CHAPTER 100
BLOODBATH
A girl darted through the towering trees. As she wove between branches, scanning the endless green around her. The forest stretched beyond sight—dense, ancient, and vast—but she was confident the flags wouldn't be hidden too deep.
From her elevated position in the canopy, she had a better view than most. As she hopped gracefully from tree to tree, her mind raced—not with fear, but with analysis. She was thinking about the carefully structured loopholes buried within the trial's rules.
First and most crucial: there was a way to pass even if you lost a match. The flags.
The woman instructor hadn't spelled it out exactly, but the girl had listened closely. She was sure—if you returned with a flag, even after losing once, you still passed. Not just passed. They said it themselves that you gain extra benefits, perhaps a higher ranking, maybe even direct recognition.
That changed everything.
The flag wasn't just a goal. It was a lifeline. A second chance. A cheat code in a trial meant to weed out the weak.
And since only five flags existed… the scramble would be vicious. No one would hand theirs over without blood.
That's why, even if your plaque said eliminated, it might not be over. The flag rewrote their fate.
It was clever, manipulative—psychological warfare at its finest. A way to stir chaos, push conflict, ignite desperation.
But there was another thing.
You could injure someone. Severely. Cripple them, shatter their arm, leave them unconscious in the dirt. That was fine. But if you killed someone—even by accident—no flag, no victory and no loophole would save you.
This is because of the key word, eliminated and disqualified. In the context being used, when she said eliminated, you could interpret that as being eliminated from passing by winning four battles, not from finding a flag. It was a selective form of failure—one path closed, but not all. As long as you hadn't been disqualified, the flag route still remained open.
But disqualified meant something entirely different.
Being disqualified meant being forcibly removed from the trial completely. No second chances. No hidden tricks. No flags, no appeals, no miracles. It was a death sentence for your ambitions—even if you hadn't died. Whether you killed someone intentionally or by mistake, the rules were clear: no matter how many battles you'd won or if you were holding even ten flags, you'd be removed immediately.
This was the fine line the trial had drawn, a line that demanded they walk the edge between brutality and control. A trial designed to test not just strength—but judgment.
She smirked to herself, leaping to a sturdier branch. The instructors hadn't revealed these nuances.
But she was smart enough to see them and even more.
And she wasn't just here to fight. She was here to win.
And winning meant understanding.
There were a few more things she could think of—subtle loopholes, strange edged cases, and many interesting situations that might arise because of the flags. The possibilities were endless.
But after carefully analyzing everything, one truth stood out with absolute clarity: the flags were the true core of this trial, not the four battles.
Yes, the instructors had presented the "four battles" method as if it were pivotal—like it was the standard path everyone was supposed to follow. And for most people, it probably would be.
But the reality was different.
Unlike the flags, the four battles didn't shape the flow of the trial. They didn't change the environment or the psychology. The flags, however, introduced chaos, ambition, and desperation. They were called extra merits, but in truth, they were much more than that.
They were the real game.
The truth was, the "four battles" method sounded fair, but it was a trap. You'd have to fight more than four regardless. People would challenge you to get their wins, and if you refused you would risk being taken down and eliminated yourself. And they hadn't said whether you could lose a battle after winning four and still pass. No one was willing to test that.
It was a gamble no one would take.
She passed another instructor, a silent figure stationed beneath a tree, arms folded, calmly observing the chaos erupting in his designated area. Without breaking stride, she landed lightly on a thick branch a few meters ahead, crouching in the shadow of the leaves. Her gaze locked on the madness unfolding below.
A wide clearing stretched out before her, and right at its center, a massive free-for-all had broken out.
She blinked.
Jeez… some people have no decuroom.
It was pure savagery. A bloodbath, through and through.
People who were supposedly 'geniuses,' the so-called best of the best—were going at it like brainless animals. There was no strategy. Just fists, weapons, screams, and bodies crashing into one another without any care for finesse or reason. For people who were meant to be prodigies, they looked more like headless chickens.
She couldn't help but scoff quietly.
From her perch, the girl calmly lifted her bow and nocked an arrow. They had said "battle," but no one had bothered to define exactly what kind of battle. And that loophole... was a gift. One she would happily accept.
If she struck at the right time, if her aim was true, one well-placed arrow could severely injure a target—enough to take them out of the trial without killing them, securing her a point in the process.
And below her, scattered across the clearing, were at least twenty targets.
All she needed to do was wait... and pick the perfect moment.
She could do a lot of damage here.
....
Fists and swords smashed into one another, joined by axes, spears, daggers, and crudely-forged clubs. Some screamed. And some didn't even realize they were bleeding.
In one brutal clash, a stocky girl wielding two short daggers darted between the trees, her movements sharp and vicious. She lunged at a tall boy armed with a spear. He tried to keep her at bay with wide, sweeping arcs, but she closed the gap, ducked low, and slashed at his thigh. He staggered, jabbing wildly, the point of his weapon grazing her shoulder. Blood spilled, but neither backed down. They clashed again—blades ringing, wood splintering, bodies twisting in a dance of desperation.
Not far from them, a lean, sharp-faced boy with a bandaged hand swung a massive wooden club at a red-haired fighter who held nothing but a cracked shield. The redhead grunted with each impact, barely staying on his feet as the club smashed into his defenses again and again. Then, in a sudden counter, the redhead bashed forward, slamming the edge of his shield into his opponent's ribs with a sickening crunch. The boy with the club fell to one knee, groaning.
In the end, the one with the club collapsed from exhaustion first.
Elsewhere, a girl with wild braids wielded a sickle-like blade, her back to a tree as she fought off a pair of twin brothers armed with matching iron ngulu. One attacked high, the other low, their rhythm coordinated and relentless. She slashed at their weapons, kicked dirt into their eyes, and rolled under their swings. The air rang with the metallic clang of missed strikes and the sharp crack of bone as she clipped one brother's jaw with the hook of her blade. He dropped, clutching his face. The other twin snarled and charged again.
He slammed into her with a shoulder-check, then grappled her to the ground. Her blade were useless at that range. They rolled in the dirt, gasping, biting, elbowing each other. Eventually, he pinned her, using a rock to force her to drop her weapons.
Meanwhile, a giant of a boy with a hammer fashioned from stone bellowed as he slammed his weapon into the ground, sending tremors through the earth. His opponent, a wiry girl with a metal chain wrapped around her forearm, stayed light on her feet. She whipped the chain at his legs, yanking hard to trip him. The hammer-boy stumbled forward, crashing into a tree. She leapt onto his back and started wrapping the chain around his neck, but he roared and threw himself backwards, slamming her against the ground with all his weight.
She didn't get back up.
And on a mossy hill at the edge of a small clearing, two boys circled one another with swords in hand. One with his sword chipped and stained. The other gripped his blade with both hands. Their strikes were clean, controlled, and tense. Sparks flew as metal kissed metal. One slipped, just briefly, and the other slashed at his arm, drawing blood. But they kept going, as if the pain was only fuel.
The blood marking their battlefield.
The forest rang with sounds of chaos. Every corner had its own war, its own struggle, its own desperate clash for survival. No two fights were the same—but they all shared one thing.
No mercy.
There stood two men at the center of the clearing. Their shirts had long since been discarded, their sculpted chests proudly exposed to the gentle caress of the wind. Golden strands fluttered from one, raven black locks from the other. Their names echoed across generations.
"I am Blonde Chesthair, heir to the Chesthair family of the North!" the first man declared, fists clenched at his sides. "Born under the waxing moon and trained beneath the golden sun! My fists have shattered boulders, broken bones, and bruised many an ego! Today, they shall bruise yours as well!"
"And I am Black Chesthaire," the other boomed, his voice thunderous and reverent. "Descendant of the Chesthaire Clan of the East! My knuckles were forged in the cold of night, and my resolve in the heat of endless battles! Brother… it is only fitting we test our might. With honor, with pride… and with chest hair swaying freely."
They bowed, solemnly.
"Brother Blonde."
"Brother Black."
A pause.
Then—
"FIST OF THE RIGHTEOUS HAWK!" Blonde Chesthair roared, leaping forward with an arcing swing that whistled through the air like a divine spear.
Black Chesthaire stepped aside, calm. His arms moved in a blur, deflecting the blow with a motion as graceful as it was calculated.
"PALM OF THE FALLEN LEAF!" he countered, sweeping his palm in a gentle arc that brushed against Blonde's shoulder with deceptive force, sending him staggering three steps back.
"Impressive," Blonde Chesthair whispered, wiping the corner of his lip with the back of his hand. "You've improved, brother."
They circled.
"PREPARE YOURSELF!" Blonde Chesthair shouted. "For now I unleash... the THUNDEROUS DOUBLE KNUCKLE COMET STRIKE!"
He lunged, both fists spinning, a blur of motion. Dirt exploded beneath his feet as he struck with the weight of a mountain behind him.
Black Chesthaire grunted. The fists hit—but only air.
He had already moved.
"You are fast," Blonde Chesthair murmured, breath labored. "But I… I still have one more move…"
His eyes gleamed.
"HEAVEN-SHATTERING CHEST SLAP!"
With both hands, he launched forward—not with fists, but a devastating, twin-handed slap aimed directly at Black Chesthaire's chest.
The sound echoed like thunder.
But when the dust cleared… Black Chesthaire stood firm.
His eyes narrowed. "It is my turn."
He took a deep breath.
And with the deepest voice he could muster, he shouted:
"FORBIDDEN TECHNIQUE… GENTLE TAP OF THE FORGOTTEN MONK!"
He tapped Blonde Chesthair once. On the forehead.
Blonde Chesthair collapsed.
Flat on his back. Eyes wide. A single leaf drifted down onto his chest.
Silence.
Then Black Chesthaire stepped forward. Kneeling beside his brother-in-honor.
He placed a firm hand on his comrade's shoulder.
"It is with my deepest regret… brother," he said solemnly, "that I must claim victory this day."
Blonde Chesthair coughed, spitting blood theatrically to the side, even though he wasn't actually hurt.
"…Truly… your fists… are like the dragons themselves," he whispered.
Black Chesthaire nodded.
"As are your slaps, brother. As are your slaps."
The wind blew gently.
Their chest hair rippled like ancient banners.
A mutual respect was formed that day.
One that would live on in legend.
....
In the shadow of a tree, her fingers held steady against the string of her bow. Eyes like sharpened glass focused on Black Chesthaire's exposed back as he stood triumphantly over his fallen brother-in-honor.
Her breathing was calm.
This was her chance.
She had waited through the whole ridiculous duel, watching from the grass like a panther ready to pounce. She pulled the string just a little tighter, the arrow aimed perfectly just below the base of his neck.
And then—
The arrow flew....
It didn't hit Blonde Chesthair, who lay shirtless and groaning in defeat on the grass.
Nor did it strike the victorious Black Chesthaire, who now stood with both arms raised to the sky like a martial god.
Because the arrow wasn't her's.
Instead...
It hit her.
The girl aiming the bow gasped, her entire body jolting as the arrow sank deep into her thigh. She fell backward with a cry of pain, her bow slipping from her hand as she clutched the wound as she landed in the grass.
"Shit—what the fuck—" she hissed, trying to pull herself up, only to freeze.
The arrow was poisoned.
The veins around the injury began to darken, her breath growing shallow.
And far across the battlefield, half-hidden in the tall grass, another woman smiled.
She whispered under her breath, "The thing about predators… is that they never know when they're being hunted."
Because that's when they were weakest—
Just when they thought they were about to attack their prey.
That's when they let their guard down.
That's when they became prey.
The bloodbath continued.
....
Six hours later…
The sun had dipped toward the horizon, bathing the forest in the deep orange of early evening.
And in that brutal, shifting hellscape of ambushes, traps, and twists... the final results were tallied.
Of the five coveted flags scattered across the trial zone, only four had been found.
Only four people had managed to claim them. They had fought hard for it and they definitely earned themselves the so called extra benefits.
But they weren't the only ones who passed.
An additional 200 applicants—bloodied, exhausted, and on the edge of collapse—would pass alongside them.
Because it turned out, winning four fights didn't guarantee survival.
Losing even once after that was still enough to get you eliminated.
That single rule had destroyed hundreds of confident applicants, especially those who assumed they could coast to the finish. Many had been eliminated in the final flag scramble, torn down in the chaos.
In the end, from the sea of the hopefuls who had entered—
From millions…
Only 204 remained.
But even now… it wasn't over.
Because there was one more potential student left...