I sit down on the stone bench, surrounded by hundreds of murmuring candidates. The arena is massive — wide, circular, open to the sky, with rows and rows of seats forming a spiral like a coiled beast. I can feel the tension in the air — like it's watching us, waiting.
This is the screening site. The one people talk about in hushed whispers, the one that weeds out the weak from the worthy.
The Academy of Shadows lies beyond this place — an institution housed within the palace itself. Only those who pass this trial get transported there, to compete for legendary roles: battle tacticians, royal healers, spell-forgers, and the prestigious Golden Knights.
But I'm not here for any of that.
I just want to reach the Palace Archives. The place where they keep ancient records… things that might explain what happened to me — to the soul that once lived in this body, and the one that lives here now.
I glance around the arena. Candidates continue pouring in, taking their seats. The seats are almost full now. Nervous chatter buzzes around me.
Then, someone drops down beside me with a soft plop. I turn.
It's that chubby guy again — short, nervous, and full of questions.
"You alright?" he asks. His voice shakes a little, and he tries to smile, but I can see the fear in his eyes.
I nod once. No words. I don't have the energy for fake comfort.
He glances around the arena, then leans closer. "What do you think the exam will be like? Last year, they say it involved beasts from the void realm. Year before that, illusions of drowning in blood. And this year… nothing."
He's right. There's no sign of what kind of test we'll face. No monsters. No obstacles. Just… a flat stone arena and ten stone tables rising from the center.
Before either of us can say anything more, a strange childlike voice echoes through the arena, clear and unsettling.
> "All applicants are ready. The exam is about to begin."
The voice reverberates in my chest. A second later, the ground shakes. A low rumble stirs beneath us.
From the heart of the arena, ten tables rise from the earth — spaced evenly, empty at first. Then, as if conjured by some unseen force, a single sword appears on each one. Plain. Iron-forged. No runes, no shine. Just a blade and a grip.
The voice returns, now sharper:
> "Applicants are advised to listen to all instructions carefully before beginning their exam."
Everyone leans in. Even I hold my breath.
> "Applicants must hold their sword with one hand and reach the finishing point provided by the facility. The sword must be placed firmly at the designated point to be considered a pass. You are not allowed to drop the sword. Doing so will result in immediate failure. The first round will begin shortly. The selected applicants are…"
Names start rolling off like a system log. Cold, emotionless.
Wait. That's it?
I blink.
What kind of exam is this?
We just… hold the sword and walk to a finishing point?
That's all?
Is it a race?
But the announcement didn't mention speed. There's no time limit. It didn't even say the first to reach wins. We just have to get there… sword in hand?
Too easy. Way too easy.
Around me, everyone's faces twist in confusion. Whispers rise like wind in dry grass. Some look skeptical. Others are already getting cocky. Like that idiot — Yu Wenhuan — sitting three rows ahead. A second-generation noble brat, nephew of the Minister, and well aware of his status.
His name was called in the first batch.
Figures.
The first ten candidates gather near the tables. Each picks up a sword.
They look at it strangely, turning it over in their hands. It's light. Simple. Feels like a wooden training sword.
"Be ready, applicants," the voice calls.
A pause.
> "One… two… three… begin."
The tables disappear into the ground, revealing a long stone path. At the far end — maybe a hundred meters away — there are ten glowing circular slots, one for each sword.
That's it. Just a straight path. No traps, no beasts, no tricks. Just carry the sword to the end.
Yu Wenhuan smirks. He adjusts his sleeves like he's about to go for a stroll.
I frown.
It's too clean. Too calm. It stinks of illusion.
The first batch begins walking.
One step.
Two steps.
Then suddenly… everything changes.
From the outside, nothing happens. But inside the arena — every candidate freezes mid-step. Their eyes go wide.
One drops his sword.
Another starts crying. Loud, broken sobs.
A third screams and throws the blade far from him, collapsing to his knees.
Outside, silence falls like a blanket.
"What… the hell?" the chubby guy whispers next to me. His hands are trembling. "Why does it look so easy… but no one can even walk ten steps?"
I say nothing. I'm watching.
Yu Wenhuan's face is twisted now — veins popping in his forehead. He's gripping the sword with white knuckles. His body trembles, as if fighting against something invisible.
Then, he breaks.
With a strangled cry, he hurls the sword away and falls to his knees.
The round ends in less than five minutes. Not a single one reaches the end.
The failed candidates are silently led away, pale and shaking, seated separately. They're not allowed to speak to anyone.
The next round starts.
Same process.
Same outcome.
Round three. Failure.
Round four. Collapse.
Round five… screaming. Crying. More failures.
Fifty candidates. Zero passes.
The arena is unnervingly quiet now. The excitement is gone. Replaced with unease.
Then, I hear my name.
"Xiao Zhen."
I stand.
Chubby guy turns to me, eyes wide. "You're up? Already?"
I nod. For the first time, I let a smile stretch across my face.
"You'll see me in the Palace soon," I say, winking.
He lets out a nervous laugh. "I like your confidence, but… I don't think you should be this much hopeful."
"You'll see," I say again, and turn toward the arena.
Every step feels light. I don't feel fear. Not like the others. Something inside me is clear. Focused.
Yu Wenhuan spots me walking past and lets out a short laugh.
"Looks like the reject has finally snapped," he snorts. "Maybe we'll get a laugh before he pees himself."
The others chuckle along, whispering mock encouragement.
I ignore them.
I reached my place. Ten of us stand ready.
The system pings again.
The sword is in front of me now.
Simple.
I reach out… and grip it.
One step.
The world changes.
Shadows swallow everything. The arena vanishes. My surroundings twist into darkness. Cold. Endless.
Two steps.
I'm alone. Completely.
Then — a scream tears through the silence.
A figure appears on the ground in front of me. Curled up. Bleeding.
A group of people surround him, laughing cruelly. One has his boot on the boy's wrist, pressing hard. Others kick him, spit on him.
"Loser."
"Trash."
"Why are you even here?"
The boy on the ground looks up through bloodied eyes.
It's… me.
Or rather, the original owner of this body.
The weakling they used to mock. They rejected, they humiliated.
I smile.
Of course. This trial isn't about strength. It's about memory. Pain. Trauma.
The sword gets heavier with every step because it's not just iron.
It's every moment you want to give up.
And I don't.
I grip the sword tighter.
From the outside, everyone is watching.
The chubby guy leans forward, eyes wide.
Yu Wenhuan frowns, then narrows his gaze.
None of them can see what I see.
But they can see what I do next.
Because suddenly…
I ran