An arrow of pure mana streaked from the fog.
It wasn’t aid at only him. Just behind the arrow aid at Michael was another one.
Michael’s instincts howled. Even with [Iron Skin] active, his body tensed in a way he couldn’t ignore.
This arrow was far more lethal than ordinary projectile. His gut scread that to take it head-on would be fatal.
Rage sparked in his chest too.
Fisherman.
Soone had waited, biding their ti in the mist, letting him do the hard work before striking.
But it seed the heavens still favored him.
Michael twisted, body snapping to the side with [Ghostwind Steps]. The arrow grazed his shoulder as he barely dodged.
The mage was not so lucky.
Though he tried to replicate Michael’s movent in his own way, the arrow tore into his right side as his arm was consud, the limb vanishing into glowing particles.
Michael didn’t lose sight of what mattered.
There was a reason he fought so hard this ti.
One—he was still twenty-five points short of a hundred. At any mont, the trial could end, and if he failed to reach the mark, then his next involvent with the college exams would be tomorrow. True, this round wouldn’t cripple him even if he perford badly—the Federation had made it clear there was no elimination. But this didn’t an he should go with a lazy ntality. Just do what you can do and leave the rest to fate.
And two—the mage.
A mage of this caliber had surely accumulated a certain amount of points if he wasn’t unlucky. Even if the system only granted him a portion of the spoils, Michael suspected it would be more than enough to push him to the finish.
That was why he couldn’t allow soone hidden in the mist to steal this victory. To rob him of his kill and to aim for his life? That was unforgivable.
His gaze snapped back to the wounded mage. The man’s left arm was gone, particles still scattering from the wound, his face twisted with agony and hate. Michael’s spear leveled forward, steady and rciless.
The fire mage’s face twisted. His eyes, red with fury, bored into Michael.
"You... damn barbaric fiend," he spat, his voice strained yet rich with an almost aristocratic cadence. Each curse rolled off his tongue like daggers wrapped in silk, laced with venom but polished with noble diction.
The words, sharp and clipped, carried a tone unfamiliar to Michael’s ear. Not in language, but in rhythm. A subtle accent. A certain flourish that hinted at a background different from his own.
Yet Michael had no way to place it.
In this trial, there was no confirmation of who hailed from where. The Federation had thrown them all into the sa cauldron.
So carried rare features or spoke with strange inflections, but no one wasted ti on introductions when points were the only currency.
The mage’s body trembled as he struggled to steady himself.
What sort of brute was this?
A necromancer, by all definitions, should have been a summoner lurking behind walls of bones and corpses, letting minions do their work.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t natural.
Was this truly a necromancer? Or sothing else entirely?
His bitterness stung worse than his wounds. It was one thing to see a mage dabble in lee—it happened. So leaned on blades when their mana was gone. But this man wasn’t dabbling.
He was thriving.
His casting was rough, yes—delayed, imprecise compared to a true mage—but it was still enough to pressure him.
A hybrid. One who could play both sides well enough that even a specialized mage found himself cornered.
And that thought made the fire mage’s stomach churn with hatred.
Michael’s eyes narrowed as the noble’s curses dripped into the fog like venom, his words incomprehensible in aning but clear in intent.
Michael didn’t pause.
The mage’s noble venom ant nothing compared to what Michael saw—the opening.
He surged forward, spear thrust low, the mist parting in his wake. The mage tried to lift his remaining arm, but Michael was already there.
The spear punched through his abdon, cutting short the spell.
The mage’s breath hitched, his eyes wide, disbelief and fury tangled together.
His body broke apart into shimring fragnts, scattering into the fog as his points transferred.
Michael’s panel chid. 37 Points.
He didn’t even have ti to check the tally before another sharp twang cut the air.
Another arrow.
And another.
Two more bolts of pure mana ripped through the fog, their glow like lightning tearing open the sky.
Michael’s body moved before thought.
[Ghostwind Steps] tore across his legs, his figure blurring as he shifted sideways. The first arrow whipped past, grazing his ribs, sizzling against the bone plates of [Bone Armour].
The second he knocked wide with a brutal swipe of his spear, the shock rattling his arm to the elbow.
He didn’t hesitate.
Michael charged at a certain location.
And then—
The world ripped.
The fog peeled away in a single sweep, replaced by the blinding pallor of an endless white space.
Everything stilled.
Michael’s spear hovered in mid-swing, his chest heaving, his blood hot with rage and montum that had nowhere to go.
Then a soft chi echoed.
[Challenge Complete.]
[Active Participants: 100.]
Michael froze.
The fisherman. He had been one breath away.
Michael suspected this might be the sa person that first attacked him in the challenge space when he just arrived.
And yet, the trial had ended.
His panel flickered to life in the blank space.
[Final Points: 112]
Michael’s lips curled faintly. It was not quite a smile, not quite bitterness, but sothing taut and sharp between the two.
He had made it. Just barely.
****
A/N: Thanks for reading and for your support! I realize the link may not have been clear: the second exam round ties back to sothing present since the very start—the public’s ignorance of the supernatural. The Federation saw this ignorance as a barrier to civilisation’s growth, so the exam beca a way to spread awareness on a large scale.
Its unfair design is deliberate—it’s ant to cut numbers quickly. The real test for awakeners cos the next day. Since awakeners are naturally stronger than cultivators their age, the Federation only needs a small group to present to the public and push forward their plans.
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