The final stage took place at sunset.
The candidates who remained—less than half—were led into a circular hall carved deep beneath the academy. The ceiling was high, etched with glowing runes that pulsed slowly, like a giant heartbeat.
No weapons were allowed.
Even my sword.
The moment I crossed the threshold, a suppression field activated. The cursed blade went silent, its presence dulled to a distant echo.
"Connection weakened."
Tch.
So this was how they planned to judge us.
The silver-haired instructor stood at the center of the hall.
"The final stage," he announced, "is Judgment."
No explanation followed.
Instead, the floor beneath each candidate lit up, and space folded inward.
The world vanished.
I stood alone.
Before me was a familiar street—broken stone, collapsed buildings, smoke drifting through the air.
The ruined capital.
My chest tightened.
Illusion?
No.
This was worse.
Memory made real.
Bodies lay scattered everywhere. Cries echoed in the distance. The smell of ash and blood filled the air—muted, restrained, but unmistakable.
Then I saw him.
The hero.
Standing exactly as he had on the day I died.
Sword clean. Expression calm.
"You've returned again," he said, smiling faintly. "Why?"
I knew this wasn't real.
But my heart didn't care.
"This is a test," I said quietly.
"Is it?" he asked. "Or is it truth you're running from?"
The illusion shifted.
I saw the people I had saved.
The ones who had cheered my name.
They were pointing at me now.
Fear in their eyes.
"Monster."
"Dangerous."
"He'll turn on us."
My fists clenched.
This exam wasn't testing strength.
It was testing control.
Rage surged up instinctively.
I could feel it—the familiar urge to draw the blade, to erase everything in front of me.
But the suppression field held firm.
Good.
I exhaled slowly.
"I already know this ending," I said.
The hero stepped closer. "Then why do you still walk this path?"
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"Because I choose it."
The illusion began to crack.
The ruined city faded, replaced by pure white space.
A new figure appeared—featureless, voice echoing from everywhere.
"Power was offered," it said. "You did not take it."
"Hatred was provoked. You restrained it."
"Why?"
I answered without hesitation.
"Because power without control creates enemies faster than it creates victory."
Silence.
Then—
"You may pass," the voice said.
The world shattered like glass.
I returned to the hall.
One by one, other candidates reappeared—some shaken, some pale, some clearly broken.
Not everyone made it back.
The silver-haired instructor studied us carefully.
"Judgment complete," he said.
His gaze lingered on me for a fraction longer than necessary.
"Those who stand here now," he continued, "are officially students of the Blackstone Combat Academy."
Relief rippled through the hall.
I felt none.
Because I knew something now.
This academy didn't just train warriors.
It watched them.
Measured them.
Prepared them—for something coming.
As the hall doors opened and night air rushed in, the blade stirred faintly at my side.
"They are still judging you."
I smiled thinly.
"Let them," I whispered.
Because this time—
I was judging them too.