The rules of the trial were simple, though the weight they carried was anything but. Each student would step forward, draw a numbered tag, and whoever bore the same number would become their opponent. There was no handpicking, no mercy, and no room for complaints. Fate—or perhaps cruel amusement—would decide who clashed in the arena.
The overseer had made it clear: the trials were inter-racial. Humans would not only fight each other, but also those of foreign blood—beasts, hybrids, and scions of races with advantages humans could scarcely comprehend. For humans, however, their bouts were set on the fourth day, alongside two other races. This, the academy claimed, was a "favor"—time to observe, time to study, time to prepare.
When Aeron's turn came, he stepped forward without a word. The metallic box before him glowed faintly as he reached in and drew a small plate of cold steel. The number etched into it shimmered faintly in the light: 14. He held it up for all to see.
Across the crowd, another student lifted his hand, holding the same number aloft. Their eyes met.
The boy appeared perhaps eighteen or nineteen, not much older than Aeron, though he carried himself as though the arena already belonged to him. His sharp clothes, his immaculate posture, his smug smile—he was the very image of someone who had never known hunger, fear, or hardship. Arrogance clung to him like perfume.
Aeron narrowed his eyes slightly, then murmured in his mind.
"What stage is he?"
The book's cold voice answered at once.
"Late Initiate level. A solid foundation, but nothing you cannot handle."
The overseer motioned for them to meet in the center. Both stepped forward. The boy approached with a smirk tugging at his lips, as though already savoring victory. He extended his hand lazily, expecting submission, respect—or perhaps fear.
Aeron clasped it briefly, his face unreadable, and then released it without the faintest acknowledgment. He turned and walked back to his place as though the encounter had been with a ghost, not a rival.
The overseer's booming voice rang across the arena.
"Remember this, all of you: these trials are not sport. If you do not surrender, you may die. No one will be held accountable for your demise. Come here for 'experience' if you like—but remember, experience means little to the dead."
A ripple passed through the crowd—an uneasy reminder that this was no tournament but a culling ground.
.....
Back in his quarters, Aeron wasted no time. His breath slowed, and his consciousness sank into the familiar suffocating vastness of the Death Land.
The moment he entered, the air changed. It was heavy and stagnant, yet rich in a way normal air could never be. He inhaled deeply, and with each breath came a sharp clarity, as though his very soul was sharpening itself against the whetstone of this grim dimension.
His hands rose, dark power gathering between them. Wisps of shadow coalesced, condensing into something tangible. From the darkness, a weapon was born.
The scythe.
It manifested with a whisper that seemed like a thousand voices crying out at once—mournful, chilling, eternal. Its black blade gleamed with a faint green glow, a sickly light that promised only endings. Every shift of its edge exuded despair, as if it had reaped souls before and longed to reap again.
Aeron's grip tightened. He swung it experimentally, and the ground answered. A wide arc swept across the dead trees, and the earth shuddered violently. A score of skeletal trunks exploded into splinters, reduced to ash and dust under the force. Within a twenty-meter radius, the Death Land bore his mark: devastation.
The essence of death thickened, clinging to him like a second skin. The air grew colder with each breath, and the scythe seemed to hum in harmony with his heartbeat. He practiced until his arms screamed, until the swing of the scythe became an extension of thought rather than motion. Each slash was smoother, heavier, deadlier.
Time lost meaning. Hours bled into days, days into an unbroken rhythm of cultivation and slaughter against phantoms of his own conjuring.
Then, at last, the book's voice cut through the haze.
"It has been four days. The trial begins."
Reluctantly, Aeron let the Death Land fade. His body reawakened in his chamber, muscles taut with new power. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. His once-short hair now fell like a white river down to his calves, a sign of his unnatural transformation. Beautiful, perhaps, but cumbersome.
He tied it back roughly, then left. On the way to the arena, his path crossed briefly with his opponent's. Their eyes locked for only a heartbeat, but in that instant, Aeron saw the boy's confidence—no, his certainty of superiority. Aeron gave him nothing in return.
...
The arena buzzed with noise. The shrill cry of the bell rang out, and the overseer's voice rose again.
"Humans, step forward! According to your numbers—beginning with one!"
The crowd leaned in as the first duelists took their places. Two young girls, tense but resolute, shook hands and retreated to opposite ends.
"Fight!"
The command cracked like a whip.
One girl's arm twisted grotesquely, flesh and bone reshaping until it became a monstrous claw, twice the size of her body. With a roar, she lunged forward, the claw descending with crushing power.
Her opponent panicked but managed to conjure an ice wall, jagged and tall. The claw tore through it like paper, shards scattering like glass. The crowd gasped, some roaring in approval, others wincing at the raw violence.
The battle lasted only moments longer. The claw-girl's aggression overwhelmed her opponent, who crumpled under the assault. Victory was swift, brutal.
One by one, the other matches followed. Some won through cunning, some through sheer strength. The arena became a cacophony of magic, screams, and applause.
Aeron watched every second. His eyes dissected each move, every weakness, every flaw. He saw not just victory and defeat but patterns—habits, arrogance, desperation. Lessons written in blood.
Then at last:
"Number Fourteen, step forward."
....
Aeron rose. Calm. Focused. Each step carried him closer to the arena floor.
The crowd, which had grown restless from the earlier matches, shifted in mood. Among the non-humans, an orc groaned to his companion.
"This is going to be boring. Humans again."
"Yeah. Father forced us to sit through this," the other muttered.
Their voices were drowned out as Aeron entered the arena.
From the opposite side, his opponent strode forth: Denstine Lasward. His polished boots clicked against the stone, his wings tucked neatly behind him until, with a flourish, they unfurled in a show of dominance. His movements dripped with self-assurance.
"You can surrender now," Denstine said smoothly, smirking. "Spare yourself the humiliation. And what's with the cloak? Trying too hard to look mysterious?"
The overseer's voice boomed.
"Denstine Lasward, HarpyHuman, versus Aeron Blackthorn, human."
Aeron's eyes narrowed. "Book—HarpyHumans?"
The reply came instantly.
"Hybrids. Human blood mixed with harpy. They are swift, can fly, and command the wind with ease."
"Begin!"
The air changed.
Denstine moved first, wind howling around him as his wings flared wide. The gale whipped through the arena, stirring dust and debris into a miniature storm. Spectators straightened in their seats—this was no ordinary human fight.
Aeron did not move. He closed his eyes, letting the cold tide of the Death Law spread. Darkness seeped out of him, a suffocating aura that made the very air heavy. The temperature dropped. The crowd shivered.
"I've never seen a human wield the Death Law," someone whispered. "And with such… potency."
Denstine's smirk faltered, just for a moment. Then he lunged.
He struck with blinding speed, his fist tearing through the air and dragging a wall of wind with it. The gale howled forward, enough to send a weaker opponent sprawling.
Aeron sidestepped, silent and fluid as shadow. The wind roared past him harmlessly.
Denstine pivoted, talons extending, his claws slashing downward with lethal precision. Aeron ducked beneath them and countered with a strike shrouded in deathly energy. The ground cracked as shockwaves rippled outward.
Denstine backflipped mid-air, wings beating furiously to stabilize himself. From above, he launched a barrage of slicing gales, each one carving deep scars into the arena floor. The stone shrieked under the assault.
Still Aeron moved, weaving between each cutting gust with unnerving calm. His cloak whipped violently in the storm, yet his body seemed untouched by the chaos. He was reading Denstine, mapping his rhythm, waiting.
And then—his chance.
The scythe materialized in Aeron's hands with a cry that silenced the crowd. The sound was not metal on stone but the echo of souls screaming, a wail that crawled beneath the skin. Its black edge glowed faintly, hungering.
Denstine's eyes widened. "What… is that?"
Aeron answered with action.
The scythe cut through the air. The whisper of its blade carried the weight of finality. Denstine tried to dodge, wings beating desperately, but the weapon moved with inevitability.
Blood spattered the stone as the blade tore across his side.
He staggered mid-air, clutching his wound, gasping in shock.
Aeron advanced, unrelenting. Another swing—this time low. The scythe's edge carved into Denstine's legs. He screamed as his tendons gave way, his body crashing down to the arena floor. His wings flapped weakly, useless.
The audience was silent. Every spectator, human and non-human alike, stared in horror and awe.
Denstine writhed, terror filling his eyes. Above him stood Aeron, scythe raised high, its shadow falling over him like a verdict.
"No—wait—"
The plea was cut short.
The blade plunged into his chest. Denstine convulsed, his scream torn into the void as the scythe devoured his essence. His soul unraveled in the air, carried away on a whisper of wind.
Then silence.
The scythe dissolved into nothingness, its feast complete. Aeron stood tall over the lifeless husk, his expression cold, unreadable.
Finally, the overseer's voice broke the stillness.
"…The winner: Aeron Blackthorn."
The arena erupted. Cheers, gasps, horrified mutters—it was chaos. Some shouted his name, others recoiled in disgust, but no one could deny what they had seen.
Aeron turned without acknowledgment, cloak dragging a line of crimson across the floor as he walked out of the arena, leaving Denstine's corpse behind.
The fight was not boring.
It was a revelation. A reminder to all who watched: beneath the skin of a human could lie something far more terrifying than any beast.