"Tier and skill."
Riven replied. "Tier 8. Skill: Continuous Growth. D-Rank."
Her pen paused mid-stroke, and one eyebrow lifted. "Continuous Growth? …That's rare, but not exactly… combat-oriented."
Riven gave a faint shrug. "It works for me."
Her gaze lingered for a second longer before she turned to Arixa. "And you?"
"Tier 8. Poison Mist. D-Rank."
Sarinne's pen scratched across the paper again, though Riven noticed the slight way her lips pressed together. "Poison abilities have a high fatality rate in close combat. Just make sure you keep that in mind during your evaluation."
"I will," Arixa said politely, her voice smooth as glass.
Riven's Hive link pulsed with her amusement.
"She underestimates me."
"Let her," Riven replied silently. "The less they expect, the easier this is."
Sarinne glanced between the two of them. "Alright. You'll need to head to the testing wing for your combat capability assessment. Passing will determine your entry rank and the kind of contracts you can take."
She slid two stamped slips across the counter. "Take these to the proctor at Station Three. And… good luck."
Riven picked up the slip, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Thanks."
As they turned away from the counter, Arixa matched his stride perfectly, her expression as calm as ever—but Riven could feel through the Hive link that she was already evaluating every Esper in the hall.
Wondering they would make a good meal for her father.
The testing wing was set apart from the main guild hall by a wide corridor lined with mana-infused glass panels. Behind them, Riven caught glimpses of training arenas, weapon lockers, and sparring pits where hunters tested their gear against summoned constructs.
Station Three was toward the end—a reinforced chamber with a high ceiling, rune-inscribed walls, and a viewing gallery above. A handful of new applicants were already gathered near the waiting bench.
Most of them glanced up briefly when Riven and Arixa entered.
A broad-shouldered man in plated leather gave Riven's neat clothes a slow once-over before smirking and leaning toward his friend. "Another civvie thinking he can play hunter."
His friend chuckled. "Bet he won't even last past the agility test."
Riven ignored them.
The proctor, a middle-aged man with sandy hair and a mechanical brace running from his jaw to his collarbone, stepped forward. "Welcome applicants. You two together?"
"Yes," Riven said flatly.
The proctor nodded once, scanning the stamped slips Sarinne had given them. "Tier 8, Continuous Growth, D-Rank. And Tier 8, Poison Mist, D-Rank." He looked up at them with the faintest trace of curiosity. "Alright. You'll be running the full assessment—physical, skill application, and combat scenario. Pass the minimum threshold, and you'll be issued your provisional licenses."
Arixa tilted her head. "And if we exceed it?"
"Then," the proctor said with a thin smile, "you'll be ranked higher—and you'll get better contracts right from the start."
The proctor's thin smile widened a fraction.
"Combat capability assessment is live-fire. We'll be throwing you in against constructs calibrated to your tier — lethal potential dialed down, but still enough to put you in traction if you screw up."
He turned, gesturing toward a reinforced gate at the far side of the chamber. The clang of machinery echoed as the doors slid apart, revealing a wide arena of cracked stone and jagged mana-spikes jutting from the floor.
A faint haze of suppressive mana filled the air — enough to dull regeneration and slow skill spam.
"You'll be fighting together," the proctor said. "Team coordination counts. Constructs adapt. They'll start basic… then escalate."
Riven stepped forward, Arixa matching his stride.
The gate sealed shut behind them with a heavy clang.
The arena stretched wide, ringed by jagged mana-spikes that pulsed faintly under the haze of suppressive energy hanging in the air. The weight of it pressed down immediately—not crushing, but enough to make every movement feel sluggish, like running waist-deep in water.
From the gallery above, the proctor's voice boomed through a rune-amplified speaker.
"Assessment begins in five… four… three…"
Riven's eyes flicked toward a weapon rack along the far wall. His instincts screamed that walking in barehanded wouldn't be a good look for him.
"…two… one. Begin."
The ground split open with a sharp crack as three constructs rose from the fractured stone—black, angular forms twice his height, cleaver-like arms gleaming with blue mana veins that pulsed in time with the arena's spikes.
Riven dashed to the rack, taking a look at the weapons before grabbing the first one his hand closed around—a short spear. It felt… strange. Lighter than he'd expected. Balanced, maybe, but alien in his grip. He wasn't sure which hand should be forward, so he just settled on what "looked right" from the few fights he'd watched.
The first construct lunged at him, cleaver raised.
"Father—left!" Arixa's voice cut sharply through the Hive link.
He obeyed instantly, stumbling into a sidestep as the cleaver slammed down where his shoulder had been. The jarring sound made his grip tighten on the spear, though he wasn't entirely sure what to do with it next.
Before he could figure it out, Arixa blurred past him. Her fist smashed into the construct's chest crystal with bone-cracking force, spiderwebbing it instantly. In the same breath, green mist hissed from her other hand, curling around its torso. The black plating pitted and corroded where the poison touched, molten holes forming in seconds. She wrenched the crystal free with her bare hand, letting the body collapse into dust.
"Stay behind me, Father." Her voice was calm, but there was a subtle, dangerous edge to it.
The second construct turned toward him. Riven raised the spear awkwardly, trying to copy the stance of city guards. His jab was clumsy and lacked power, but the point skidded along one of the mana veins in its arm, making it spasm. He didn't think—just shoved the spear forward again, the point grinding against the crystal until it cracked. It wasn't clean, but the construct's light dimmed and it dissolved into motes.
The third construct charged Arixa.
"Don't touch him," she hissed—not to Riven, but to the construct itself. She met its charge head-on, catching its cleaver-arm with one hand before driving a knee into its chest crystal hard enough to send a tremor through the arena floor. Her free hand released a dense cloud of poison directly into its face. The creature's body sagged, armor melting inward until it crumbled into steaming fragments.
Above them, the proctor's voice came again, tinged with surprise.
"Combat assessment… passed."
The haze in the arena began to fade.
Arixa didn't lower her guard until the last mote of light vanished. Only then did she glance back at him, her tone almost chiding through the Hive link.
Father… you're holding that wrong.
Riven exhaled, loosening his grip on the spear.
"Figured as much."