Halfway through the trial his breathing had grown heavier and the strain began settling into his body. Even though he had reduced his movements and used only brief bursts of mana, everything inside him was slowly draining—mana, soul energy, and simple physical stamina.
His arms ached from the endless swings and thrusts, and the muscles along his shoulders burned each time he lifted the sword again. By his rough estimate he had already cut down more than five hundred skeletons, yet the arena showed no sign of stopping. Ivor tightened his grip on the hilt and forced himself to keep moving.
The skeletons never changed their behavior. They did not grow smarter or faster. The arena simply pressed him through numbers, forcing constant reactions and trying to drag him into wasting energy.
Each time the pressure increased, he returned to his own rhythm: step, turn, strike—ending each skeleton as quickly as possible before the next one reached him.
The ending came quietly.
