The man gestured toward the side of the arena where a group of red-robed assistants had already begun to move, clipboards and tablets in hand.
"Once registration is plete, pairings will be generated at random. Matches will begin immediately afterward."
The man paused.
"This is not a test of luck. It is a trial of individual ability."
His voice dropped slightly, carrying a weight that settled over the arena like a thick blanket.
"If you wish to stand before the Duke... prove that you deserve it."
With that, the man turned and walked back toward the platform beside the blue-robed woman, who still hadn't moved or spoken. Her sharp eyes watched the crowd in silence, as though taking in everything—reactions, shifts, tensions—with cold precision.
Around the arena, the red-robed assistants spread out.
Michael remained seated as one approached their row.
The assistant—a young man, likely no older than twenty—stopped before him, head bowed slightly. "Name and number tag, please."
Michael handed over the tag clipped at his waist. "Mic Nor."
The assistant gave a brief glance at the number inscribed on it, then nodded. "Confirmed."
He turned to Renn.
"Renn Noah," Renn said, offering his tag.
The assistant took it, repeated the same process, and then left without another word.
Michael sat back, arms folding loosely as he watched the assistants continue their rounds. Pairings would be announced soon.
There were one hundred and seventy-eight of them.
And soon, that number would be eighty-nine.
Michael didn't care who he was paired with.
But from the sideways glances, subtle whispers, and tensing shoulders across the arena—he had a feeling more than a few were hoping it wouldn't be him.
Michael leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping across the divided arena.
He noticed it again—those subtle shifts of attention.
He could understand the look in the eyes of the moners.
They had seen him fight yesterday.
They'd seen the wolves fall like leaves in a storm, seen him walk through the trial with not so much as a scratch, seen him slap another participant unconscious with a single hand.
They had felt his strength.
But what confused him was the look from some of the nobles.
They hadn't even been present yesterday. He was sure of it. And yet, there was wariness in their eyes too.
Like they knew something.
Michael frowned faintly.
Had word spread?
It was possible.
He hadn't exactly gone unnoticed during the trial.
All it would take was one noble with the means and interest to purchase a report.
Besides, in a place like the capital, information flowed like blood. If you had the coin or connections, you could find out who tied their boots wrong that morning.
Michael let out a breath through his nose.
No point worrying about it.
Let them look.
Let them wonder.
If anything, he was wondering how they recognised him.
Was it through a portrait?
And also, were they wary due to his performance yesterday?
Or because of something else?
Perhaps.... because of what had happened a few days ago.
Meanwhile, beside Michael, Renn shifted in his seat.
Michael didn't look at him directly, but he caught the subtle tension in his frame—the quick glance, the way his fingers tapped lightly on the wooden sword at his side.
He was nervous.
Not the kind of fear that made people tremble.
Just… alert.
Renn turned slightly, eyeing Michael out of the corner of his gaze.
Please don't be me.
That was what his expression said.
Michael almost smirked.
Renn was many things.
But he wasn't dumb.
And while he'd joked, teased, and walked beside Michael as a panion—he hadn't forgotten what Michael was.
A monster.
That was the truth Renn wasn't saying aloud.
He didn't think he'd lose—not exactly. If anything, Renn was someone who believed in his sword.
But.
There was always a but.
If it could be helped… Renn would prefer not to cross blades with him at all.
A low chime echoed through the arena, and the blue-robed woman finally stood.
For the first time since the trial began, she stepped forward.
Her expression was cold. posed.
Her voice, when it came, was sharp and clear.
"First pairing—Derek Harn vs Ludo Vane. Make your way to the stage."
The two young men stood from opposite sides of the arena—one from the moners' section, the other from the edge of the same side. Neither came from noble circles. It showed.
Their steps were uneven. Their expressions tight with nervous energy.
As they reached the stage, the difference between them and the other participants became obvious.
Both wielded weapons—but that was where the similarity ended.
One had a chipped sword with no guard. The other carried a crude spear that looked like it had been reassembled one too many times. The tip was dull, and the shaft had visible splinters near the grip.
Michael's eyes flicked toward them, then away.
Unlike yesterday, nearly every participant had e armed. Swords, spears, axes, even strange contraptions that looked part-tech, part-artifact.
Armor too—light leather for the poor, refined mana-woven fabric for the rich.
Everyone had e prepared.
Everyone… except him.
Michael, in his sleek black robe, looked more like a wandering scholar than a petitor. No armor. No visible weapon.
He sat calm, posed.
Almost detached.
A few eyes glanced his way again. Even more after that.
Because in a place where everyone looked like they were going to war, he looked like he'd taken a casual walk and wandered into the wrong event.
But only a fool would mistake him for unarmed.
Renn noticed the contrast too.
He wasn't dressed much too, but pared to Michael, he at least looked prepared.
He shifted beside Michael, arms crossed tightly.
Those two on stage—they weren't ready.
Their bodies were tense. Footwork uneven. Fear was all over them.
He felt bad.
Not for them, necessarily.
But for what this trial was shaping up to be.
Then, almost involuntarily, his gaze turned again—to Michael.
He watched the calm posture, the way his eyes didn't dart or shift, the way he didn't so much as fidget.
Renn exhaled.
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