Michael wasn't wrong.
Group B wasn't the only group that received newcors.
Across the arena, in the other preparation chambers, a similar scene unfolded—but each with its own color.
In Group A, where Uga stood like an unmoving boulder near the back wall, the atmosphere hadn't grown hostile—but it had shifted.
New entrants had arrived. And like those in Group B, they were clearly not part of the trials from the start.
But these ones were different.
Their leader was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with iron-gray gauntlets and a steel crown etched into his chest plate.
When asked who they were, he simply said:
"We are from the Steel Kingdom."
Unlike the Earth Dragon Kingdom, the Steel Kingdom was on friendly terms with Lionheart.
They shared trade routes, so cultural exchanges, and even occasional joint military drills. They were allies.
At least… on paper.
But that didn't an they were welco.
Everyone in the room knew that the mont they stepped in, the nature of the trial had changed.
Uga didn't speak. He didn't move. But his eyes opened fully for the first ti since entering the room. He studied the Steel warriors one by one.
He gave a low grunt and closed his eyes again.
Across the arena, in Group C, the tension was different.
Colder.
Deadlier.
It was quiet in this room.
Too quiet.
Renn Noah stood along the left wall, arms folded, head lowered slightly. He had thought his nerves were steady. That he'd seen what the world could throw at him.
He was wrong.
The mont the newcor arrived, the temperature dropped—not literally, but in sensation.
One man entered the room.
Just one.
He wasn't dressed in ornate armor.
Just a black cloak draped over dark robes, fastened with a single obsidian clasp.
His face was youthful but carried an eerie weight to it—as if every step he took pressed the room deeper into silence.
He didn't smile.
Didn't glance at anyone.
He just walked in and sat down.
And the room—the room let him.
Because every noble, every commoner, even those who had strutted confidently before—now felt it.
Aura.
Not the Advanced Tier. Not the peak of it.
Grand Tier.
The real thing.
Renn's jaw clenched slightly.
This wasn't like Leonard's fake ascension through a bloodline burst. No, this was a man who had walked into the Grand Stage.
But what sent chills through the room wasn't just his presence.
It was what he said.
His voice was smooth, almost bored. But clear enough for all to hear.
"I am Rui," he said, brushing a speck of dust from his cloak. "Ninth prince of the Black Serpent Empire."
He didn't elaborate.
He didn't need to.
The Black Serpent Empire wasn't just so far-off dominion. It was the Empire.
The sa one the Lionheart Kingdom served.
And now, a prince of that empire sat among them.
Rui didn't threaten.
He didn't boast.
He just said, "I hope you give face," and leaned back in his seat like it didn't matter what happened next.
But it did.
Because every person in that room knew—this changed everything.
Even Renn.
He swallowed slowly, shifting just slightly on his feet.
The wooden sword at his side suddenly felt a lot heavier.
Outside.
The arena had never looked this full in a long ti
From the highest rafters to the lowest tiered stone benches, people were packed in like wheat before the harvest—shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, every breath a shared echo in the mountainous coliseum.
Even nobles had filled their reserved balconies
Everything was prepared.
Everything felt grand.
And at the center of it all stood a single figure.
The comntator.
He was a man draped in flamboyant red and gold.
His smile was wide. His stance theatrical. And when he raised his hand, the arena practically exploded in response.
"LADIES AND GENTLEN—ARE YOU READY?!"
The cheers thundered like a mountain breaking.
"MAKE SO NOISE IF YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS!"
The response ca like a tidal wave—screams, applause, stomps, and chants.
Even in the noble balconies, restrained claps and murmurs of interest rippled among dukes, rchants, and foreign delegates.
The comntator turned slowly in place, letting the crowd build before he threw his voice again.
"This… is the final trial of the Duke's Grand Competition! And this ti… it's public!"
More cheers.
More stomping.
Children waved wooden swords.
The comntator gestured toward the colossal illusion screen now hovering above the stage.
"There are ONE HUNDRED participants in this final stage!"
He threw up one finger.
"One hundred chosen!"
He paused for effect, then added, "But only ONE will walk away with the title… the reward… and the right to ascend into the Lionheart nobility!"
Gasps followed.
Everyone already knew the prize, but hearing it out loud? It made it real.
"And that's not all!" he continued, voice rising again.
"This trial will be played in two modes!"
The crowd went quiet for just a breath, hanging on his words.
"The first…"
He spun dramatically.
"A four-team battle!"
Boom.
There it was.
Cheers erupted again. But so looked confused.
The comntator didn't make them wait.
"The hundred participants have been divided into FOUR teams. Twenty-five warriors per team. Team A! Team B! Team C! Team D!"
"And in this first round…" the comntator continued, lowering his voice like a magician unveiling a secret, "it's not about who's strongest."
The crowd leaned forward.
"It's about who works best together."
He snapped his fingers.
"Each team must eliminate the other teams. The last team standing will win the first phase!"
Gasps, then murmurs of surprise.
But he wasn't done.
"BUT—!"
The sound cut the growing confusion.
"Once the team contest ends… we begin the true final trial!"
He paused. Let it simr. Then roared:
"THE INDIVIDUAL CONTEST!"
The crowd exploded again.
"This is where all alliances vanish. All favors fall apart. It becos EVERY warrior for themselves!"
Above, nobles watched carefully, whispering among themselves. So were here to scout. So were here to bet.
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