The first thing Kul-Kain noticed was the sound.
Not a scream.
Not a roar.
A dry, irregular clicking—
like wet bones snapping against stone.
Then came the smells.
Damp earth.
Rotting feathers.
And that acrid sting, crawling down his throat like fire and metal.
The gas.
The curse that clung to every Half-Cockatrice.
His pulse hammered.
His grip tightened so hard the leather creaked.
The blade felt heavier—
as if it already knew what was coming.
It wasn't fear.
It was that cold truth slicing through his chest:
This wasn't a trial.
It was a sentence.
A crooked silhouette lurched out of the fog.
Wings extended at unnatural angles.
Claws dragging lines of sparks across the stone floor.
Its head twitched in a rhythm that felt almost mocking.
Kul-Kain swung.
A perfect motion—
too early by a breath.
The Half-Cockatrice slid under the cut.
Its wing brushed his neck, icy and slimy at once.
A numb sting spread across his skin.
"…Tsk."
He looked at his hand.
Two fingers already stiff.
Stone-gray, lifeless.
Already…? I can't even keep up with one?
The fog pulsed.
Shapes shifted within it—
jerky, twitching, wrong.
The entire flock emerged.
Twenty? Thirty?
More, moving like they were controlled by a single fractured mind.
Their breathing filled the dungeon:
croaking, rattling, half-laughing.
They rushed him.
Kul-Kain planted his feet and met the first with a brutal slash.
No grace.
Just raw instinct.
He felt bone cracking under the edge, hot blood spraying across his cheek.
The creature fell in a spasm.
Two more took its place instantly.
Claws raked across his shoulder.
A wing slammed into his ribs.
He staggered back, boots scraping.
He tried to inhale—
and choked on the gas.
His lungs screamed.
Damn it… I can't keep this pace…
He moved.
Not because he wanted to—
but because standing still meant death.
He sprinted toward the trees, stumbling as another wave of numbness surged up his calf.
The Half-Cockatrice followed with that grotesque, skipping flight of theirs.
Every impact of their talons echoed off the cavern walls like warped laughter.
But the forest saved him.
Roots. Tight passages. Low branches.
He forced the monsters to break formation.
And in the chaos—
he struck.
Short slashes.
Quick lunges.
Hit-and-run movement, scraping through narrow gaps, letting the trees shield him.
He fought like an animal cornered.
No techniques.
No form.
Just survival.
A wing clipped his jaw.
An impact rattled his teeth.
His vision blurred for a second—
long enough for another creature to lunge.
He rolled behind a thick root, gasping, throat burning with each breath.
Another creature approached from above.
He twisted his body, parried upward, and drove his blade through its throat.
It writhed. Choked.
Twitched.
Died.
He pushed it off with his foot.
"Ten…"
He didn't know why he counted.
Maybe to remind himself he was still alive.
Maybe to pretend he was making progress.
But the petrification spread faster with each hit.
His thigh pulsed with a heavy numbness.
His elbow felt stiff.
I'm running out of time…
Another monster leapt from the side.
Kul-Kain spun, sliced its wing, then its neck.
The creature collapsed in a mess of feathers and stone-dust.
"Nineteen…"
The gas thickened.
His breathing turned ragged.
The world tilted slightly—
the ground shifting under him like a boat.
"Twenty-seven…"
His legs shook.
His arms felt like iron bars.
He stumbled into a clearing, panting.
Then froze.
They surrounded him.
Dozens.
Heads twitching out of sync.
Wings clicking softly as they folded and unfolded.
A half-circle formation—
too deliberate for mindless beasts.
They're… driving me.
One stepped forward, slow, savoring the moment.
Its eyes fixed on his immobilizing leg.
Kul-Kain tried to step back—
but nothing moved.
Stone had reached his knee.
It's over.
A memory flickered.
A child gripping a sword too big for his hands.
His arms trembling, blade wobbling.
The other children laughing.
His father silent, watching with that same unreadable look.
"…Enough."
He didn't know if he whispered it or only thought it.
Then he broke the rule.
The one rule all Kulainn carried like law.
He forced his aura open.
A spark in his chest.
A burn racing up his spine.
His heart pounding like it wanted to break free.
Aurum Triskell ignited.
The stone on his leg cracked.
Shattered.
His breath became fire.
His blood a torrent of raw ethere.
Dishonorable.
Dangerous.
Unrefined.
A crude overload that forced his naturæ past its limits—
and fried the creatures' curse at its source.
A dirty technique.
But it saved his life.
Kul-Kain stepped forward.
The star on his chest pulsed—
like a dying sun flaring for one last strike.
A sensation seized him.
Somewhere between agony and power.
He raised his blade.
The air bent.
A cross-shaped blaze of crimson erupted.
"Light Sword!!"
His voice tore through the dungeon like a thunderstorm.
A violent surge of red aura ripped forward.
For a moment, the world was nothing but heat and light and screaming wind.
The Half-Cockatrice were torn apart—
not cut—
obliterated.
Silence followed.
Not peaceful.
Not comforting.
A hollow silence that made his heartbeat sound deafening.
"Forty-four…"
The number escaped him in a rasp.
On the distant stands, he heard the murmurs.
The disgust.
A swordsman using raw ethere?
Unthinkable.
Yet one man wasn't looking away.
Atlas Kulainn.
Eyes sharp.
Focused.
He recognized it—
the willingness to break rules to survive.
To shatter tradition for victory.
That was genius.
Celia stared at him from above.
And for the first time in years—
she smiled.
Maybe he'd never reach her record.
Maybe he'd never be the prodigy she had been.
But he was fighting.
And for now, that was enough.
Far from him, another boy moved through the dungeon—
with a completely different presence.
Judai Scathach.
Graceful.
Methodical.
Precise like a blade forged for a single purpose.
He danced among the vines, almost floating.
Each movement a perfect calculation.
Each strike a decision.
He faced a half-boss:
the Brute Lupus.
A monstrous beast with raw naturæ strength capable of crushing steel.
Judai dismantled it piece by piece.
Strikes to the nerves, to the tendons, to the spine.
Every blow made with surgical timing.
"Now… Blossoming Blow!"
His aura burst into turquoise petals.
The punch landed
and a shockwave blasted outward.
The Brute Lupus flew back thirty meters, slammed into the cavern wall, and slid down lifeless.
A glowing number appeared beside his name:
『45』
A perfect tie with Kul-Kain.
But the crowd cheered only for him.
Then he saw a strange glow in the distance.
A vermillion flare that no student his age should have been able to create.
Judai narrowed his eyes.
Then ran.
Fast.
Determined.
Driven by pride and fury.
He burst into the clearing—
and froze.
Kul-Kain stood there, sword raised, chest heaving, aura still crackling.
Judai hated him instantly.
The talentless son of the Patriarch?
Beating him to the spotlight?
Unacceptable.
Kul-Kain turned.
And saw him.
Judai Scathach.
The diamond of their generation.
His rival.
His shadow.
The last person he wanted to face now—
breathing, shaking, still alive after all this.
— To be continued. —