The weather was warm, and the sky stretched clear and blue above their heads.
Hercules flashed a grin, his gaze locking onto Kael with predatory sharpness. His deep, rumbling voice rolled out like distant thunder.
"See you in the ring."
At the center of the training ground, a thick rope—roughly ten meters across—was laid out in a perfect circle, forming the makeshift arena. The rules were simple: defeat your opponent, or throw them out of the ring.
They called it a fair match.
But Kael knew better.
If fairness truly existed in this place, his opponent would at least be close to his height or build. Instead, he stood against a man like Hercules—bigger, stronger, and oozing confidence. And Kael wasn't the only one thrown into such a mismatch; the other skinny recruits faced the same cruel setup.
The crowd began to gather, murmurs rising like waves as the air thickened with tension. The excitement, the pressure—it was enough to rattle anyone.
Anyone, except Kael.
Soon, the names would be called. One by one, they would step into that circle—and the real battle would begin.
Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed across the grounds. "Our first round—Dorman vs. Neil!" he declared, brimming with excitement.
Dorman stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered, a confident smirk tugging at his lips. Across from him stood Neil—thin, quiet, and calm, his expression unreadable.
A referee raised his hand between them.
"Begin!"
Dorman lunged instantly, staff in hand, launching a barrage of furious strikes.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Neil tried to block, but each blow pushed him further back. The moment he lost his balance, Dorman surged forward, slamming into him with a shoulder tackle—sending him tumbling out of the ring.
The match ended as fast as it began.
The crowd erupted in cheers, thrilled by the display of raw power.
While others enjoyed the spectacle, Kael's eyes remained sharp, observing every detail. There were around thirty men built like Dorman—strong, muscular, and full of confidence. The other thirty were of average build, with a few skinny ones like him mixed in.
It didn't take a genius to see the pattern.
This wasn't a fair contest. It was a test rigged from the start.
One after another, the stronger men crushed their opponents, while the weaker ones were beaten or thrown aside. A few gave up mid-fight, stepping out of the ring in shame—faces pale with humiliation.
Time passed, and at last, the moment arrived.
"Kael vs. Hercules!" the announcer's voice thundered across the arena.
Both fighters stepped slowly into the ring. It was the final match of the second trial — the battle that would decide the thirtieth and final winner among the sixty participants. Each of them gripped a quarterstaff, their footsteps echoing as they met at the center.
The referee raised his hand and shouted, "Begin!"
Hercules charged instantly, wasting not a single heartbeat. Their staves clashed again and again, each strike ringing through the air. Kael immediately felt the crushing difference in strength between them—Hercules's blows were like hammers pounding steel.
Then Hercules came again with the same pattern, but this time Kael anticipated it. With a sharp parry, he deflected the strike and slammed his staff into Hercules' shin, the impact ringing sharply through the air.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Kael had landed the first hit.
Hercules turned slowly, his eyes glinting with dangerous intent, as if that blow had done nothing at all.
"The real battle starts now," he growled.
They began circling each other, step by step, their movements taut with tension. Kael's eyes never wavered—calm, sharp, unreadable. Hercules waited, patient but eager, until finally he lunged forward once more.
Kael twisted his body at the last instant, narrowly dodging the swing. His staff whipped out like lightning, smashing into Hercules's right elbow.
The impact struck a nerve, sending a sharp shock through his entire arm.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The match had only just begun—but everyone could already tell this wasn't going to end easily.
Having a muscular body came with its own drawbacks. Bulging muscles could get in the way, slowing down mobility and the speed of each swing. It gave Kael a slight edge in agility, but it also meant that a single well-placed hit could be fatal if he wasn't fully focused.
Hercules's expression shifted, the confident smirk twisting into a glare of pure rage. Frustration flickered across his face—so far, he hadn't managed to land a single solid blow on Kael, while Kael had already struck him twice.
For a brief moment, Hercules hesitated, analyzing his opponent. Kael hadn't rushed in at first; he had waited patiently, keeping his distance, daring Hercules to make the first move. That calm, calculated restraint only fueled Hercules's annoyance further.
Suddenly, the crowd fell completely silent. Every eye in the arena was locked on Hercules. The tension in the air thickened, almost tangible, as if he were meticulously calculating his next move.
Kael could feel it—the next strike would decide everything. Waves of danger radiated from Hercules, and Kael's instincts screamed that even a single mistake could be fatal.
Without warning, Hercules charged, swinging his quarterstaff vertically. Kael dodged with precision, staying calm and patient.
Then, flowing with the momentum of the vertical strike, Hercules twisted his body and swung his staff horizontally. But Kael was ready. He gripped both ends of his own staff and held it diagonally, meeting the blow head-on.
The impact struck the middle of Kael's staff, sending the force ricocheting upward. Instinctively, he pulled back his left hand to avoid being caught—momentarily leaving himself exposed.
Spotting the slightest opening, Kael moved without a moment's hesitation. His staff arced in a flawless vertical strike, every motion sharp, controlled, and deadly precise. The attack flowed seamlessly, leaving no room for error.
Hercules's eyes gleamed with anticipation, a faint, confident smile tugging at his lips. He had been waiting for this very moment.
A sudden, lightning-fast kick shot toward Kael, striking his left groin. Pain exploded through his body, and he was sent flying toward the edge of the ring.
The crowd erupted, their cheers growing louder.
"Shit… I let my guard down," Kael muttered through the sharp pain.
Hercules didn't waste a single heartbeat. He regained his balance, sprang to his feet, and charged. At the last moment, he leapt, gripping his quarterstaff with both hands, his intent to crush radiating from every movement.
Kael gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus despite the agony. He rolled to the side, planting his right foot just in time to narrowly evade the deadly strike.
The pain still throbbed like fire, but his assassin training taught him to weaponize even pain — to stay sharp when others broke.
As Kael slowly rose, his body battered and trembling, he deliberately displayed weakness, baiting his opponent. Hercules lunged, leaping like a wild, furious flying squirrel—but that was his greatest mistake.
Kael sidestepped with a simple, effortless dodge and planted his left foot firmly on his quarterstaff. Hercules froze, looking almost like he was kowtowing under Kael's control. As he tried to lift his staff, his eyes met Kael's. Annoyed by the stare, Kael spat into Hercules's eyes, forcing him to lose grip of his weapon. By the time he tried to wipe it away, it was already too late.
Darkness swallowed him as Kael's crushing strike slammed into the back of his neck, sending him sprawling to the ground.
*Thud*
"Kael wins!" the announcer's voice thundered across the arena.
The crowd was swept away by Kael's performance, their cheers echoing louder than ever. Even the participants who had lost—or forfeited—looked at him with awe, seeing in him a symbol of hope.
The cheers raged for several minutes before the arena finally began to quiet. Kael walked steadily toward the winner's podium, his movements calm and controlled, embodying the poise of this year's thirty newly recruited hunters.
The referees confirmed the result, handed Kael a scroll of confirmation, and dismissed the fighters one by one.
As Kael stepped away from the training ground, exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave. His stomach gnawed with hunger, and every step felt like dragging leaden legs.
In his past life, his body was a weapon—sharp, disciplined, relentless. But this one? Weak. Fragile. A shell that couldn't keep up with his instincts.
Cramps clawed through his thighs, and a searing pain shot up his left groin. Every breath burned like fire.
Fortunately, a small cart stood nearby, its driver leaning lazily against the handle. These handcarts were common in the middle district—used to transport goods, passengers, or small loads for a modest fee.
Kael limped toward him. "How much to the lower district?" he asked, his voice strained with fatigue.
"One silver," the man replied without looking up.
Kael nodded and climbed into the cart. As the wheels began to creak forward, he leaned back, letting the rhythmic motion lull his aching body. At least for now, he could breathe.
A few minutes later, the cart stopped in front of the lower district. Kael stepped off, handed the silver coin to the driver, and dragged himself back to his hut.
Inside, he stripped off his sweat-soaked green tunic and reached for a clay pot of water. The first sip was cool and grounding—but before he could take another, a stabbing pain tore through his chest.
His vision blurred.
His knees buckled.
And in the next moment—everything went dark.