The morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing across the battlefield like mocking fingers. I woke to the distant sounds of clashing steel and incantations echoing through the forest.
My eyes adjusted to the mana-charged air, and for a moment, I let myself appreciate the calm. Then I remembered why I was here.
Today, the practical examination would decide more than rank. It would decide reputation, survival, and fear.
I scanned the battlefield. Small groups of students were already engaged, blades flashing, spells lighting the shadows. Some were crying out in pain, others screaming with rage.
A quiet thrill ran through men, not excitement, not joy, only focus. Every heartbeat, every breath, every shadow mattered.
From a distance, I spotted twenty students cornered near a fallen tree. Panic surged across their faces when they noticed me. Their blades were shaky, magic trembling in their hands. Their fear was deliciously raw.
I stepped forward, measured my stride. In half a heartbeat, I closed the distance. The first sword came at me, wild and sloppy. It barely scratched my guard.
One precise swing, one head fell. Another step, another head. Twenty students had gone before even a real resistance could form.
I moved on. The field stretched endlessly, dotted with dueling students, each striving to survive, each unaware that they were part of a broadcast reaching every corner of the world.
Selene Ravenshade. My sister. Her name appeared in my memory, sharp as a blade. On screen, she danced through her opponents with grace, sword slicing with deadly precision.
Fifty kills in half an hour. Her face was calm, regal, but I saw the trembling of her hands, the quickening pulse beneath the control.
Her parents watched from their palace screens, pride and relief mingling in their expressions. Yet I knew she was terrified of me.
The news of my white hair had reached her long before I arrived here, and the rumors had stoked a fire of anxiety that made every move tremble slightly.
Seris Eryndor moved like winter itself. Ice streaked through the battlefield, freezing students mid-step. Her eyes were cold, calculating, but her jaw tensed when the camera cut to me.
A new threat. She had fought her way through fifty kills, but she sensed that a real predator had entered the forest.
Her parents leaned forward, hearts caught in their throats, witnessing both admiration and fear for their daughter's prowess.
Nymera Dravenholt's strikes were precise, deadly, her blade flashing like lightning.
She grinned at each fallen foe, pride painting her features. Yet when I entered the fray, the slightest hesitation flickered across her face. The camera caught it, the world caught it.
Carmila Noctharyn wielded blood magic with ruthless elegance. Red spears erupted from the ground, skewering her foes in a spectacle of crimson.
She looked toward me mid-spell, eyes narrowing, completely aware that the white-haired figure moving through the forest was no ordinary student.
Lucian Auraldane, Crown Prince, stood above them all. One hundred kills in thirty minutes.
His golden blade left streaks of light across the battlefield. He had strength, skill, and lineage. Yet even he stiffened when my shadow fell across his path.
Kael Rivers, the commoner, moved with a predator's instinct, amber-gold eyes locked on any threat.
His determination radiated like fire. He had already surpassed expectations, but he sensed a power beyond him, a cold, calculating presence that could kill in an instant.
And then, it was my turn.
I moved, and the world seemed to slow. The battlefield narrowed to instinct, strategy, and execution.
Each opponent's movement, each spell cast, each hesitation cataloged. Calculated. Exploited. I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel excitement. Only focus.
A student with a gleaming sword charged. I sidestepped, blade slicing cleanly. Heads fell, screams silenced. Another tried a fire spell, closed the distance, disrupted the mana flow, and their body collapsed before they could react.
Panic rippled through the forest. Whispers ran through the surviving students: The Grim Reaper… the Uncrowned… the former heir.
Minute by minute, the battlefield became a study of reactions. Selene's eyes darted to me constantly, searching for hesitation, for a sign of remorse.
She found none. Every strike I made was precise. Every kill is deliberate. Carmila, Seris, and Nymeraeach confronted me, but each failed. Their expressions evolved from confidence to disbelief to terror.
Even the rulers and nobles watching were reacting. Screens lit up in the Ravenshade estate, Eryndor's icy palace, Dravenholt's halls, and the Auraldane palace. Advisors whispered urgently, nobles clenched fists, and even kings and emperors leaned closer to screens, trying to analyze, to understand how the "weak" former heir had transformed into a massacre incarnate.
Lucian Auraldane gritted his teeth as our paths finally crossed. His strikes were precise, lightning-fast, but I countered each one, predicting, adapting, anticipating. Sweat ran down his face, pride battling fear.
Kael Rivers moved to flank me, amber eyes blazing. Strategy against instinct. He was good. Too good. But not enough. Not yet.
Time ticked down. Thirty seconds. I calculated trajectory, momentum, and reaction time. A swing here, a feint there, and two heads fell almost simultaneously. Silence. The remaining combatants froze.
When the dust settled, only Kael Rivers and I remained. I felt no triumph, only cold satisfaction. The battlefield was quiet, the forest still. And every broadcast feed across the world caught the same scene: a white-haired boy standing alone, black eyes indifferent, surrounded by fallen students. Kill count: over 200.
The reactions were instantaneous.
Rulers gasped, some shaking with fear, others exhilarated by potential.
Nobles whispered angrily, cursing themselves for underestimating the former heir.
Media outlets exploded with commentary, videos, slow-motion replays, and debates: How did a so-called weakling disappear for a year and return as a true monster?
Students in other parts of the world paused mid-action, captivated, horrified, or inspired.
Even the surviving students were broken. Selene's shoulders slumped. Lucian's jaw ached with frustration and shock. Carmila's hands shook slightly. Kael Rivers' grip tightened, tension coiling like a spring, awareness blazing with cautious respect.
And through it all, I remained calm. Indifferent. Every movement was deliberate, every breath measured. The world had doubted me once. They would never do so again.
When the battlefield collapsed, the capsule opened, and I stepped out. My suit was heavy with sweat, my muscles tired but alert.
I left the academy grounds, returning to my room at the inn, the echoes of awe, fear, and respect from every corner of the world ringing in my ears. Tomorrow would bring orientation, but today, the world had seen Adrian Kaelthorn, lost heir, mercenary, monster.