[10th June]
Inside the vast stadium grounds, tens of thousands of contestants stood assembled.
Monts earlier, Duke Ashcroft had officially declared the tournant open, marking the beginning of the selection for the Empire's Martial University.
Only two hundred would be chosen.
From 28,832 hopeful martial youths.
The contestants had already been divided into four sections—A, B, C, and D, each containing 7,208 participants.
Once the Duke returned to his seat after the grand opening, the host stepped forward again to explain the structure of the initial rounds.
"As the number of contestants is extrely high," the host announced, his voice echoing clearly, "today's matches will be conducted for Section A and Section B."
"For tomorrow, the battles for Section C and Section D will take place."
A brief pause followed.
"Each match is a direct elimination. There will be no second chances."
"Every battle lasts three minutes. Victory is achieved by knocking out your opponent or forcing them to surrender."
The host gestured broadly.
"The ground beneath you has been divided into twenty battle arenas, each hosting one match at a ti."
"Please proceed to the waiting rooms. In thirty minutes, the first matches for Section A will begin. Matchups will be randomly assigned."
With that, the contestants began moving back toward their respective exits.
Groups ford and dissolved as people checked their section placents, expressions shifting between anticipation and tension.
Rey quickly confird his own section.
Section C.
Which ant—
'Not today.'
He let out a quiet breath.
Originally, he had planned to head back and continue training. Wasting ti before the competition would only weaken his chances.
However…
Curiosity gnawed at him.
'I should at least see the average level.'
Understanding his future opponents mattered.
So instead of leaving imdiately, Rey turned toward the viewing area.
Before he could reach the public section, a familiar voice stopped him.
"Hey, Rey!"
Fenlor stood near the gate, clearly waiting for him.
"Which section are you in?" Fenlor asked.
"A or B?"
"No," Rey replied calmly.
"I'm in Section C. What about you?"
Fenlor grinned.
"Section B. Looks like I'll be fighting today."
He puffed his chest slightly.
"I'll probably have to wait a few rounds, but that's fine. I'll sweep through the early matches easily."
Rey nodded.
"Good luck with that."
"I was planning to head ho after watching a few matches," Rey added.
"Just to understand the general strength level."
"Oh, right," Fenlor said suddenly.
"Father told to bring you to et him. He specifically asked for you."
Rey stiffened for a fraction of a second.
"That…" he said after a pause,
"I'll et him later. Not right now. I have so things to handle."
Then, seeing Fenlor's expression, he added lightly,
"Don't worry. You won't get scolded for this. Focus on your match."
Fenlor's eyes lit up.
"Great!"
He quickly caught himself and straightened.
"Well… my friends are waiting anyway."
Rey pointed behind him, where a few youths were waving Fenlor over.
"Go."
Fenlor nodded and left with his group without looking back.
Rey exhaled quietly.
'Dodged that.'
The public viewing section was packed to the brim.
Finding a seat was impossible.
Rey finally realised just how many people had poured into the capital for this event—perhaps even visitors from other cities.
With no choice, he remained standing and squeezed closer to the front, barely managing to slip into a narrow gap.
Large panels above the arena flickered to life.
The broadcast began.
At exactly 10:00 AM, every contestant's phone vibrated at once.
Match notifications.
The host's voice echoed again.
"Let the matches begin."
"The first ground: 532 versus 6492."
"Second ground: 125 versus 943."
"Third ground—"
As numbers rolled across the screens, contestants rushed into their assigned arenas.
Referees stood ready in all twenty battle zones.
No delays.
The battles began imdiately.
Rey's eyes sharpened.
He watched carefully.
And within minutes—
His expression changed.
'…This is it?'
Most movents were clumsy.
Footwork lacked rhythm.
Techniques burned mana without purpose.
Rey's gaze hardened.
'They're wasting strength.'
Many fought loudly.
Very few fought correctly.
The difference beca obvious within minutes.
Those with real foundations ended their matches almost imdiately.
The rest struggled, flailing until they were crushed.
One fight caught Rey's attention.
A female spear-user.
Her movents were sharp and relentless.
She dismantled her opponent in ten clean exchanges, never giving him a chance to breathe.
The final strike knocked him unconscious and sent him flying out of the ring like discarded baggage.
Rey evaluated her quietly.
'I'd need ti to deal with her.
If she keeps pressure like that, drawing arrows would be difficult.'
Still, she wasn't unbeatable.
He continued watching.
Then—
A sudden flash.
Flas burst forth as a blade ignited mid-swing.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
The opponent rolled on the ground, screaming as fire clung to him.
'A Fla Spiritual Root.'
A rare elental martial artist.
Rey's interest finally peaked.
He himself could manifest elental effects—though on a much smaller scale.
But revealing such things now would be foolish.
He noticed movent in the Noble gallery.
Eyes had turned toward the fla user.
Just as expected.
The match ended effortlessly.
After that, no more surprises appeared.
Satisfied, Rey left the viewing area.
Outside, the stadium grounds were nearly empty now.
Finding a taxi was surprisingly difficult, but after so effort, he managed to get one.
As the vehicle pulled away, Rey looked back once at the towering stadium.
'Top of my batch… at minimum.'
Final rankings could wait.
Minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of his house.
Rey stepped out.
Tomorrow would be his turn.
Rey paid the fare and stepped inside the house.
The butler and maid were in the dining hall, midway through their lunch. The mont they noticed him, both stood up in alarm.
"It's fine," Rey said quickly, raising a hand.
"I ca back early. The tournant hasn't reached my section yet."
He briefly explained what had happened at the stadium and why he returned ho instead of staying.
Relieved, they nodded and resud their al.
Rey didn't linger.
He headed straight toward the underground training room.
The mont he entered, he paused.
The scattered waste and residue from his previous session were gone.
'Cleaned already…'
He sighed lightly, guessing the maid had taken care of it.
Removing his upper shirt, Rey stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he prepared himself.
His muscles still ached.
Not sharply—but enough to remind him of yesterday's limits.
Yet beneath the soreness, he felt sothing different.
'I can push further.'
"Let's try again," he muttered.
"Maybe I can stabilise the foundation this ti."
He began.
One stance.
Then another.
His breathing synced with his movents as mana circulated through familiar pathways.
By the tenth set, tension began building in his limbs.
By the twelfth, his muscles burned.
But—
'Still not enough to stop .'
Without hesitation, he crossed into the thirteenth set.
And everything changed.
The mana within his body suddenly resisted.
Its flow, once obedient, began to twist and deviate, refusing to follow the usual routes.
Pressure surged outward from his core, pressing against his muscles and bones.
By the end of the set, his stamina dropped sharply.
Sweat poured down his back.
His breathing grew heavy.
Yet his eyes widened.
'The pathways… they're different.'
The mana was taking a new route.
Not chaotic—but unfamiliar.
He pushed into the fourteenth set.
This ti, the altered flow began to stabilise.
The new circulation smoothed out, growing clearer with every stance.
Minutes later, he completed the set.
His body trembled.
He knew the truth instantly.
'The fifteenth will knock out.'
And yet—
He stepped forward.
"I'm not stopping."
The stances began again.
Every movent crushed his exhausted body under invisible weight.
By the fifteenth stance, sweat soaked the floor beneath him.
His muscles scread.
Each step felt like dragging chains.
But he didn't stop.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He advanced.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Minutes that felt like hours.
Finally, he reached the last stance.
His vision blurred.
His legs shook violently.
His mind begged for rest.
But there was still one left.
"I… must… finish…"
Summoning the last shred of will, Rey entered the final stance.
As expected, the mana flow shifted again—only slightly this ti, but enough to lock the new pathway into place.
Pressure exploded outward.
He completed the stance.
Barely.
The mont it ended, his body gave out.
Rey collapsed onto the floor and lost consciousness instantly.
His muscles cramped violently.
His body twitched uncontrollably.
There was no one around to help him.
But—
A presence erged.
The air thickened.
"Tsk… again," a voice muttered calmly."Your ntal endurance is impressive. Unfortunately, this body of yours is far behind."
Pressure settled over Rey's body, pinning him even in unconsciousness.
A finger flicked.
An unseen force surged through his limbs, violent and precise.
The violent cramping eased.
The trembling slowed.
"Be grateful," the voice continued.
"If your body weren't already under my effects, you'd be immobile for days after forcing yourself like that."
Inside Rey, sothing moved.
His blood surged unnaturally, accelerating recovery from within.
Beneath his skin, muscle fibers tightened and relaxed in unnatural sequences, as if sothing was correcting mistakes one layer at a ti.
His clenched hands relaxed.
The pain faded.
Rey slipped deeper into sleep.
Even as he slept, the world didn't stop.
...
Back at the stadium, matches continued relentlessly.
Section A battles were nearing completion as organisers prepared to move into Section B.
Gravion, having already finished his first match, watched from the sidelines.
His gaze swept the grounds carefully.
'Where are you…
Section A? No… I rember him being there.
Did my appearance change the flow…?'
Just as doubt crept in—
He saw him.
A spearman stepped onto one of the battle grounds.
The weapon looked ordinary—a Mid Stage Rank 1 beast spear.
The man himself looked weak.
Thin.
Almost malnourished.
His opponent grinned confidently, already certain of victory.
The referee raised his hand.
Both took their stances.
The tir started.
They charged.
And—
Crack.
The swordsman froze.
His blade shattered mid-swing, fragnts clattering across the arena.
Before anyone could react, the spear stopped an inch from his ear.
A silent warning.
The referee imdiately ended the match.
The crowd went silent.
The spearman turned and left the arena calmly, as if nothing had happened.
Gravion's grin stretched wide.
Mad.
Triumphant.
"Found you," he whispered.
"Demon Spear."
He rembered him clearly.
A ruthless spear artist.
Cold.
Efficient.
A man who once slaughtered thousands of beasts alone on a battlefield, earning his infamous title.
'You'll make a fine piece on the board.'
Gravion's eyes glead.
And he already knew exactly how to claim him.
The stakes of this tournant—
Had just risen again.
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