The roar of the crowd in the Namil Arena was a physical entity, a deafening wave that crashed over Adam and the other applicants as they stepped onto the circular battleground. The bright lights overhead turned the arena floor into a gleaming, almost sacred space for combat. Around them, the remaining ninety-nine applicants, a collection of seasoned warriors, agile rogues, hulking brutes, and cunning strategists, eyed each other with a mixture of predatory intent and wary caution.
Fitzgerald's amplified voice boomed one last time: "Only ten will prevail. Good luck, applicants!"
Then, a sudden, piercing bell chime signaled the start of the Fourth Exam.
The arena erupted. There was no gentle beginning, no polite sparring. The moment the chime faded, the hundred applicants became a whirlwind of motion, a chaotic maelstrom of steel, energy, and raw power.
Adam didn't hesitate. "Gather around! Form up!" he roared, his voice cutting through the initial cacophony.
Immediately, Adam and the others gathered around each other, forming a tight, defensive circle. Adam, with his two meta pistols raised, covered one arc. Panchenko, his massive spear held defensively, stood beside him, ready to sweep aside multiple opponents. Julian, sword at the ready, watched another flank, his movements fluid. Astrid, daggers glinting, covered the rear, her eyes darting, assessing threats. Tom, surprisingly, positioned himself slightly behind Panchenko, his smaller frame offering less of a target, his eyes constantly scanning, identifying immediate dangers and potential openings. Edward, a silent, unyielding bulwark, stood at the front, his crimson eyes glowing faintly, an aura of ancient power radiating from him.
Their formation was immediate, almost instinctive, a testament to their time in Kazakhar. It stood in stark contrast to the initial, chaotic free-for-all erupting around them.
The first wave of attacks crashed against them. Two burly applicants, wielding heavy bludgeons, charged Panchenko. He met them head-on, his spear sweeping in a wide arc, forcing them to jump back. As they recovered, Julian darted forward, a blur of motion, landing a quick, non-lethal strike to the elbow of one, making him drop his weapon with a yelp of pain. The applicant, temporarily disarmed, stumbled back, out of the immediate fight.
Meanwhile, Adam's pistols hissed, spitting focused energy blasts. He aimed not to injure, but to disarm or incapacitate, targeting weapons, legs, or arms with precision. An agile, quick opponent, attempting to flank them, found their path blocked by a sizzling energy bolt that forced them to halt, giving Astrid an opening to land a light, disabling tap.
Edward was a silent force, his movements deceptively simple. When an opponent lunged, he would parry with a forearm, block with a subtle shift of his body, or simply deflect with a precise, minimal movement that sent the attacker sprawling without apparent effort. He seemed less to fight than to deflect the storm. His presence alone made attackers hesitate.
The arena was a blur of motion, a cacophony of shouts, grunts, and the clash of weapons. Other applicants, realizing the folly of isolated combat, also began to form their own groups. Small, temporary alliances formed, then shattered under the relentless pressure. Some groups focused on overwhelming single targets. Others attempted hit-and-run tactics.
Adam's group, however, held firm. Their coordinated defense was incredibly effective. They moved as a single unit, their individual skills complementing each other perfectly. Panchenko formed their immovable front, absorbing and deflecting frontal assaults. Julian and Astrid were their fluid flankers, darting out to strike, then retreating back into the safety of the formation. Adam provided ranged support, stunning and disarming. Tom acted as their eyes, constantly calling out threats and opportunities. And Edward was their ultimate safeguard, an unbreachable wall.
"DING!! Another applicant eliminated!" The amplified voice of the Guild official boomed periodically, a stark reminder of the dwindling numbers. Each chime sent a shiver through the remaining combatants, raising the stakes.
The fights were brutal, yet controlled. Non-lethal meant powerful, disabling blows. Bodies were sent flying, weapons shattered, and the arena floor became a chaotic tapestry of bruised and battered forms.
A group of three, wielding axes, tried to break their formation. Panchenko met them with a powerful sweep of his spear, forcing two back. The third, a cunning brute, lunged for Astrid. But Julian was there, a flash of steel, blocking the attack and forcing the brute into a desperate retreat. Adam, seeing the opening, landed a precise, stunning shot to the retreating opponent's leg, sending him sprawling out of the fight.
Another opponent, a quick-footed martial artist, tried to slip between Edward and Adam. Edward simply shifted his weight, his arm moving with deceptive slowness, and the martial artist found himself gently, yet firmly, guided out of the circle, his feet touching the ground outside the boundary line. "DING!! Another applicant eliminated!"
Minutes stretched into an eternity. The initial chaos slowly gave way to a grinding war of attrition. The arena floor was now littered with fallen applicants, those who had been knocked out or pushed out of the circle. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, ozone from energy weapons, and a faint metallic tang.
The loud, enthusiastic cheers from the crowd was roaring, their excitement growing with each elimination. They were clearly amused by the fights as it continues, their hunger for spectacle seemingly insatiable. The raw display of power, skill, and endurance was a gripping show.
"DING!! Another applicant eliminated!"
"DING!! Another applicant eliminated!"
The chimes became more frequent as the numbers dwindled. The pace of the eliminations quickened as the remaining applicants, battered and bruised, began to fight with increasing desperation.
Adam's group continued their relentless defense, their movements becoming more economical as fatigue set in. Adam's meta pistols hissed with less frequency, each shot carefully chosen. Panchenko's sweeps were still powerful, but his breathing was ragged.
Julian's sword work remained precise, but his movements were less fluid. Astrid, while still agile, conserved her energy, striking only when absolutely necessary. Tom, though bruised, continued his crucial role as observer, calling out threats. Edward, ever the anchor, simply endured, his calm presence a constant, reassuring force.
Finally, a particularly loud, prolonged chime echoed through the arena. The Guild official's voice boomed: "Current number of active applicants: Thirty!"
A collective gasp from the crowd, followed by an even louder roar. The fight had been brutal, swift, and devastating. From a hundred to only thirty standing.
Adam looked around. The arena was a wreck. Some of the remaining thirty were visibly limping, their faces bruised, their clothes torn. Weapons lay scattered. But despite the clear signs of exhaustion and injury, they all stood, eyes narrowed, ready for the next phase of this brutal elimination.
Adam's group, though battered, was still largely cohesive. Panchenko had a nasty bruise forming on his jaw, but he still stood like a rock. Julian had a cut on his arm, and Astrid's hair was disheveled, but both were ready. Tom was limping slightly, but his gaze remained sharp. Adam's shoulders ached from wielding his pistols, but they felt like extensions of his will. Edward, of course, showed almost no outward signs of fatigue, merely a quiet intensity in his crimson eyes.
The remaining twenty-four applicants, a mixture of groups and hardened individuals, stared at each other, sizing up the remaining competition. The next eliminations would be even more brutal.
--Monitor Room - Adventurers' Guild Headquarters--
High above the roaring Namil Arena, in a secluded, glass-paneled monitoring station, Chairman Shakespeare sat observing the live feed of the brawl. Beside him stood Nietzsche and Fyodor, their expressions intent, absorbing every nuance of the combat below.
Shakespeare, his hands steepled under his chin, had been watching the early chaos with a critical eye, dismissing most of the initial charges as unrefined aggression. But his gaze had quickly settled on a particular group.
"Nietzsche, Fyodor," Shakespeare mused, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble, "tell me, what do you observe down there?"
Nietzsche, ever concise, responded, "Initial chaos. Lack of cohesion. Predictable tactics by many."
Fyodor, his expression serene, added, "However, patterns are beginning to emerge. Strategic thinking is now taking precedence over pure aggression."
Shakespeare nodded, then gestured to a specific quadrant on the main screen, which showed Adam's group, their coordinated defense still largely intact. "I saw the group of Adam," he stated, a rare, amused glint in his eye. "Their coordinated attacks and defense. It is highly effective.
Nietzsche's gaze narrowed slightly, a flicker of approval in his usually stern eyes.
"Indeed, Chairman. Their synergy is remarkable. The cohesion born of shared trials, perhaps. The vampiric companion acts as a powerful anchor, a deterrent and a bulwark. The strategist provides invaluable real-time analysis."
Fyodor smiled faintly. "Their adherence to principle, even in a chaotic brawl, is noteworthy. They prioritize mutual protection, which is often rare in such self-serving contests. It speaks to a deeper bond."
Shakespeare leaned forward slightly, his amusement growing. "I am amused by this display. They are not merely fighting. They are moving with a purpose, almost dancing through the chaos. They are not simply strong, but strategically strong. A fascinating development."
Nietzsche gave a rare, almost imperceptible nod. "Their understanding of the challenge goes beyond brute force. They adapt. They learn. They survive."
"Indeed," Fyodor agreed. "They embody the very essence of what an adventurer should be: resilient, adaptable, and capable of operating as a cohesive unit under extreme pressure. They demonstrate foresight, not just reaction."
Shakespeare leaned back, his gaze still fixed on Adam's group, now surrounded by the remaining twenty-four, the arena a tense, charged crucible. "Let us see if their coordinated strength can carry them through the final stage of this elimination.
Only ten, after all, will remain."
The roar of the crowd below continued, a hungry beast awaiting the final, decisive battles. The fate of the thirty, and the dreams of the remaining few, hung in the balance.