like bones under pressure.
Tamer opened his eyes slowly. His vision blurred from fatigue. His back screamed in pain. Cuts still bled sluggishly under the fabric of his torn tunic. He sat up with difficulty, and the snow that had blanketed his body slid off in sheets.
"What... happened to the forest...?" he muttered hoarsely.
His body trembled violently. It wasn't just the cold—it was the sheer weight of what was coming.
The silver rune on his hand dimmed to nothing, vanishing like dust in the wind.
Tamer stared at it. "Great. That was my only protection... and now it's gone."
As if summoned by its absence, a chill washed through the air, deeper than the snow. The hair on the back of his neck rose. The silence wasn't comforting; it was suffocating.
He didn't have time to think.
Dark figures emerged from the shadows beyond the blizzard. At first, just outlines—shambling, crawling, twisting. Then shapes: gangly limbs, cracked spines, eyes glowing with dim orange hunger.
Shadowlings. Small, fast, almost like wolves made of tar.
Glomkin. Thin, sharp-limbed things with permanent smiles carved across faces they no longer remembered.
And the worst: Ashhowls. Hulking, furred beasts with molten scars and ember-like eyes. Creatures that screamed without mouths.
Tamer forced himself to his feet, every muscle burning. "This is insane... Day two? They want to break me this early?"
He took a step, then another—his boots crunching in deep snow stained by dried blood. A shiver rattled through him.
He surrounded himself in aura, willing warmth into his limbs. A golden shimmer flickered around him like a dying flame.
Basic swordsmanship technique: Iron Stance.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Blade held steady before him. Back straight, core locked.
Iron Stance is used for defense from heavy opponents or monster charges.
The first Shadowling darted forward, all black limbs and shrieking hunger.
Tamer parried with a flash of steel, spinning into a wide sweep. He transitioned.
Basic swordsmanship technique: Flowing Cut.
A second Shadowling fell, cleaved cleanly across the chest.
They came faster now.
He ducked under the swipe of a Glomkin and drove his sword upward into its gut, feeling the blade snag against bone.
His breath came in heavy gasps. The cold had crept into his chest, coiling like a snake.
A flash to his left. He raised his sword to block, too slow—a claw caught his shoulder, tearing skin and cloth alike. He grunted in pain, the warmth of blood spilling down his side felt like boiling water against freezing flesh.
Still, he stood.
"I won't die here. Not like this."
Basic swordsmanship technique: Broken Fang.
A rapid, three-strike combo. Diagonal cut, horizontal slice, upward finisher.
It dropped a Glomkin and knocked back an Ashhowl just enough to reposition.
His legs were shaking. Vision doubling.
"197... I killed 197 of them yesterday... and they're still sending more."
He laughed, dry and broken. "The judges must be watching this... eating popcorn while I bleed."
His thoughts turned to home—to the fleeting dream he clung to: a world without swords. A world where he didn't need to fight.
But here, he needed his sword more than anything.
Another Ashhowl charged, claws ready.
Tamer took a stance that wasn't part of basic swordsmanship. It was pure instinct.
He ducked low, rolled through the snow, and stabbed upward into the creature's stomach. Hot black blood splattered across his face.
The monster howled, flailed, and collapsed in a heap.
301.
He turned. More came. There was no end to them.
But something had changed.
He no longer fought like a student. He moved like a survivor.
A Glomkin pounced from a tree branch. He didn't hesitate. Sword up—counter slash.
Crimson Echo.
A move he hadn't practiced properly, but somehow it came.
One clean cut. Head off. It thudded in the snow beside him.
326.
The storm began to ease—just slightly.
Tamer fell to one knee. Hands trembling. Bloodied. Cold. Alive.
The forest was silent again.
He looked around, sword dragging in the snow beside him.
Bodies piled. Ash melting into the frost. The trees watched in silence, ancient and tall.
"Is this... the test? Is it still about willpower? Or am I just meat for the grinder until I break?"
He didn't know the answer.
But he stood again.
Sword in hand.
Eyes forward.
The cold had bitten his skin raw. The snow was stained crimson.
But Tamer was still standing.
And the trial was far from over.
Now more came in numbers.
"This might be a trial, but it's a little strange," Tamer muttered, shifting into a more aggressive stance. "It's like... these monsters are being cautious of me. Do they have that level of intelligence?"
Well, it was a trial at the end of the day.
Tamer didn't think much of it.
A huge pack attacked at the same time from all directions, making it hard to defend or strike all at once.
Intermediate swordsmanship technique: Flying Wheel.
Beheading them with precise spinning movements, they all fell—dead—turning into ash across the battlefield.
While monsters were easily slain by Tamer, something stirred beneath the snow.
A huge, serpent-like dragon—a creature that swam through blizzards and buried itself in the ice—emerged from beneath a massive frozen drift.
Its scales shimmered with cold fury. Steam rose from its nostrils.
Tamer stared in disbelief.
"Haha... just perfect. A big one this time."
Wasting no time—
Intermediate swordsmanship: Aura Burst X.
Aura surged throughout him. Tamer focused everything into one motion.
He wanted a clean strike. A single blow that would end it.
Tamer screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Aaaahhhhhhh!"
Eyes widening, he bent to the right, sword glowing with raw energy—and launched the attack.
The massive strike hit the beast with a clean, heavy blow—cutting across its side.
He dropped to one knee, breathing heavily.
"I... it really wor—"
But before he could finish his thought, he looked up.
His eyes widened in horror.
The blow had been clean—but it wasn't fatal.
The serpent recoiled, bleeding, but still alive. It began to rise again, fury in its eyes.
Tamer was in disbelief.
"What the hell happened...? That was a clean strike... right through."
He felt something crumble inside him. A moment of doubt. A seed of defeat.
"This trial... can I really pass it? Wait—what even was this trial again...?"
He couldn't remember anymore. His mind was blurred. All he could do now was tighten his grip on the sword.
And fight.
Even as he trembled.
Even as fear crawled down his spine like icewater.
"As long as I still move... I will... kill you, serpent."