The day following the banquet arrived with a sky the color of burnished lead.
The Training Grounds of the Everlasting Spire were not mere dirt pits, they were a massive colosseum carved directly into the mountain's bedrock, reinforced by layers of ancient gravity and physical-nullification runes.
Thousands of spectators—nobles, knights, and visiting dignitaries—packed the tiered stone benches.
At the center lay the Great Arena, a circular expanse of white sand that would soon be stained with the sweat of the empire's youth.
High above, in the Golden Box, sat the patriarchs of the Six Families. Grandfather Cedric leaned on his spear-cane, his eyes fixed on the arena.
"Let the trials begin," he commanded. "First, let the Branch families show the depth of the Silvaris roots."
The first few hours were a blur of steel and shouting. The Branch family matches were brutal.
These were children who didn't have the "God-given" talent of the Main Family scions; they had to claw for every scrap of resources.
Zephyr watched from the waiting area, his arms crossed. A boy named Kael Silvaris, from a distant northern branch, caught his eye.
Kael fought with a desperate, jagged style, using a heavy broadsword to overwhelm a more refined opponent.
"They fight like they have everything to lose," Lina whispered, standing beside Zephyr.
"Because they do," Zephyr replied. "In this family, if you aren't at the top, you're just a foot soldier. They aren't fighting for honor, Lina. They're fighting for a seat at the table."
Kael eventually won his match by taking a shallow cut to his shoulder to land a decisive hilt-strike to his opponent's temple.
It was messy, but effective. Zephyr nodded in respect. The "roots" of the family were indeed deep.
As the sun reached its zenith, the atmosphere shifted. The Branch matches were over.
Now, the representatives of the other five Great Families were called to the arena to display their progress to the King's observers
Match 1: House Ragnar vs. House Serkan
Thorin Ragnar didn't even draw his sword at first. He stood in the center of the arena, his arms crossed, as the Serkan heir, a boy named Cyrus, circled him with a pair of expensive, gem-encrusted daggers.
"Begin!" the referee shouted.
Cyrus moved like a golden streak, his Agility likely in the high 50s. He unleashed a flurry of stabs, his daggers blurring. But Thorin didn't dodge. He simply tensed his muscles.
Clang! Clang!
The daggers bounced off Thorin's dragon-hide vest and his hardened forearms as if they had hit solid iron.
Thorin let out a roar, his mana exploding in a shockwave of raw physical pressure. He reached out, grabbed Cyrus by the throat, and slammed him into the sand.
"Yield," Thorin growled.
Cyrus, gasping for air, tapped the arena frantically. The match was over in thirty seconds. The Ragnar strength was terrifyingly absolute.
Match 2: House Solari vs. House Lunar
Ember Solari faced off against a secondary Lunar scion.
The match was a spectacle of light. Ember moved like a wildfire, her feet leaving scorched footprints in the arena. Every time her opponent tried to weave an illusion, Ember simply unleashed a Burst Nova, the heat incinerating the mana constructs before they could take hold.
She won with a flaming kick that sent her opponent spiraling out of the ring, his robes singed and smoking.
Finally, the herald called the name that made the Silvaris stands erupt.
"Lina Silvaris of the Main Family vs. Julian Morgrave!"
Lina stepped onto the white sand arena, her presence immediately chilling the air.
She had changed her silk gown for combat-ready leathers of midnight blue, reinforced with silver-plated greaves and a matching breastplate that bore the crest of the Silver Lion.
In her hand, she held "North-Star," a rapier forged from sky-iron that glowed with a faint, crystalline blue light.
Opposite her, Julian Morgrave seemed to bleed out of the shadows.
He was a boy of few words, his skin the color of parchment and his eyes two hollow pits of darkness.
He carried a twin set of Hook-Scythes, weapons designed not just to cut, but to tear and disarm.
"Begin!"
Julian didn't move forward. he vanished downward.
The sand beneath his feet billowed like smoke, and he sank into the ground. This was the Morgrave signature.
Shadow-Meld.
Lina didn't move. She stood in the center of the ring, her rapier held in a low guard. She closed her eyes, relying on the Mana Perception Seres had beaten into her during those cold nights in the forest.
Left. Three meters. Surface Lina sensed.
Lina didn't look. She lunged blindly to her left, the tip of her rapier whistling through the air.
Clang! Clang!
Julian appeared, his hooks catching the thin blade just inches from his throat. A cruel smile touched his lips. "Fast," he whispered. "But not enough to catch me.
He dissolved again, but this time, four separate shadows began to circle Lina on the sand. They moved with a rhythmic, scratching sound that grated on the nerves of the spectators.
"Which one is real, Silvaris?" Julian's voice echoed from all directions with a grin.
The shadows lunged simultaneously. Lina leaped into the air, her Agility carrying her three meters high. Mid-air, she performed a graceful mid-air twist.
"Silvaris Sword Art: Petals of the Silver Rose!"
She thrust her rapier dozens of times in a heartbeat. Each strike released a needle-thin shard of ice-aspected mana.
The "petals" rained down on the shadows, freezing the sand upon impact. Three of the shadows shattered like glass—mere illusions—but the fourth grunted as a mana shard pierced its shoulder.
Julian was forced back into the light, his shoulder bleeding a dark, viscous fluid. His eyes were no longer mocking, they were filled with a cold, murderous focus.
"You've played in the sun too long," Julian hissed. He slammed his scythes together, and the arena was suddenly plunged into a Void Dome.
A sphere of absolute darkness, ten meters wide, swallowed both combatants. The crowd gasped, inside that dome, only a Morgrave could see.