The principal then turned his attention to the warriors of steel, the masters of the blade.
"Equally formidable are the Four Great Swordsmanship Families—whose legacies are carved not into stone, but in the very air, steel, and battlefield itself."
⚔ The Indomitable Gladiusforte – The bloodline of battlefield conquerors, whose mastery of warfare and sheer brute strength turns warriors into unstoppable warlords.
🗡 The Precise Sabrelan – The paragons of dueling, where every movement is deliberate, and every strike is decisive.
🎴 The Disciplined Tsurugikin – A lineage built on refinement, honor, and the philosophy of the blade as an extension of the soul.
🛡 The Unyielding Klingenhart – The immovable bastion of swordsmanship, where defense is an absolute doctrine, and counters are executed with calculated precision.
"These families do not rule from afar. No, they wield their swords on the frontlines, proving time and time again why their names are etched into history."
Another balcony lit up, displaying four majestic seats, each bearing the emblem of the sword families.
The ground beneath the stadium rumbled, not from magic, but from the sheer weight of presence.
There was no grand display of elemental manipulation, no bending of cosmic forces—only raw, sharpened intent. The atmosphere grew heavy, each breath thick with an invisible pressure.
And then—the sound of steel.
Four distinct, resonating clangs echoed across the stadium, as if the very air had been cut open, leaving behind a moment of absolute silence.
Then they emerged.
THE GLADIUSFORTE FAMILY
A blazing sun rose behind them, casting long, commanding shadows as they walked forward like warlords returning from battle.
Leading them was Lucius Draconis—a titan among men, his very stride exuding authority and challenge.
Grand Patriarch Lucius Draconis – The Unyielding Warblade
His crimson cape, weathered and tattered, billowed like a battle flag, a testament to the wars he had endured.
His bronze-plated armor, engraved with ancient battle hymns, bore the scars of countless duels—each dent a story, each mark a lesson.
His golden eyes, sharp and relentless, pierced through everything in his path, his gaze a challenge to all who dared meet it.
Upon reaching his seat, Lucius unsheathed his colossal greatsword—not to wield, but to plant it firmly into the ground before him, the very earth trembling beneath its weight.
A silent declaration: This blade has never fallen, and neither have I.
THE GLADIUSFORTE HAD SPOKEN.
THE SABRELAN FAMILY
The winds shifted, carrying a faint scent of freshly cut roses and sharpened steel.
From the shadows of the arena's towering pillars, a lone figure stepped forward—Fiona Sabrelan, her movements so fluid it was as if she were gliding.
Grand Matriarch Fiona Sabrelan – The Bladed Flower, Mistress of the Duel
Her raven-black hair, coiled into a single immaculate braid, never swayed out of place, even as the wind attempted to pull at it.
Her pristine white military-styled coat, embroidered with silver filigree, bore not a single wrinkle or stain, as though untouched by battle, despite her countless victories.
Her piercing silver eyes, calculating and unshakable, carried the weight of every opponent she had ever bested.
She did not carry a massive greatsword like Lucius. She did not need to.
In one smooth, effortless motion, she unsheathed her sleek, glistening rapier, the tip barely visible as she moved—so fast that even trained warriors struggled to follow the motion.
A flick of her wrist—and a single petal fluttered into the air, sliced perfectly in half before it hit the ground.
She met Lucius' unflinching gaze, her lips curling into the slightest smirk.
THE SABRELAN HAD SPOKEN.
THE TSURUGIKIN FAMILY
Unlike the grandiose entrances of the other families, the Tsurugikin arrived in utter silence.
Their footsteps were light, yet every motion exuded lethal precision, as if each movement was measured to perfection.
At the forefront stood Kenji Takahashi, his crimson-and-black haoribillowing softly despite the still air.
Grand Patriarch Kenji Takahashi – The Phantom of the Blade
His graying jet-black hair, tied into a simple topknot, reflected the years of discipline he had endured.
His dark eyes, devoid of excess emotion, carried the wisdom of one who has lived a hundred lifetimes in battle.
His katana, tucked gently into his obi, was unsheathed only when necessary—because a true master never draws his blade unless it means victory.
Kenji did not need to speak. He simply tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes flickering to the other families as if measuring their worth in a fraction of a second.
Then, in a single, seamless movement, he took his seat.
There was no display, no demonstration of power—just absolute control.
THE TSURUGIKIN HAD SPOKEN.
THE KLINGENHART FAMILY
As the other families exuded grace, speed, or lethal efficiency, the Klingenhart family brought forth the weight of immovable strength.
A heavy presence settled over the stadium, like a fortress had just been planted in the center of the arena.
And at its heart, Ingrid Klingenhart stood tall—a living bastion, her sheer presence alone demanding respect.
Grand Matriarch Ingrid Klingenhart – The Shield of Kings
Her short golden hair, slicked back, gleamed like the edge of a newly forged blade.
Her battle-scarred armor, a mix of steel and mythril, bore the insignia of a lion rampant—symbolizing unwavering courage.
Her azure-blue eyes, unyielding yet filled with wisdom, scrutinized every inch of the stadium, ensuring all who stood before her were worthy of recognition.
Unlike the others, Ingrid did not wield a single sword—she wielded two.
Her dual longswords, intricately forged and wrapped in ancient battle runes, rested across her back, their very presence a silent warning.
And then, she spoke—not in grandeur, but in measured authority:
"The weight of a sword is nothing compared to the strength of the arm that carries it."
THE KLINGENHART HAD SPOKEN.
Finally, the principal's gaze turned towards the most revered warriors of all—those who had mastered not weapons or spells, but their very own bodies.
"But none could match the indomitable spirit of the Three Great Martial Arts Families—whose fists, kicks, and willpower alone have shattered armies and changed the course of history."
🐉 The Resurgent Wugongshi – Masters of rebirth and inner fire, wielding the legendary Phoenix Ascension Technique.
⛩ The Honorable Bushidoyama – The unyielding warriors of discipline and tradition, bound by the way of Bushidō.
🌿 The Flowing Hwarangdo – The martial artists of fluidity and adaptability, whose movements embody the harmony of nature.
"These families do not seek power for the sake of control—instead, they dedicate themselves to the perfection of the body, the mind, and the spirit."
For the final time, a section of the stadium was illuminated, revealing three ornately decorated wooden mats.
Unlike the grand entrances of the mage and sword families, the arrival of the three martial families was eerily silent.
There were no grand displays of power, no dazzling magic, no towering blades.
Only the sound of steady, controlled breathing.
And then—the wind shifted.
A sudden, overwhelming presence blanketed the stadium. Not from magic. Not from aura.
But from pure, unshakable will.
The ground beneath them did not tremble. The world itself acknowledged their presence.
And with that, they stepped forward.
THE WUGONGSHI FAMILY
A warm, dry wind swept through the stadium, carrying the faint scent of incense and scorched earth.
They did not walk in. They glided, their movements so precise, so fluid, it was as if they were untouched by gravity itself.
At their center, leading them with silent grace, stood Zhang Jun Wugongshi—a man whose presence was like standing before an ancient mountain, unshaken by time.
His silver-streaked black hair, tied into a high warrior's tail, swayed with every step, its movements as precise as his footwork.
His golden robes, embroidered with the five-clawed phoenix, billowed despite the lack of wind, as if the very air made way for him.
His obsidian eyes, sharp and filled with centuries of wisdom, scanned the stadium as if he were reading its soul.
He did not speak. Instead, he simply raised one hand, curling his fingers into a fist before slowly unfurling them—a silent display of absolute control.
At that moment, even the most arrogant noble sons felt a bead of cold sweat roll down their backs.
THE WUGONGSHI HAD SPOKEN.
THE HWARANGDO FAMILY
The air thickened, an unseen force pressing down on the stadium, not with magic, but with sheer discipline.
Her arrival was not a spectacle—it was a declaration of resilience.
At the forefront, standing as if carved from the very earth itself, was Minji Hwarangdo, her mere presence enough to silence even the most restless spectators.
Grand Matriarch Minji Hwarangdo – The Iron Lotus
Her long jet-black hair, tied into a warrior's bun, framed her sharp, high cheekbones and piercing dark onyx eyes—eyes that had seen generations rise and fall.
She wore no extravagant robes, only a simple, well-worn gi, its fabric reinforced by countless battles and decades of mastery.
On her hip, a single, unassuming short sword rested—not an ornate weapon, not a statement piece. Just a tool, well-maintained and deadly.
She bowed, her movements slow, deliberate, filled with the weight of tradition.
Then, she lifted her head and spoke—not loudly, not softly, but with the weight of an entire lineage in her voice.
"We endure."
🔥 THE HWARANGDO HAD SPOKEN.
THE BUSHIDOYAMA FAMILY
A low, thunderous rumble echoed as they entered—not of the earth shaking, but of their sheer presence rolling over the stadium like an approaching storm.
The air itself seemed denser, as if the weight of a thousand years of discipline and mastery had been placed upon it.
At their helm, his towering frame casting a long shadow, stood Hiroshi Bushidoyama—a monolith of a man whose mere breathing carried the weight of legends.
Grand Patriarch Hiroshi Bushidoyama – The Mountain That Walks
His salt-and-pepper hair, cropped short, revealed deep battle scars carved into his bronzed, chiseled features—each one a mark of victory.
His haori, a dark indigo hue, was embroidered with the crest of the twin dragon serpents, symbolizing the unyielding might of his bloodline.
His arms, thick as tree trunks, bore the callouses of a thousand battles, yet his movements were as precise as a blade's edge.
He did not bow.
He simply stood, still as a mountain, his deep onyx eyes scanning the stadium as if measuring its worth.
And then, with a single, deliberate breath, he tapped his knuckles together, producing a sharp, resonant CRACK that reverberated through the arena.
It was not a boast.
It was a reminder.
THE BUSHIDOYAMA HAD SPOKEN.
The sheer presence of these families was enough to make even the most ambitious students feel as if they stood before titans of legend.
As the cheers erupted across the stadium, the principal raised a single hand, and silence immediately fell.
His final words carried the weight of destiny itself:
"To all of you standing here today—know this:
From this moment on, you are no longer ordinary individuals. You are candidates for the most prestigious institution in existence. You are challengers to fate, dreamers of power, and seekers of greatness.
Some of you will rise to prominence, while others will vanish into obscurity.
But make no mistake—what awaits you beyond these gates is not a school, but a crucible. A forge.
And only those who can withstand the flames...
Shall leave this place as legends."
As the principal's voice resonated through the massive arena, the energy in the stadium reached a fever pitch. Anticipation crackled in the air like a storm on the horizon, and the gathered students, dignitaries, and sponsors turned their attention to the towering stage.
With a sweeping motion of his hand, the principal announced, "Allow me to introduce the judges for this year's entrance exam—each a master in their field, each a legend whose name alone commands respect and fear across continents!"
A shimmering silver portal ripped through the air, and from its depths emerged a tall, statuesque man with shoulder-length dark brown hair and piercing silver-gray eyes. His movements were slow, deliberate, yet effortlessly fluid, like a seasoned warrior who had no need to prove himself.
Draped in a long crimson overcoat embroidered with intricate golden patterns, he carried at his side a sword that seemed to hum with restrained power. This was Yaroslav Volkov—Swordmaster of the 9th Circle, known as the Crimson Blade Aethelric.
The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers as his mere presence sent chills down the spines of all aspiring swordsmen in the audience. His reputation was legendary—said to have cut down an entire battalion of knights without unsheathing his blade.
Yaroslav barely acknowledged the ovation, his expression cold and unreadable. He lived for the sword, not for applause. With a brief nod toward the principal, he folded his arms and took his position among the other judges.
Next, the air warped and crackled, before twisting into an expanding vortex of deep purple and blue cosmic energy. Out of this swirling abyss stepped Eadmund Kendrick, his presence a stark contrast to Yaroslav's lethal precision.
Aged yet not frail, his silver hair framed a face of quiet wisdom. His emerald-green robes were embroidered with constellations that shifted and pulsed like living celestial maps, and in his grasp rested an ebony staff crowned with an owl-shaped crystal that flickered with the endless depths of the void.
"Eadmund Kendrick—the Cosmic Sage, and one of the greatest Spatial Mages to walk this earth." The principal's voice rang with reverence, and murmurs of admiration rippled through the audience.
Eadmund smiled gently, his presence calm, yet infinitely vast—like staring into the abyss of the cosmos. With slow, graceful steps, he took his seat, exuding an aura of patience and boundless knowledge.
A sudden burst of golden wind howled across the stage, and a blinding light flashed as Helen Hippolytusdescended from the heavens like a divine warrior.
Dressed in an elegant yet battle-ready emerald green qipao with silver embroidery resembling wind currents, her golden hair flowed wildly behind her like strands of lightning. Her eyes—piercing jade-green, filled with the storm's fury—scanned the audience with quiet authority.
The principal's voice carried over the excitement: "Helen Hippolytus, known as 'Zephyr Fist Shenlong,' a 9th Circle Martial Arts Grandmaster who has never been defeated in a one-on-one duel."
Men and women alike gawked as she walked to her seat with an effortless, feline grace. Her mere presence was a statement—she did not demand respect; she commanded it.
Then came a stark contrast to the revered trio—a man striding onto the stage rather than emerging through portals or celestial means.
Jared Sathe.
Clad in royal blue robes adorned with far too many unnecessary gold embellishments, his smirk was one of unwavering arrogance. His slicked-back auburn hair and sharp, narrow eyes radiated an aura of self-importance, as if simply standing among the true legends elevated his status.
The applause that followed was half-hearted—more out of formality than admiration.
The energy in the stadium shifted again, but this time, it was softer—warm, yet undeniably powerful.
Jessica Eldritch made her entrance in a manner uniquely her own. As she walked onto the stage, her emerald-green curls bounced elegantly, framing a face of intelligent mischief and effortless beauty. A pair of ornate glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, their lenses shimmering with alchemical runes.
Draped in a flowing black and gold alchemist's robe, she carried a belt lined with vials of shimmering liquids, each glowing with the promise of miracles.
With a radiant smile, she addressed the audience, her voice like honey yet carrying the weight of her expertise.
"Good evening, everyone! Consider this a small gift."
With a mere flick of her fingers, hundreds of glass vials floated into the hands of those present—each filled with a brilliantly shimmering potion.
The audience gasped in awe.
"What you hold in your hands," Jessica continued, "is a health potion I developed just two months ago. It enhances stamina, strengthens the body, and rapidly heals wounds. My hope is that these potions will not only aid adventurers but will also serve those suffering from untreatable illnesses."
The stadium erupted in applause, filled with admiration for her generosity and genius. Unlike Jared, Jessica did not demand recognition—she earned it.
As the entrance examination loomed, tension rippled through the stadium—not just among the students but among the most powerful families gathered in their respective chambers.
Each room housed titans of magical, swordsmanship, and martial traditions—the patriarchs and matriarchs whose legacies had shaped history itself. And now, their children stood on the precipice of proving their worth.
Seated in lavish, arcane thrones within their private viewing chamber, the six grand mage families engaged in a battle of reputation—each vying to assert their dominance before the first spell was even cast.
Seated atop an ornate throne of engraved obsidian and enchanted gold, Thalassa Vestalyn's piercing sapphire eyes swept across the room like a hawk surveying lesser prey.
With a measured yet commanding tone, she declared, "This year's prodigies will undoubtedly come from the Vestalyn lineage. My Marcus Vestalyn has not only ascended to the 3rd Circle but has also awakened a secondary element. His mastery of 2-star spells is already proving formidable."
She spoke with absolute certainty, exuding the refined arrogance of a woman who had meticulously crafted her family's unrivaled academic prestige.
Her words, however, were met with cold amusement.
Leaning forward, his pristine white robes embroidered with pure gold,Alistair Solonar responded with a smirk.
"Boasting so soon, Thalassa?" He chuckled, his chiseled features remaining calm yet razor-sharp. "We of the Solonar lineage prefer to let our actions, not words, prove our supremacy."
His steely gaze met hers, his gloved fingers tapping against his throne's marble armrest.
"Aurora Solonar has not only perfected 3-star Light Magic, but she has done so in combat applications—an area where your rigid teachings tend to falter."
Thalassa's sharp gaze flickered with disdain, but before she could retort, another voice joined the fray.
Wrapped in dark-colored robes adorned with runes that shifted and twinkled,Evelyn Lunarae spoke with a slow, measured cadence.
"You both underestimate the potential of the unseen."
Her heterochromatic eyes gleamed under the ethereal glow of the floating Arclight's that decorated the chamber.
"Tristen Lunarae has already mastered the art of vibrations, darkness, and wind. Three elements. A rare feat, even among your most gifted."
Her words carried weight, yet they were spoken without the arrogance of her peers. The Lunarae did not boast—they merely stated what was written in the stars.
A snort of amusement echoed from Alaric Caelumis, his posture reclined yet imposing, clad in deep indigo robes adorned with golden constellations.
"Petty debates bore me." He exhaled, twirling a cosmic orb between his fingers. "While you all bicker over 3rd and 4th Circle mages, I must remind you—our Lyra Caelumis has already reached the 4th Circle. And not only her—Elian Caelumis is no less impressive."
A hush fell over the chamber.
Even the proudest figures couldn't deny it. A 4th Circle mage at this age was a prodigious rarity.
Thalassa's lips pressed together in mild irritation, Alistair's tapping fingers paused, and Evelyn's celestial eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
A small, knowing smirk crept onto Alaric's face.
"You may continue arguing," he mused, "but the stars have already chosen their victor."
As the atmosphere crackled with tension, a storm rolled in.
Morgana Tempestarii leaned forward, her violet-cerulean eyes flashing like lightning across dark clouds. Her layered moss-colored battle robes, charged with static, seemed to pulse with power.
"None of this matters if they can't survive a battlefield."
Her voice was bold, challenging, and filled with raw intensity. The Tempestarii thrived in chaos, in disruption, in power that refused to be tamed.
"Lucas Tempestarii and Harper Tempestarii aren't just mages. They are warriors. And when this exam ends, they'll prove why Tempestarii blood isn't meant for mere spellcasters."
She flashed a daring grin, daring anyone to refute her.
No one did.
Because everyone knew—the storm did not bow.
In their own chamber, the four sacred sword families sat in a room lined with weapon racks, banners of their respective houses, and an aura of unspoken challenge.
Kenji Takahashi, adorned in a crimson-black haori, gently rested his hand atop the hilt of his katana. His sharp, unwavering gaze locked onto Lucius Draconis of Gladiusforte.
"Do you truly believe your son, Maximus, can surpass mine?" His voice was calm yet laden with warning.
A deep, rumbling laugh came from Lucius Draconis, his golden eyes burning with intensity. Clad in bronze-plated armor crimson cape, he exuded raw, battle-hardened strength.
"Maximus has already reached the advanced stage of sword intent and is on the cusp of forming his sword heart."
The room fell silent.
Even Kenji's brows raised ever so slightly.
Then, slow, deliberate clapping broke the silence.
Ingrid Klingenhart sat with an air of effortless authority, her short golden hair catching the light like polished amber. Her azure-blue eyes gleamed with amusement and sharp calculation, taking in the scene with the precision of a master duelist.
Her posture remained relaxed, yet there was a certain undeniable edge in the way she carried herself—a swordswoman through and through, exuding the silent confidence of someone who had mastered the blade beyond mere technique.
"Impressive, Gladiusforte." She smiled, but it was the smile of a predator.
"But do not celebrate too soon."
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "And why not?"
"Because my daughter, Aria Klingenhart, has already formed her sword heart.
Unlike the mage and sword families, whose gatherings brimmed with veiled competition and power plays, the martial families existed in a world of their own—a world where strength was proven through action, not words.
Seated on intricately woven tatami mats, surrounded by the soft aroma of brewed tea, the three heads of the legendary martial families gathered in quiet camaraderie. There were no grand thrones, no opulent displays of wealth or superiority—only discipline, wisdom, and mutual respect.
Zhang Jun Wugongshi, the unyielding patriarch of the Wugongshi Family, set down his cup of phoenix-fire infused tea, his movements deliberate and measured. His piercing dark eyes, honed by decades of experience, met those of Minji Hwarangdo, his fellow master.
"Mei has surpassed Xiang in her mastery of the Phoenix Ascension Technique," he admitted, his deep voice tinged with restrained pride. "Her internal energy control has reached a stage even I did not anticipate. She walks the path of rebirth with a clarity that Xiang has yet to grasp."
Minji Hwarangdo, the Flowing Tiger of the Five Elements, placed her teacup down with the same effortless precision that defined her every movement. Her presence exuded a calm, unshakable aura, like a river flowing steadily toward its course, yet ready to crash like a tidal wave at a moment's notice.
Her honey-blonde hair, neatly bound in a traditional braid, gleamed under the warm candlelight, while her piercing onyx eyes reflected both serenity and sharp calculation—eyes that had seen countless battles yet never lost their clarity.
"Joon and Soo-min have shown great skill in the Five-Element Harmony Fist." Her voice carried a natural cadence, smooth yet firm, like the stillness before a storm. She exhaled softly, though not in frustration—only quiet patience.
"But overconfidence may be their downfall." Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, her mind already weaving through possibilities. "They still believe mastery lies in the strike alone. They must learn that true strength is found in adaptation—moving with the battle rather than against it. Only then will they embody the true essence of the Hwarangdo way—where the tiger flows like water, yet strikes like a falling mountain."
Hiroshi Bushidoyama, the Unshaken Mountain, remained silent for a moment, his presence a monolithic force of calm. His broad frame, hardened through rigorous discipline, barely shifted as he lifted his cup to his lips. His crimson-streaked black hair, a mark of his lineage, contrasted starkly against his weathered skin, a testament to countless battles.
"Kenji, Daiki, and Yumi have met my expectations," he finally said, his voice steady as bedrock. "Their foundations are solid, their strikes unwavering. My hope is for them to place within the top fifty. However..." He set his cup down with a quiet clink, the only sound in the stillness. "Regardless of rankings, they will walk their paths as warriors. That is all that matters."
No boasting. No arrogance. No need to one-up the other families.
For them, words held no weight compared to action.
While the mages and swordsmen schemed and debated over who would reign supreme, the martial families remained unfazed.
Because in the end, victory would not be decided by heritage, by politics, or by power-hungry ambition—
It would be decided only by the battle itself.
And when the time came, they would let their fists, their bodies, and their spirits speak for them.
Because for the martial families…
Results were the only truth that mattered.
The elite panel of judges gathered on top the floating stage, a mini-space that with mystical artifacts, arcane sigils, to monitor the entrance examination. Each judge carried an aura of dominance, a presence cultivated through years of mastery in their respective disciplines.
Yet, beneath the grandeur of the setting, a silent battle brewed—a battle not fought with magic or steel, but with influence, authority, and unspoken rivalries.
Jessica adjusted her quirky glasses, the gleam of enchanted emerald lenses reflecting her keen intellect. Her vibrant green curls framed her sharp yet undeniably charming features, a stark contrast to the intensity of the moment.
Twirling a silver alchemical quill between her fingers, she posed the inevitable question, "So, who shall lead the entrance examination?"
The air grew heavy, the weight of expectation pressing upon each judge.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then, with a self-assured smirk, Jared Sathe stepped forward.
Jared adjusted the cuffs of his pristine scholar long coat, and the far too many unnecessary gold embellishments on his royal blue robes, the embroidery shimmering faintly with protective enchantments. His slicked-back auburn hair and sharp, narrow eyes revealing a face carefully crafted for persuasion—sharp, smug, and irritatingly composed.
With a practiced smile, he strode forward, his voice laced with an air of assumption.
"I propose that I take the honor of leading the examination."
It was not a suggestion.
It was a declaration.
And before anyone could voice opposition, he began walking toward the microphone.
SHNK!
A blade flashed faster than the eye could register—a katana, gleaming with ethereal red light, materialized at Jared's throat.
The room froze.
Jared's steps halted mid-stride, his body going rigid as a thin bead of sweat trailed down his temple.
"Yaroslav," he muttered, his voice carefully controlled, "what is this about?"
Across from him, Yaroslav Volkov stood unfazed, his shoulder-length dark brown hair casting shadows over his piercing silver-gray eyes. He exuded the eerie calm of a man who could cut someone down in an instant—and not regret it.
When he spoke, his voice was a blade unto itself.
"And what, Jared, makes you assume you have the right to claim that position without consultation?"
Jared, ever the master of manipulation, composed himself.
His expression remained neutral, though his sharp hazel eyes burned with irritation.
"Given my expertise in theoretical knowledge," he reasoned smoothly, "and my extensive role in leading previous years' examinations, it only seems logical, doesn't it?"
His voice was calm, but beneath his poised exterior, he seethed.
Before the tension could ignite into a true conflict, a booming laugh rang through the chamber.
"Ha! Let the young man lead, Yaroslav."
Eadmund Kendrick, the grandmaster of spatial magic, leaned casually against his staff, his flowing violet robes fluttering slightly as if responding to unseen cosmic winds. His long grizzled silver hair and kindly aged face belied the terrifying force he wielded.
His warm, knowing smile was the kind that made people uneasy—for he saw everything, even the hidden agendas.
"He has experience," Eadmund continued, stroking his beard. "Why not let him handle it?"
Before Jared could capitalize on this unexpected support, a smooth, commanding voice sliced through the air.
"Enough."
All eyes turned to Helen Hippolytus.
She moved like a warrior in perfect control—every step deliberate, every gesture imbued with confidence. Her golden locks shimmered under the magical lighting, the contrast against her emerald eyes making her presence impossible to ignore.
Helen didn't need to raise her voice.
Power simply bent to her will.
"We have an examination to conduct," she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Since there seems to be disagreement, I propose myself as the lead examiner."
Eadmund's grin widened.
"Excellent idea! I'm all for Helen leading."
Without hesitation, he raised his hand.
"All in favor?"
Jessica, having keenly observed the undercurrents of tension, lifted a delicate hand.
She understood the power plays at work—and, most importantly, she understood that Jared Sathe leading the exam was the worst possible outcome.
"Helen will do just fine."
She raised her hand as well.
Yaroslav's eyes flickered to Jared.
He did not miss the subtle twitch of the man's fingers, the nearly imperceptible clenching of his jaw.
Jared was seething.
But he would not act—yet.
Satisfied, Yaroslav sheathed his blade with a smooth, controlled motion.
He then, without a word, raised his hand.
The verdict was final.
Helen Hippolytus was chosen as lead examiner.
Jared's smile was forced, but flawlessly performed.
He nodded as if in agreement, lifting his hand in mock resignation.
"Very well," he said smoothly. "It appears the decision is unanimous."
He retreated, stepping back with a graceful surrender—but behind that calm expression, he was already recalculating.
"No matter," Jared mused internally. "The lead examiner's role was never crucial to my plans. I'll retreat for now and focus on the broader scheme."
Helen, Yaroslav, and Eadmund watched him retreat, their thoughts aligned in unspoken understanding.
Helen's gaze remained piercing.
"He's adjusting. That means he still intends to move."
Yaroslav, his fingers lightly resting on his katana hilt, gave the barest nod.
"No matter his plans, if he steps out of line, I won't hesitate to act."
Eadmund, always the strategist, tilted his head thoughtfully.
"We must not underestimate Jared. He may lack our strength, but his cunning and deep connections, forged over years as a lead examiner, make him a formidable opponent."
The room settled into an uneasy truce.
Though Helen now held the lead, and Jared had been pushed back—he was not out of the game.
He was merely waiting.
Watching.
Scheming.
Above them, Helen Hippolytus, Yaroslav Volkov, Eadmund Kendrick, Jessica Eldritch, and Jared Sathe took their places, their presence alone a testament to the gravity of the moment.
And at the center of it all stood Helen Hippolytus, the Lead Examiner.
Her emerald gaze swept across the assembly like a storm ready to be unleashed. She exuded an aura of command, discipline, and unshakable confidence—one that demanded respect and left no room for weakness.
With effortless poise, she stepped forward, gripping the floating microphone.
And when she spoke, the entire stadium fell into absolute silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed aspirants of Solarskis University."
Her voice boomed through the enchanted sound system, resonating across the entire stadium. Powerful. Unyielding. Absolute.
"Today marks a pivotal moment in your lives— a gateway to a future rich with discovery and unparalleled achievement. I stand before you, honored and humbled, as your Lead Examiner for this year's entrance examination.
Over the next week, you will embark on a journey that will test not only your magical prowess but also your courage, intellect, and willpower. These trials are not for the faint-hearted. They are designed to draw out the absolute best in each of you."
Her tone sharpened, cutting through the air like a finely honed blade.
"You will face three rigorous examinations:
Magical Duels – where your strategic acumen and combative skill will be tested. The Survival Test – a grueling challenge to assess your resilience, adaptability, and ability to endure the unknown.The Elemental Trials – a testament to your mastery and understanding of the very forces that shape our world.
These trials are not merely assessments of your strength or power. They are reflections of your character, your dedication, and your potential to shape the future of our world."
The crowd remained entranced, hanging onto every word.
But then her voice grew colder.
"Let it be known—out of the 3,000 of you standing here today, only the top 200 will earn their place at Solarskis University."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
900 out of 3,000?
The stakes were far higher than many had anticipated.
Helen continued, unfazed by the tension.
"Those who do not secure a position within this esteemed group will be disqualified and must wait a full three years for another opportunity to prove their worth."
She let the weight of her words settle in before delivering the final decree.
"I urge you all to approach these trials with determination and integrity. Remember— this is as much a test of your heart and spirit as it is of your magical abilities.
Solarskis University does not merely seek mages.
We seek pioneers of the future. Architects of a brighter world.
To every one of you about to step into this crucible of potential:
May your wits be sharp, your will unyielding, and your magic awe-inspiring.
Let the examinations begin."
For a brief moment, there was silence.
Then—
ROOOOOOOAAAAAR!
The stadium exploded with noise.
The energy was palpable. Aspirants clenched their fists, hearts pounding, eyes gleaming with determination. The realization of what lay ahead sunk in—a battle not just against their peers, but against themselves.
From the spectator stands, the sacred families, guild leaders, and world dignitaries whispered among themselves, analyzing the new batch of hopefuls.
Among the crowd, Percy stood unmoving.
A smirk played on his lips.
"Finally," he murmured, eyes blazing with renewed competitiveness and resolve.
Helen strode forward, gripping the ceremonial horn left by the Principal.
She lifted it to her lips—
And blew.
A thunderous resonance filled the stadium, the vibrations shaking the very foundations of the land.
In an instant, 'The Verdant Jungle's Heart' labyrinth responded.
From the colossal tree at the rear of the stadium, beams of ethereal light shot forth—
Descending like falling stars upon the 3,000 examinees.
The light wrapped around them, pulsing, embedding into their uniforms.
Percy glanced down at his chest.
There, glowing faintly—
The number '10.'
As Percy inspected the number, Beta immediately analyzed it.
"Master, this is an identifier."
Before he could inquire further, Helen's voice once again commanded attention.
"Attention, examinees!"
"Please direct your attention to the marked flags located at the rear of this assembly. Each flag corresponds to a number that has been assigned to you."
Percy's eyes snapped upward.
Across the vast stadium, 600 towering flags waved majestically in the wind, each adorned with a shimmering number.
"It is imperative that you gather at the flag that bears your designated number."
Helen's gaze swept across the crowd.
"This organization will help us manage the large group of participants efficiently and ensure that each of you receives the attention and assessment you deserve."
The examinees immediately set into motion.
Percy turned to Dalton, who was examining his own number.
"Dalton, what number did you get?" Percy inquired.
Dalton lifted his shirt slightly to reveal—
'231.'
A smirk formed on both of their lips.
"Looks like we'll be in this together," Dalton remarked, cracking his knuckles.
Percy chuckled, "Good. I was hoping I'd have some competition."
Without hesitation, Dalton grabbed Percy's wrist, tugging him towards their designated flag.
"Come on, partner—let's show these people what real magic looks like."
"As your Lead Examiner, I will be overseeing all examinations personally."
The entire stadium held its breath.
"However, each of you will be tested separately in smaller groups."
Murmurs rippled through the sea of examinees, some glancing around at their potential rivals.
"My team of skilled judges will be assisting in this process."
She gestured to the figures standing behind her—each a powerhouse in their own right.
Yaroslav Volkov, the Crimson Blade Aethelric, stood with his arms crossed, his piercing gaze scanning the competitors like prey.
Eadmund Kendrick, the Cosmic Sage of the Void, smiled lazily, though his eyes gleamed with deep calculation.
Jessica Eldritch, the Elixirion, Heir of Asclepius, adjusted her quirky glasses, her brilliant green curls bouncing as she observed the field with academic intrigue.
Jared Sathe, standing at the far end, wore his usual self-important smirk, radiating arrogance.
"Rest assured," Helen continued, her tone sharp as steel, "I will be vigilantly observing each exam to guarantee fairness and rigor in the evaluation."
She let that statement linger—a subtle warning to all that there would be no shortcuts.
Helen's golden gaze swept across the examinees, making direct eye contact with several competitors.
"We will commence today's trials with the Magical Duels."
A roar of excitement erupted from the stands, while some examinees tensed, realizing the significance of her words.
Helen's voice remained unwavering.
"Let me outline the stakes clearly for everyone."
The holographic scoreboard above the arena flickered to life, displaying point distributions in glowing golden text.
The top 5 performers in the Magical Duels will be awarded a significant 10,000 points.Those who achieve a ranking within the top 100 will receive 1,000 points.If you fall within the top 300, you will be awarded 500 points.
For those who do not surpass the top 900 mark, you will still receive 100 points for participation.
Helen paused for effect, watching as the reality of these stakes settled into the minds of every aspirant.
"These points are crucial for your overall standing and will be a deciding factor in your admission into this prestigious institution.
It is in your best interest to strive for the highest ranking possible."
A collective gulp echoed through the field.
The competition was already brutal—now it was a war.
A sudden movement from Yaroslav Volkov.
He took a single step forward, the sound of his boots hitting the platform echoing like a drum.
His crimson gaze locked onto the crowd, and when he spoke, it was low and sharp—like a blade being unsheathed.
"A word of advice to those who intend to pass: If you hesitate, you will lose. If you overestimate yourself, you will fall. If you come here expecting mercy…"
A slow, menacing grin formed on his lips.
"…you won't find it."
A shiver ran through the crowd.
Helen smirked, but she didn't stop him.
Eadmund Kendrick, however, chuckled.
"Ahh, come now, Yaroslav," he waved his hand lazily, leaning on his ornate staff. "You'll give them nightmares before they even step into the arena."
Jessica Eldritch adjusted her glasses, rolling her eyes with a huff.
"Honestly, Yaroslav, could you try to be less dramatic?" she chided. "This is an academic institution, not a battlefield."
Yaroslav arched a brow, unimpressed. "We'll see how long they last," he murmured.
Jared Sathe snorted, crossing his arms smugly.
"I suppose it's to be expected that some will fail," he said, sneering slightly. "Not all of these students are worthy."
Helen's golden gaze snapped to him.
"I don't recall asking for your input, Jared."
Jared's smirk faltered.
Helen, satisfied with the silence, continued.
"Once everyone is settled in their designated areas, the judges will provide a detailed briefing on the rules and conduct of the Magical Duels."
Her tone brooked no argument.
"Listen carefully, as these rules are designed to ensure fair and challenging competition for all."
A final gust of wind swept across the arena.
Helen's words cut through the tension like a blade.
"Prepare yourselves.
For today—
You take the first step towards your future at Solarskis University."
A beat of silence.
Then—
BOOOOOOOOM!
The stadium erupted into a thunderous explosion of cheers.
The excitement was palpable.
The tension thick as iron.
And among them, Percy's smirk widened.