Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.
This wasn't like yesterday.
One carriage in particular caught his attention.
A crest.
The Golden family.
Michael's steps slowed briefly. He knew that crest. It belonged to the family that had helped him connect with Mage Lian.
Seria.
The na drifted across his mind.
The lady of the Golden family he'd spoken to—sharp-witted.
Was she in that carriage?
Michael stared for a mont longer before he shook the thought away.
But before he could get far, a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Mic?"
He turned.
Renn Noah.
The ever-relaxed baron's son jogged up beside him, hair still slightly damp, likely from a rushed morning wash.
"You're up early," Michael said.
Renn grinned. "Sa could be said for you. I was wondering if you'd get too rich to walk."
Michael blinked. "…What does that even an?"
"I don't know," Renn shrugged. "It just sounds like sothing a noble would do. Ride a beast to the arena while the rest of us walk."
Michael shook his head. "I don't even own a beast."
Well, did an undead count though?
Renn clicked his tongue. "Now that's the real surprise."
And just like that, they fell into step again—two figures moving side by side through a street slowly being claid by banners, murmurs, and the quiet buzz of everything else..
The two made their way into the arena with little trouble.
This ti, however, entry was being tightly managed.
A duo in red robes—stood at the arched gate, checking each entrant for the numbered badge given yesterday. Anyone without one was turned away, regardless of how loud or rich they sounded.
It wasn't long before Michael and Renn passed through, their badges shown and acknowledged with a polite nod.
Inside, the difference from the previous day was imdiately noticeable.
The seating, once filled to the brim with spectators and hopefuls, was now nearly empty. The side arena had been split clearly in two.
On one side, commoners and lesser-ranked participants.
On the other side sat the nobles—those with trimd coats, silk sleeves, and gold-threaded crests displayed openly.
The gap between the two sides was wide.
Both literally, and symbolically.
Michael paused to glance at it but didn't slow. He made his way to the sa spot he'd used yesterday and sat down without hesitation.
Renn followed, flopping into the seat beside him.
A minute passed in silence before Renn's eyes drifted back toward the noble seating.
He squinted, then leaned toward Michael.
"Hey… Shouldn't you be sitting over there?" he asked, nodding toward the clearly noble half.
Michael tilted his head slightly, then gave Renn a sidelong glance. "Shouldn't you be?"
Renn stiffened, blinking. He let out a weak laugh and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Touché."
But he didn't answer the question.
Because what was he supposed to say?
That in the eyes of commoners, his baron blood made him a noble. That his last na could command a bow in the outer city.
But in noble circles?
He was just a bigger commoner. A glorified peasant with land too small to matter and a title too cheap to hold weight.
Michael said nothing more,
Renn stayed quiet.
Michael on the other other hand was doing sothing else.
It was then Renn spoke.
"Hey, doesn't it seem the number in the arena now is too much?"
Michael didn't reply imdiately.
He glanced toward the noble section again and did a quick count.
Fifty-seven.
Fifty-seven noble males—most dressed in silks, so wearing light armor emblazoned with family crests. Most of them hadn't been present yesterday. At least, not in the trials.
And yet here they were—seated like kings, backs straight, gazes detached.
It didn't make sense.
But Michael wasn't surprised.
People in power always played by different rules.
What did surprise him, however, was that the commoners who had qualified yesterday were all still here. None missing. None replaced.
Yet, the math didn't lie. There were more participants now. The number had grown.
People noticed. Murmurs started to rise. So of the commoner-born participants began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, eyes flicking toward the other side.
But no one said a word.
Because who would?
These were nobles.
And everyone here knew exactly what that ant.
You could only grit your teeth and whisper under your breath, as expected.
The nobles wouldn't let them have the prize so easily.
Not without tilting the odds.
Monts later, two familiar figures stepped into the arena.
The blue-robed officials from the day before—the middle-aged man and woman.
The woman remained seated on the elevated platform, expression calm and unreadable.
The man descended the steps and walked to the center of the stage, his robes fluttering faintly in the wind.
"Welco," he said, his voice deep and smooth, echoing throughout the mostly empty arena. "To the second trial."
A murmur of attention rippled across the crowd. Conversations halted.
"I congratulate you all," the man continued. "Making it here ans one thing—you've proven yourselves."
A few heads turned instinctively to glance at the noble side.
Even more turned bitterly.
But the official either didn't notice—or chose not to.
"This second trial will be simple," he said, folding his hands behind his back. "There are currently one hundred and seventy-eight participants."
He let the number settle in the air.
"Your goal," he continued, "is to cut that number in half."
Several eyes widened.
The noble side remained eerily calm. But on the other half—where most commoners sat—tension thickened like a fog.
"One-on-one combat," the man announced. "Victory by knockout, ring-out, or submission. No killing is permitted. Any participant who kills intentionally will be disqualified imdiately."
Michael leaned back in his seat.
So that's how it is…
A direct culling.
No monsters this ti. No formations. Just raw competition.
Just strength.
The official continued without pause, his voice steady and firm as the wind stirred his robes.
"Now," he said, sweeping his gaze across the arena, "an official will be coming around shortly. Each participant will be required to register their na and number tag."
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