"Don't fall for it. Think for half a second."
The interruption came just in time.
As the girl crouched on the stone pavement, fingers already curling around a thick wad of cash, a young man in a tailored suit stepped in front of her. He wore glasses, moved with practiced efficiency, and spoke like someone used to shutting down problems before they grew teeth.
The girl frowned, clearly annoyed.
"But he said I'm hard to kill," she replied seriously, staring at the vendor's trinket. "He wouldn't lie to me."
Rowan Mercer slowed a few steps away, watching the scene with quiet focus.
So that's them.
The girl was Fiona Barlow.
The man hovering nearby was one of her handlers.
And not far from them, trying very hard to look inconspicuous, was Evan Clarke.
Iron Front.
Everything snapped into place.
Rowan finally understood why the girl's internal reserves had felt so absurdly high. This wasn't a hidden prodigy raised by a secret lineage or a once-in-a-generation miracle guarded by tradition. Iron Front didn't operate like that. They cast their net across the entire country. When something unusual surfaced, they claimed it, cataloged it, and figured out how to deploy it.
Raw potential mattered more to them than refinement.
That didn't mean the girl was unbeatable.
High reserves didn't equal high effectiveness. Rowan had seen that mistake made in more worlds than he could count. Power without structure was just fuel sloshing around in a cracked container. Fiona might grow into something terrifying someday, but right now she was blunt, literal, and dangerously unfiltered.
Socially, she was a disaster.
Rowan lost interest almost immediately.
He turned away from the stall and headed toward the back mountain.
After stopping a uniformed attendant to confirm the route, he left the noise of tourists behind and began the climb. There were no marked trails, no railings, no effort to make the path welcoming. The ground was uneven, the brush thick, and the incline unforgiving.
For a normal person, it would've been impossible without equipment.
For Rowan, it was just time-consuming.
After half an hour of steady ascent, he pushed through a line of trees and reached the true entrance to the restricted area. Marcus Hale and Lewis Grant were already there, waiting.
"There you are," Marcus said, lifting a hand. "Thought you might've wandered off."
"Brief detour," Rowan replied. "What's the test?"
Marcus gestured forward.
A ravine split the mountain in two. There was no bridge. No platforms. Just a series of thick ropes suspended across the gap, swaying gently in the wind. The drop below was deep enough to make even seasoned climbers pause.
"This is the filter," Marcus said. "Cross it, and you're in."
Rowan watched as participants emerged one by one from the trees. Some crossed the ropes with practiced balance. Others simply leapt the distance. A few used abilities that bent physics just enough to make the crossing trivial.
Every single one made it across.
The test wasn't about finesse.
It was about not being ordinary.
"Let's move," Lewis said.
He and Marcus cleared the ravine in a single jump, landing cleanly without touching the ropes.
Rowan didn't bother following their method.
He vanished and reappeared on the opposite ledge in the same instant.
For a wizard, this was the only sensible approach. No amount of conditioning would let him clear that distance unaided. Apparition, flight, or tools were the standard solutions. Anything else would've been pointless theatrics.
Beyond the ravine, the back mountain opened up.
Several purpose-built arenas were carved directly into the terrain, rough but deliberate. Hundreds of enhanced individuals were already gathered, loosely clustered by affiliation. The air buzzed with anticipation, tension, and restrained hostility.
Lewis exhaled slowly. "Every time I see this many people like us in one place, I'm reminded how fragile the balance really is."
He nodded toward a group of familiar faces. "I'll catch up with some old contacts. You two handle registration."
Rowan and Marcus followed the signs toward the competitors' area.
Most entrants were under thirty, but many had brought companions, seniors, or observers. Independent operators drifted through the crowd, listening, watching, weighing their chances.
Rowan approved.
The more people here, the more methods he'd be able to observe. This gathering alone justified the trip.
They reached a clearing behind the main arena, where dozens of competitors were already assembled.
Marcus swallowed. "Everyone here looks dangerous."
"That's the point," Rowan said evenly. "If it were easy, it wouldn't matter."
Marcus forced a smile. "I just don't want to be eliminated on the first day. That'd be humiliating."
"You won't be," Rowan said, giving his shoulder a brief pat. "What you can do isn't common."
He wasn't just reassuring him. Rowan had already scanned the field. Only a handful carried comparable internal pressure, and even fewer had tools suited to counter Marcus's most unconventional technique.
Then the mood shifted.
Fiona Barlow entered the clearing.
Evan Clarke followed a step behind her.
The reaction was immediate. Conversations stalled. Eyes turned. The tension spiked so sharply it was almost audible.
Someone called out, asking whether Fiona was here to compete for leadership.
Her response came without hesitation.
"I'm not here to win," she said flatly, pointing at Evan Clarke. "He's supposed to win. I'm here to deal with anyone who gets in his way."
The clearing erupted.
Evan went pale and dragged her aside, lowering his voice in a panic.
"Please," he said. "You don't have to say everything out loud."
She paused, considering this new information carefully.
"So… just hit them without talking?"
Before he could react, she produced a knife with unsettling speed, eyes lighting up as if she'd just solved a difficult puzzle.
Rowan watched from a distance, unimpressed.
"This is going to be loud," he thought.
And inefficient.
But undeniably interesting.