At the front entrance of the training hall, three figures arrived almost at the same time.
Mirel Virelle of the Wolf Breed team—tall, broad-shouldered, her sleeveless jacket fluttering slightly as she walked with purposeful strides. Her eyes were sharp, and her tone sharper.
Dren Malrick of Thief's Son—lean, cocky, his hands in his pockets, wearing his usual smirk like a badge of honor. His boots tapped out a lazy rhythm as he sauntered toward the door.
Elunai Maris of Falling Feather—graceful, silent, her long purple hair flowing like a shadow behind her. Her calm expression masked the tension she carried beneath it.
As Dren approached the door, Mirel crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him.
"What are you doing here, cocky face?" she asked flatly.
Dren snorted. "Oh, look who's talking. Thought I smelled something stuck-up in the air."
"Careful," Mirel said, stepping closer. "Your mouth's writing checks your body can't cash."
"Oh please," Dren rolled his eyes. "You're just mad I didn't let you win last time we sparred. Want a rematch, she-beast?"
"Gladly," she said, her fists tightening. "This time I won't hold back."
They closed the distance between them in seconds, the tension crackling like lightning. It wasn't just posturing anymore—neither of them looked ready to back down. The insults had lit something real.
Dren's smirk vanished. Mirel's eyes sharpened.
But just before the clash—
"Enough," Elunai's voice cut through the air like a blade of wind. Her tone was soft, but it carried a weight that made both of them freeze.
She stepped between them, her eyes calm but firm. "We're not here to throw fists at each other. Something's wrong."
Mirel's jaw tightened. Dren huffed but said nothing.
Elunai continued, "Why are you here, both of you?"
Mirel folded her arms again, stepping back slightly. "Jack didn't return. I sent someone to check on him. They didn't come back either. Same thing happened twice more. So I came myself."
Dren nodded slowly, scratching the back of his neck. "Same for me. Sent Aaron first.
Then another.
Then another. None of them came back.
Thought maybe someone was playing a joke."
"I thought it was just Sophie being herself again," Elunai said quietly. "But then… no one I sent returned either."
A heavy silence followed as realization dawned on them.
One by one, they had each sent their people into the same place.
And none had come back.
Their eyes drifted toward the reinforced door to the training hall. A cold chill ran through them, subtle but insistent.
"That's the last place they were seen," Mirel muttered.
"Something's off," Elunai said, her expression unreadable.
"Let's find out what," Dren added, his cocky tone dulled by a faint unease.
They pushed open the door and stepped into the training hall.
What they saw froze them in place.
Fifteen figures—exactly—stood in rows across the training hall. Members of all three teams. Each one silent. Each standing straight-backed, shoulders squared, as if caught in mid-salute or awaiting orders from a commanding officer.
But their eyes told a different story.
They weren't calm.
They were terrified.
Their gazes snapped to their respective team leaders—Mirel, Dren, and Elunai—pleading silently for help.
Some were bruised. Others pale, trembling slightly. But none dared move.
It wasn't out of discipline.It was out of fear.
Then, as the three leaders stepped deeper into the room, they felt it.
An oppressive presence pressed down on them like a storm front rolling in—heavy, dangerous, alive.
It was as if they had walked straight into the den of a monster. Not one raging or snarling, but one lying in wait—calm, still, absolutely certain of its power.
Their eyes instinctively moved toward the source.
A young man in a black tracksuit stood at the center of it all.
Simon.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. But his presence was crushing—coiled and ready, the silence before a supernova.
Their instincts screamed at them.
Even Mirel, tough as stone, took a small step back without realizing it. Elunai's breath caught in her throat. Dren's smirk twitched, trying to stay on his face but failing as cold sweat formed along his brow.
Then Simon's eyes met theirs.
No rage. No smugness.
Just cold focus.
And in that moment, all three felt the same chill tear down their spines.
Then, finally, Simon spoke.
"Make space."
The words were quiet. But they carried weight—like the shifting of tectonic plates.
Immediately, the fifteen team members moved to the sides of the hall, forming a wide, open area in the middle of the room. They didn't hesitate. They didn't ask questions. They obeyed—like soldiers under a general, or prey avoiding a predator's path.
Simon stepped forward into the open space, his movements unhurried, calm. He turned to face the three team leaders, then slowly lifted his hand—and gestured.
A silent invitation.
No—a challenge.
He didn't need words to say it. The meaning was clear:
Come. All of you.
He was calling them out.
Questioning their authority.
Daring them to test his.
To Mirel, it was a direct attack on her pride. To Dren, it was a slap in the face of his ego. Even Elunai, calm and measured, felt her pride stir beneath her cool exterior.
He was taunting them.
He was declaring war.
The three leaders exchanged glances—first with each other, then back at Simon.
They didn't need to speak.
This was a battlefield.
And the lines had just been drawn.
The taunt had worked.
Simon could see it in their eyes—Mirel's pride flaring like a fuse, Dren's smirk sharpening with challenge, Elunai's calm focus shifting to something colder, more deliberate.
They were ready.
Good, Simon thought, muscles coiled beneath his track suit like a panther waiting to pounce. Now show me what you can really do.
This wasn't just about dominance anymore.
This was reconnaissance through combat—learning their true strength by testing it himself.
Because files meant nothing in the field the knowledge they gave theorical, not real thing.
And words couldn't bleed.
Mirel moved first.
She dropped into a low, animalistic stance—one that screamed predator rather than human. A sickening crack rang out as long, obsidian-black claws burst from her knuckles, curved like scythes, gleaming with lethal intent.
Her bone manipulation in full display.
But these weren't just any bones.
Dragon bone. Near unbreakable. Engineered for killing.
She snarled and charged.
At the same time, Elunai raised her hands, and her long purple hair began to slither and move like living serpents. The strands fanned out, growing longer, multiplying, reaching like a web across the training hall to control the field.
To bind, entangle, constrict.
Across the room, Dren finally lost the last of his playfulness. He pulled a single arrow from the magical quiver on his back—and immediately, another arrow took its place. His ability, Duplicate, let him endlessly reproduce anything he held.
His bow gleamed. The first arrow was already notched.
All three moved at once.
Three leaders. Three deadly talents. One shared goal: take down Simon.