High above the colosseum, behind reinforced crystal glass and layers of defensive magic, the ten knight captains, the General of Lionhearth's Grand Army, the Knight Commander, and the royal family observed the end of the first trial.
The stands had gone quiet as magical projections floated in the air—showing scenes from Trial 1, replaying key moments from the forest maze.
Captain Veyren chuckled as he watched the Five Prodigies cleave through groups of trainees with clean precision.
"Those five… each of them already has Aura unlocked. At their age? Ludicrous."
Captain Korrina crossed her arms.
"It's expected. They're monsters blessed by talent and pedigree… Still, their refinement is impressive."
Most of the captains nodded in agreement.
All except one.
Sir Zenite wasn't looking at the prodigies at all.
He sat forward, eyes locked on a different projection—one showing Rain in the canopy, evading danger, strategizing, surviving. The moment Rain kicked off the branch to isolate a foe, the moment he struck the gut blow, the moment he fought with pure grit… Zenite's eyes sharpened.
Commander Modred noticed Zenite's silence.
"You're not paying attention to the prodigies of this generation, Zenite."
Zenite smirked slightly, gaze still fixed on Rain's battered figure helping Juno.
"Prodigies shine because they were born to. That boy… Rain… he fights like someone who has something to lose. Something to protect. That matters far more."
King Leon IX hummed
"A commoner boy? You see something in him?"
Zenite leaned back, expression unreadable.
"…Potential. Buried deep. Dangerous potential, if awakened correctly."
The king did not press further, but the queen glanced at the projection of Rain carrying Juno and whispered:
"He reminds me of you, Zenite. When you were young."
Zenite didn't respond.
Because maybe… just maybe… she was right.
Back to Rain
A bright flash engulfed me as the teleportation magic surged.
My vision blurred, and the forest dissolved—replaced by the roaring interior of the colosseum.
The sound hit me like a tidal wave.
Cheers. Clapping. Stomping. Whistling.
The atmosphere was electrifying. Tens of thousands of people watched from the stands.
I swallowed hard.
We were back on the sandy arena floor—only sixty-eight of us remaining.
Half… more than half… had failed.
A knot formed in my stomach.
Trial 2 wouldn't be easy.
The director's voice boomed across the arena, powered by projection magic.
"CONGRATULATIONS to the sixty-eight remaining candidates. Trial Two begins now!"
The crowd exploded with energy.
"Trial Two," the director continued, "is simple: One-on-one duels. Win, and you qualify for the final trial. Lose, and you are eliminated. Duels will be held in eight simultaneous rings! All pairings are random!"
My heartbeat quickened.
Random.
Anyone.
It could've been one of the prodigies.
It could've been a swordsman far above my level.
I exhaled slowly.
Focus.
A knight proxy approached, handing each of us a small metallic plate with a glowing numeral.
Mine flashed:
41
"Candidate Forty-One," the proxy said. "Prepare. You're in Bout Six."
Bout Six…
Just before the final set.
Great.
I stood in the waiting area, gripping the wooden practice sword they supplied for the duel. Aura was prohibited. Killing blows prohibited. But the force behind a strike? The technique? All real.
I watched duel after duel.
Prodigy after prodigy sweeping their opponents as if they were nothing more than practice dummies.
Then—
"Candidate Forty-One and Candidate Twelve—STEP FORWARD."
My breath froze.
Candidate Twelve.
Zolten Jaunnet.
The crowd reacted immediately.
"It's him!"
"The powerhouse!"
"That kid's built like a boulder!"
Zolten stepped into the arena.
He wasn't huge like a giant—just tall, broad-shouldered, and condensed with muscle. His presence alone felt heavy, like standing across a boulder that could roll and crush you at any moment.
His eyes were sharp and calculating—no mockery, no arrogance.
He respected strength.
Or at least, he respected fighting.
He lifted his wooden blade and nodded.
"Rain, right? Sir Zenite's student."
I nodded back.
He smirked.
"I've been wanting to see what you can really do."
The referee—a knight—raised his hand.
"BEGIN!"
The Duel – Rain vs. Zolten
Zolten moved first.
A single step—
A blur of motion.
I barely brought my sword up in time—
CLAAANG!
The force sent me sliding back across the sand.
What…?
He wasn't using aura.
That was pure physical strength, refined through brutal training.
Zolten pressed forward, strikes heavy but clean, each one aimed to break my guard or break my arms.
I deflected one, ducked another—
Barely.
Rain, think!
He's stronger.
He's faster.
He's more experienced.
So don't meet him head-on.
I shifted my stance, keeping my blade low, eyes watching his shoulders, his hips, his center.
Zolten twirled the wooden sword over his shoulder with a grin.
"Good eye. But that won't save you."
He charged again.
This time, I didn't block.
I sidestepped—
He predicted it.
I bent backward—
He redirected mid-swing.
His adaptability was monstrous.
His sword crashed down again—
I parried at the last second, redirecting the strike with minimal effort, just like Zenite drilled into me.
Use their strength. Don't fight it. Flow with it.
Zolten's eyes glinted.
"Nice technique…"
He kicked the ground.
A burst of sand shot up, blinding me.
Shit—!
I covered my face.
A wooden blade came for my ribs.
I twisted, letting the blow graze instead of land fully—pain shot across my side.
I retaliated with a low sweep—
He hopped over it, landing a shoulder thrust that drove the air from my lungs.
I staggered back, coughing.
Zolten didn't let up.
He kept attacking—relentless, heavy, precise.
My arms ached.
My ribs burned.
My breathing grew sharp and ragged.
But—
I wasn't losing focus.
I wasn't panicking.
I wasn't freezing.
I could see his movements.
Not perfectly—but enough.
Zenite's training… every beating, every spar, every humbling moment…
It was paying off.
Zolten swung overhead, a feint this time—
I stepped into his guard, trapping his wrist with my left hand.
His eyes widened slightly.
I delivered a knee strike to his abdomen—
He tanked it.
He tried to slam his forehead into mine—
I twisted, dragging his arm.
We broke apart.
He laughed.
"You're fun."
Then he disappeared again.
Zolten wasn't a swordsman—he was a bulldozer.
But he wasn't stupid.
He knew how to pressure.
How to corner.
How to force you to play his game.
I couldn't beat him head-on.
I needed to outthink him.
So I baited a strike—
Dropped my stance—
Let him believe he saw an opening.
He swung horizontally, a wide arc that would've broken ribs if it were a real blade.
Instead of dodging back, I stepped forward, inside the arc—
My blade rose, hitting his wrist.
His weapon slipped half an inch—unstable.
I spun, using his momentum.
My wooden sword cracked into his side.
A clean hit.
The crowd roared.
Zolten didn't flinch.
He exhaled sharply.
"Not bad."
He came again, this time with more force.
I parried desperately, angles collapsing.
My arms were going numb.
He raised his sword high for a crushing blow—
And that was my chance.
Zenite's voice echoed in my mind:
"When the opponent commits fully…
There.
That's your moment."
I dropped my sword.
Zolten blinked—
"What—?"
I stepped in, grabbed his collar with my right hand, and spun using every ounce of weight I had.
A judo-style shoulder throw.
Something I learned from watching Zenite throw grown knights like toys.
Zolten's massive frame flipped.
THUUUUUD!
The arena shook.
I scrambled, grabbing my fallen sword and planting the tip at his throat.
The referee shouted:
"POINT AND VICTORY—RAIN!"
The colosseum erupted.
Zolten lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, chest rising and falling.
Then he laughed breathlessly.
"Damn… you really got me."
He sat up and offered his hand.
I took it.
He squeezed once.
"Don't lose in the next trial."
I nodded, still catching my breath.
As I walked back to the waiting area, I looked up instinctively—
Zenite was smiling.
Just a moment.
But for me?
That was everything.
Trial Two… passed.
Next—
The Final Trial.
Whatever it was…
I wasn't going to back down.