The Namil Arena throbbed with the aftermath of an epic struggle. The air, thick with dust and the tang of ozone, shimmered under the harsh lights. For what felt like an eternity, Adam and his group, alongside the remaining, battered applicants, had fought with every fiber of their being. The roar of the crowd had become a ceaseless thrum, a backdrop to the brutal dance of elimination.
The numbers had dwindled mercilessly. From thirty, the arena floor had become a landscape of groaning, incapacitated forms and disarmed combatants. Each "DING!!" of elimination, initially a jarring shock, had become a grim, relentless march towards the inevitable.
Adam, his face streaked with sweat and grime, wielded his meta pistols with a weary precision. He fired, not to harm, but to stun, to disarm, to create crucial openings or to force opponents out of the designated circle. His shoulders ached, his arms felt like lead, but his resolve remained unbroken.
Panchenko was a force of nature, a living battering ram. He'd absorbed blows that would have felled lesser beings, his spear sweeping through opponents with powerful, disarming thrusts and parries. He was bruised, his clothes torn, but his eyes burned with a primal defiance.
Julian moved like a weary phantom, his sword a silver blur. He engaged, disarmed, and disengaged with a practiced grace, conserving every ounce of energy. Astrid was a whisper in the chaos, her daggers flashing, striking with surgical precision to disable opponents before melting back into the swirling melee.
Tom, though he couldn't inflict much damage himself, proved invaluable. His keen eyes tracked the flow of battle, calling out incoming attacks, identifying weak points, or warning of applicants attempting to flank them. He dodged, he weaved, he survived, a testament to his agility and analytical mind.
And Edward. Edward was simply an immovable object. He rarely initiated an attack, but when an opponent, foolhardy or desperate, dared to challenge him, they found themselves effortlessly disarmed, subtly incapacitated, or simply guided out of the circle with a minimum of effort. His very presence was a deterrent, a silent force field.
They moved as a single, coordinated entity, a testament to the brutal bonds forged in Kazakhar and refined through the Adventurers' Guild trials. They covered each other's backs, anticipated each other's moves, and fought not as individuals, but as an unbreakable unit. Their strategy of conserving energy, picking their fights, and focusing on disabling rather than outright aggression proved superior to the more frantic approaches of others.
The final moments of the brawl were a desperate flurry. Only a handful of applicants remained, each a formidable warrior, fighting with the last vestiges of their strength. Adam found himself facing a particularly agile opponent, his meta pistols spitting rapid bursts to keep the foe at bay.
Panchenko was locked in a brutal exchange with a towering brute, their grunts echoing across the arena. Julian and Astrid moved as one, disarming a skilled martial artist.
Then, just as Adam was preparing to force his opponent out of bounds, a deep, resonant bell chime echoed through the Namil Arena, clear and unmistakable, cutting through the din of combat.
The fights instantly ceased. Every remaining combatant froze, their weapons lowered, their bodies heaving, their eyes wide with anticipation.
The Guild official's amplified voice boomed, "The Fourth Adventurer's Exam has concluded! Ten applicants remain!"
The crowd, which had been a constant roar throughout the brawl, erupted into a thunderous, celebratory wave of sound.
They stamped their feet, cheered, and whistled, their appreciation for the brutal spectacle palpable. Adam's group had prevailed. They looked at each other, their faces bruised and battered, but their eyes shining with an exhausted, profound triumph.
Fitzgerald, his imposing figure moving with a calm, almost leisurely pace, descended from the elevated platform and walked towards the center of the battle-scarred circle. He surveyed the scene, his yellow eyes sweeping over the fallen and the victorious, his expression unreadable.
He stopped in the center, directly before the ten standing applicants. Their bodies were aching, their breathing ragged, but they stood tall, a testament to their unyielding will.
"Congratulations," Fitzgerald's voice, amplified throughout the arena, resonated with quiet power. "To those of you still standing, you have proven your strength.
Your resilience. Your unwavering will to prevail against overwhelming odds."
He paused, letting his gaze fall upon each of the ten. "You have faced each other, you have pushed your limits, and you have emerged as the strongest. You have passed the Fourth Adventurer's Exam."
The crowd roared again, a wave of approval washing over the triumphant few.
Fitzgerald then began the roll call, his voice clear and resonant.
"The ten successful applicants are:"
"Adam Ashbourne, from the Yandhaq Empire!"
Adam felt a surge of pride, a quiet acknowledgment of his journey.
"Panchenko, from Kabata!"
Panchenko, despite his battered state, puffed out his chest, a weary but triumphant grin on his face.
"Astrid, from the Otrulia Empire!"
Astrid gave a small, confident nod, her daggers still clutched in her hands.
"Tom, from the Yandhaq Empire!"
Tom, surprisingly, managed a weak but genuine smile, a mix of relief and pride in his eyes.
"Edward Bloodrose, from the Mycia Kingdom!"
Edward, his crimson eyes gleaming, simply nodded, his presence a silent acknowledgment of his ancient power.
Adam glanced at the other four, assessing them even in this moment of shared triumph.
First, a tall lady with blonde hair and striking blue eyes, her lithe yet powerful build evident even through her torn fighting gear.
Her movements during the brawl had been swift and precise, like a dancer. Fitzgerald called her name: "Ronda."
Next, a tall, burly man with long black hair and dark brown eyes. He had been a juggernaut in the brawl, wielding a massive, two-handed greatsword with surprising speed for its size. He radiated raw, untamed power. Fitzgerald named him: "Roman."
Then, a short, masked man with assassin-like features. He had moved like a shadow, striking from unexpected angles, his movements almost liquid. His weapon had been a blur of steel. Fitzgerald announced: "Mysterio."
Finally, a petite woman with long black hair and chinky black eyes. Despite her small stature, she had moved with incredible speed and surprising force, often weaving through larger opponents to deliver sharp, focused blows. She seemed to be a master of martial arts. Fitzgerald introduced her: "Mei Jing."
Fitzgerald waited for the final cheers to subside before continuing. "Congratulations again, to the ten of you. You have truly distinguished yourselves."
He then delivered the final, crucial piece of information. "You have earned a slightly longer respite. The Last Exam will be held three days from now, at 0800 hours, in this very arena. It will be overseen by Twain. He will brief you on its specifics then. For now, you are dismissed. Go home, celebrate your victory, and prepare for the ultimate test. Good luck."
With a final, imperious nod, Fitzgerald turned and began to ascend back to the oversight platform, leaving the ten survivors in the center of the arena, bathed in the roar of the admiring crowd.
The ten slowly made their way out of the arena, into a dedicated recovery area where Guild medics offered immediate, basic care.
Their injuries were mostly superficial – bruises, scrapes, minor cuts – testament to the non-lethal nature of the exam, but their bodies screamed with fatigue.
Adam and his group clustered together, a quiet sense of victory settling over them. They had done it. All six of them were among the final ten.
"We made it," Panchenko gasped, allowing a medic to wrap a bandage around his bruised forearm. "All of us."
"An incredible feat, Panchenko," Julian said, his voice tinged with genuine pride. "To maintain our cohesion against such overwhelming numbers… it was key."
Astrid grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Who knew Fitzgerald's exam would be a team-building exercise? Six of us against the world, eh?"
Tom, despite a black eye, managed to pull out his data-pad. "Only four other individuals. This final test will be… something else entirely."
Edward, his crimson eyes observing the other four survivors, spoke then. "Ronda. Roman. Mysterio. Mei Jing. Each formidable in their own right. They too possess exceptional strength and skill to have endured this trial alone or in smaller, less cohesive units."
Adam looked at his team, then at the other four, a mix of awe and renewed determination in his eyes. They were the best. The cream of the crop. And only four more would fail.
"Twain," Adam murmured, his mind already shifting gears. "What do we know about him?"
Julian's brow furrowed. "Twain is often described as the most… unpredictable of the Guild Overseers. His exams rarely follow conventional patterns. He is known for tests of cunning, deception, and moral choice. The 'trickster' of the Guild."
"Moral choice?" Panchenko gulped. "That sounds worse than all the fighting and climbing combined."
Astrid frowned. "It could be anything. A puzzle that tests our character? A trap that forces us to choose between self-preservation and helping others?"
"It will be psychological," Tom confirmed, "and likely demands a complete shift in our approach. All our physical prowess might mean nothing if we can't solve his riddles."
Edward's gaze became distant, almost ancient. "Twain's tests are never direct. They are designed to expose the inner workings of your soul, your true nature under duress.
He seeks not merely a warrior, but a being of profound ethical conviction, capable of discerning truth from illusion, and making impossible choices."
Adam nodded, the weight of the final exam settling heavily upon him. This wasn't just about becoming an Adventurer anymore. It was about proving something fundamental about themselves.
"Three days," Adam said, his voice firm. "We need to recover fully. And then, we need to think. Deeply. About every possible angle Twain could take. We can't rely on brute force or speed for this one. We need to outthink him."
They left the Arena, the cheers of the crowd still echoing in their ears. The path back to their cabin was quiet, their conversation now centered on the enigma of Twain and the final, ultimate test. They had prevailed against strength, but the next exam promised to be a battle of wits, and perhaps, of the soul itself. The journey to become Adventurers, was culminating in a challenge unlike any they had faced before.