All participants entered the Silverwood family's estate. William Langford, head of the Langford family, appeared at the center of the courtyard.
"I've just received word," he announced, "that the top fifty perforrs in the Academic Trials will have the honor of being watched by the daughter of the Silverwood family head during the final ranking matches!"
A wave of murmurs erupted through the crowd. Ethan's mind reeled, his emotions surging.
'Lyla…'
It's been so long. Looks like he had to make it into the top fifty now.
Only problem?
…
He suddenly realized the truth.
Music, strategy, literature, art in general—he was useless at all of them. How the hell was he supposed to crack the top fifty?
He'd only co to watch, but now his competitive spirit was lit.
Ethan glanced at Evelyn beside him. "Hey, Evelyn, you good at any of this stuff?"
She shrugged shalessly. "? Why would I bother? I'm just here for the show."
Ethan sighed, eyeing the bustling courtyard. "I don't get it. Why the hell are we doing academic trials when we ca here to fight?"
"Underestimating scholars is a quick way to get yourself killed, kid. Let the Refined Families hear you say that, and you're done."
A sharp-featured young man sidled up to them. He was average height—maybe five-nine—with a scholarly air, but his gaze carried an edge.
"Uh… you're not from one of the Refined Families, are you?" Ethan asked warily.
"If I were, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
BAM!
A scream tore through the strategy ga area. A burly man collapsed beside a ga board, lifeless.
Seated across from him was a slender man, his expression icy.
"Disrespect the ga," he said coldly, "and you die."
An attendant handed him two cards—his winnings from the match.
"That's Bobby… from the Blackwell Family!" soone whispered.
Ethan stiffened. He just killed a guy? So the Refined Families weren't just about books and paintings after all.
Ethan hadn't seen Bobby strike, but the dead man had clearly been taken out in one hit.
All because he'd "disrespected the ga."
"See?" The scholarly man smirked. "The Refined Families may specialize in arts, but they've mastered combat through them."
"The Langfords wield soundwaves. The Blackwells use strategy as battle formations. The Wynns? They've unlocked sword mastery through calligraphy."
"And the Hargroves specialize in sealing techniques."
He spoke like a lecturer, clearly aiming his words at Ethan.
Ethan didn't dislike the guy, but he wasn't thrilled either—mostly because of the faint but unmistakable body odor clinging to him.
'Looks sharp, slls rough.'
Ethan gave him a curt nod, then grabbed Evelyn's sleeve to leave.
The man chuckled. "Ethan, already moving on from Lyla? She's barely been gone. What would she think?"
His voice was quiet, but every word struck Ethan like a hamr.
Ethan spun around.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "You know Lyla?"
What's more, this guy actually knew about his relationship with Lyla. So how were they connected?
Ethan trusted what he had with Lyla—completely. But still… a guy with body odor?
Because he knew Lyla. And Lyla had a thing about cleanliness.
"? I'm Dominic. Dominic Zane."
The man gave Ethan a long look, then flicked his gaze to where he was holding Evelyn's sleeve. His eyes lingered on her for a second before he turned and walked away, leaving behind a narrow, stiff-backed silhouette.
And in that mont, Ethan caught sothing dangerous in his expression—a flash of killing intent.
Directed at Evelyn.
"Holy hell, that was creepy," Evelyn muttered, rubbing her arms. "What was that look for? I've never even t him!"
Ethan hadn't used his Soul Sense here—too risky, but he didn't need to. The shift had been obvious. The mont Dominic saw him tug Evelyn's sleeve, his deanor had turned lethal.
Seriously? I'm just pulling her away, not holding her damn hand. Since when is that your business?
And even if he were holding her hand—what the hell did it matter to him?
Then it hit him.
"What did he say his na was?" Ethan asked sharply.
"Dominic Zane…"
Ethan's blood ran cold. That Dominic Zane? The one who'd just broken through to the Energy Refinent Stage?
The sa bastard who'd had his eyes on Lyla?
Ethan's fingers twitched. A slow, icy rage coiled in his chest, so palpable that Evelyn shivered beside him.
Dominic's retreating figure disappeared into the crowd.
Ethan forced himself to turn away. "Let's check out the strategy gas," he said, voice tight.
Evelyn didn't argue, trailing silently behind him.
The strategy section was packed, buzzing like a marketplace. Ethan frowned. How the hell do players concentrate in this noise?
But as he got closer, he noticed each ga table had three people: two players and a referee from the Blackwell Family. And around them—a faint golden barrier, likely a sound-dampening formation. Strangely, while outside noise didn't penetrate, every word inside the barrier could be heard clearly.
Then, a familiar voice hissed behind him.
"Ethan. Psst. Ethan!"
He turned to see Markham lurking like a greasy shadow.
"What?" Ethan snapped.
Markham glanced at Evelyn, then dragged Ethan aside. "Wanna make so quick cash?"
Evelyn stomped over, scowling. "Ugh, you again! I already told you we don't want your stupid artifact—get over it!"
Ethan knew exactly what Markham ant by "quick cash." But before he could ask, Evelyn had already derailed things. He shot her a warning look, and she huffed but shut up.
"Alright, Markham," Ethan said lowly. "What's the play?"
Markham grinned. "We set up a side hustle. Skim so extra cards off the competition."
Ethan blinked. "And the tournant organizers just… let that happen?"
Markham winked. "Leave that to . Question is—how much you willing to invest?"
Ah. So that was the ga. Markham wasn't looking for a partner—he wanted a bankroll. Dude had zero interest in the top fifty; he was here to scam his way to a payday.
But how did he know Ethan needed cards to climb the ranks?
As if reading his mind, Markham leaned in. "Ryan told about your situation. Pay up, and I'll make sure you get what you need."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "Na your price."
Markham held up two fingers.
Ethan's eye twitched. 'This greedy bastard.'
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