The forest had beco a graveyard.
Raze moved through the carnage without a single drop of blood on him, his movents having achieved such precision that gore simply didn’t touch his clothes. Each strike was calculated, each step positioned to avoid the spray. Months of training under Oziel had built control that transcended simple combat effectiveness into sothing approaching art.
Bephe, by contrast, was absolutely drenched. The prehistoric predator had long since stopped bothering to shake off the gore, acceptance that being covered in viscera was simply the natural state of things now.
Another pack erged from the undergrowth, eight beasts radiating Expert Mid rank power. They were different from previous encounters, scaled hides suggesting reptilian ancestry, eyes gleaming with intelligence that marked them as ambush predators rather than simple brutes.
Bephe charged without hesitation, expanding mid-stride until he matched the largest beast in size. The impact when he collided with the pack leader shook nearby trees, prehistoric jaws clamping down on the creature’s spine with force that pulverized bone.
Raze followed half a second behind, katana already in motion. His blade found the throat of one beast before it could adjust to his approach, Combat Reflex showing him exactly where to strike for maximum effect. He stepped sideways as the creature collapsed, avoiding the arterial spray entirely. Expert rank durability was aningless against precision targeting combined with perfect positioning.
Two more converged on him simultaneously, trying to pin him between their coordinated assault.
Void Step activated instinctively, reality bending as he displaced four ters to their left. The beasts crashed into each other in the space he’d occupied, confusion giving him the opening he needed. His katana swept through both their necks in single fluid motion, mana enhanced edge treating flesh like paper. He was already moving before the blood could arc toward him, footwork carrying him clear of the spray zone.
Bephe had already finished his three targets, the young predator’s combat efficiency improving with every engagent. He moved with purpose now rather than pure enthusiasm, prehistoric instincts recognizing patterns and adapting accordingly.
The final two beasts tried to flee, survival instinct overriding whatever hunting drive had brought them here.
Raze’s Scarlet Leap closed the distance before they made five ters, an explosive movent that put him in front of their escape route. His katana flashed twice, quick succession strikes that ended their flight permanently. Both cuts were surgical, precise angles that directed blood away from his position rather than toward it.
Silence returned, broken only by the settling of disturbed foliage and Bephe’s satisfied rumbling.
Raze checked his bracelet: 712 points.
He did a quick ntal calculation, counting back through the engagents they’d completed since materializing in this forest. Over one hundred beasts killed, ranging from Expert Low to Expert Peak rank. The variety had been impressive, each encounter presenting slightly different challenges that forced adaptation and learning.
And they were just getting started.
His mana reserves remained solid despite constant combat, months of cultivation advancent creating deep well that sustained prolonged engagent. His physical stamina held steady, training under Oziel having built endurance that transcended simple rank progression. Even his katana showed minimal wear despite heavy use, the quality of the blade proving its worth through sustained punishnt.
Bephe looked completely unbothered, it’s prehistoric constitution apparently designed for exactly this kind of sustained violence. If anything, the creature seed energized by the constant combat, each kill feeding so fundantal need that went beyond simple hunger or aggression.
"We could probably keep this pace for the full three hours," Raze murmured, scanning the forest for their next engagent.
His thoughts turned to capabilities he hadn’t used yet. Asura’s abilities remained mostly dormant, accessible in theory but requiring specific conditions he wasn’t eting. Void Step worked fine, the spatial displacent technique having beco almost second nature through constant practice in his mind space.
But the others? Reality Rejection, Transcendent Will, the full scope of his Chains of Exodus authority? Those required the rger state, consciousness fully integrated with Asura’s presence in ways that went beyond simple coexistence.
He couldn’t access that here. Not yet. The transformation was too visible, too distinctive. Black markings spreading across his skin, one eye shifting to crimson, hair tips changing color. Everyone watching would see it, would know sothing fundantal had changed about him.
The Headmaster and her Deans were observing every delegate through whatever scrying thods powered this examination. Revealing Asura’s existence to them felt premature, dangerous in ways he couldn’t fully articulate but instinctively recognized.
So he fought with his base capabilities, Master Low rank cultivation enhanced by exceptional skill and Bephe’s overwhelming support. It was enough for now, more than enough based on his climbing point total.
But part of him wondered what would happen if he stopped holding back. If he rged with Asura fully and unleashed the capabilities that ca with awakened bloodline and demonic authority. How high could his points climb then? How thoroughly could he dominate this examination?
The thought was tempting. Dangerously so.
He pushed it aside, focusing on imdiate concerns. There was ti. Three hours total, barely one hour elapsed. Plenty of opportunity to accumulate points through conventional thods before considering anything more dramatic.
Asura had been quiet since the examination began, the ancient entity’s presence reduced to barely perceptible hum at the back of his consciousness. No comntary, no suggestions, no sardonic observations about his fighting style or tactical choices.
The silence was unusual. Asura typically had opinions about everything, perspectives shaped by eons of combat experience that made Raze’s eighteen years seem laughably brief by comparison.
"You still there?" Raze asked quietly, knowing Bephe wouldn’t understand the one sided conversation.
No response. Just that steady hum, confirmation of presence without active engagent.
Interesting. Either Asura was deliberately staying quiet to avoid distraction, or sothing about this pocket dinsion was suppressing communication. Raze filed the observation away for later consideration, turning his attention back to the hunt.
Movent ahead announced their next engagent. Larger shapes this ti, bulk suggesting creatures designed for raw power rather than speed or cunning. Expert Peak rank at minimum based on the ambient mana radiating from their positions.
"Ready?" Raze asked Bephe.
The prehistoric predator’s responding growl was pure anticipation.
They charged forward together, partnership creating devastating synergy. Raze’s precision complented Bephe’s overwhelming force, surgical strikes working alongside brutal trauma to end threats with terrifying efficiency.
The forest continued accumulating corpses, Expert rank beasts falling to a combination of skill and prehistoric fury that few things in this dinsion could withstand.
Points climbed steadily. 800. 850. 900. Each threshold marking their advancent through rankings that hundreds of other delegates were desperately chasing.
Raze’s katana sang through the air, edge never dulling despite constant use. His footwork remained perfect, positioning that kept blood from ever touching his clothes. His breathing stayed controlled, Breathflow patterns maintaining optimal oxygen distribution even during intense exertion.
This was what months of brutal training produced. This was what natural talent combined with dedicated practice could achieve. This was what it ant to be exceptional rather than rely adequate.
And sowhere in this pocket dinsion, four hundred forty nine other delegates were discovering their own limits, testing their capabilities against environnts designed to push them beyond comfortable boundaries.
Raze wondered briefly how Fedora was doing, whether her authority and Slith’s assistance were proving as effective as he expected. How Darius was managing with his spear and technique. Whether the other Westia delegates were representing their kingdom adequately.
Then another pack erged and speculation gave way to imdiate action, katana rising to et threats that kept coming in endless waves.
‐‐‐
Prince Lucien stood in swamp clearing surrounded by corpses, Master rank beasts reduced to at and scattered parts. His enchanted sword glead despite the filth coating everything else, the noble weapon maintaining pristine condition through whatever magic had been woven into the steel.
His bracelet read 687 points. Respectable number, proof of capability that would satisfy most observers.
But Lucien wasn’t satisfied. Not remotely.
He’d been hunting beasts for over an hour, accumulating points through straightforward combat against creatures that posed minimal actual threat. His Master Low cultivation gave him overwhelming advantage against anything below his rank, and even Master Mid beasts fell before his blade with relative ease.
It was boring. Tedious. Beneath him.
The real opportunities lay elsewhere, in the rule Headmaster Sariah had ntioned during her briefing. Attacking other delegates was permitted. Knocking them unconscious or forcing ergency extraction would transfer half their accumulated points directly.
Why waste ti grinding through beast encounters when he could simply take points from delegates who’d already done that work?
His mind turned to potential targets, ntally cataloging the delegates he’d observed during the gathering. Most weren’t worth the effort, their point totals too low to justify hunting them down. But a few stood out, warriors whose capability suggested they’d accumulated substantial scores.
One face erged from his mory with crystal clarity.
Raze Dragonheart. The commoner elevated to Count, engaged to Princess Fedora despite having no noble lineage whatsoever. The upstart who’d stood in the courtyard accepting submission from Westia’s delegates like he deserved their loyalty.
Lucien’s jaw clenched, rembered humiliation flooding back. He’d pursued Fedora’s hand for two years, a political alliance that would have benefited both kingdoms while securing him a wife of appropriate beauty and bearing. The engagent would have been a perfect, natural union between established royal houses.
Then this nobody appeared, so peasant who’d gotten lucky with timing and circumstances, claiming what should have been Lucien’s through nothing but opportunistic audacity.
The engagent ceremony had been torture. Watching Fedora accept Dragonheart’s proposal, seeing King Harold approve the match, witnessing nobles who should have supported Astoria’s interests instead celebrating Westia’s internal politics.
And that gift. The Bephemoth Heartstring necklace, artifact that must have cost fortune or required dungeon clear of suicidal difficulty. Dragonheart presenting it like engagent gifts of that caliber were normal rather than extraordinary, making Lucien’s own prepared offerings seem inadequate by comparison.
The mory stoked rage that had been simring for weeks.
This examination provided an opportunity for correction. For demonstrating that noble breeding and proper training transcended lucky circumstances and unearned elevation.
Lucien checked his bracelet, pulling up the function that let delegates track general locations of others. The feature was deliberately vague, showing quadrant positions rather than precise coordinates, preventing it from becoming a simple assassination tool. But it was enough to identify hunting grounds and plan intercepts.
He searched for Dragonheart’s signature, bracelet display updating to show the commoner’s approximate location. Forest quadrant, several kiloters from Lucien’s current swamp position.
Perfect. The terrain between them would slow approach but not prevent it. And a forest environnt would provide cover for ambush, ways to negate whatever advantages Dragonheart’s bound creature might offer.
Lucien smiled, expression carrying nothing pleasant.
"Let’s see how the mighty Count handles real opposition," he murmured to the empty swamp. "Ti to teach you the difference between lucky peasants and actual nobility."
He started moving, enchanted sword ready and cultivation surging through ridians in preparation for what was coming.
‐‐‐
Headmaster Sariah watched the main leaderboard update, numbers shifting as delegates accumulated points and occasionally lost them through forced extraction.
The rankings had stabilized sowhat after the initial chaos, top perforrs establishing clear separation from the middle pack:
1. Gareth Valorian - 1,247 points
2. Raze Dragonheart - 923 points
3. Lucien Astoria - 687 points
4. Kira Steelheart - 654 points
5. Fedora Westia - 612 points
6. Ellen Nightingale - 589 points
7. Caius Stormweaver - 543 points
8. Darius Crawford - 521 points
9. Roland Frostbane - 498 points
10. Sylvia Quickblade - 467 points
"The Westia Count jumped to second," Dean Laurent observed with undisguised surprise. "His advancent rate is extraordinary. What’s his kill count?"
Sariah gestured, pulling up detailed statistics. "One hundred thirty seven confird kills. Mix of Expert Low through Expert Peak, with heavy concentration in the Expert Mid to High range. His efficiency is remarkable."
"And he’s still completely clean," Dean Winters added, watching Raze’s screen with professional appreciation. "Not a drop of blood on him despite over an hour of constant combat. That level of control is exceptional for soone his age."
"The bound creature helps," Dean Cortez noted. "That thing is fighting well above what juvenile form should allow. Grandmaster potential at minimum, possibly higher. Where did he acquire it?"
"Titan Heart dungeon according to preliminary reports," Sariah replied. "He cleared it shortly before departing for the Academy."
The Deans exchanged glances that suggested they recognized the significance. Titan Heart was notoriously dangerous, five floors of prehistoric apex predators culminating in Grandmaster Peak Bephemoth. Clearing it required a team of exceptional warriors or individuals of truly remarkable capability.
"Princess Fedora moved to fifth as well," Dean Laurent observed. "The Westia delegation is performing above expectations across multiple trics."
Sariah nodded slowly, her ancient eyes tracking patterns across hundreds of screens simultaneously. Westia had been considered a mid-tier kingdom historically, respectable but not exceptional. Yet their delegates were clustering in top rankings at rates that suggested sothing had changed.
Her attention focused on Raze’s screen, watching him move through forest with precision that belied his relatively low cultivation rank. Master Low shouldn’t produce this level of performance, shouldn’t generate point accumulation that put him ahead of cultivators an entire sub-rank higher.
But there he was, defying expectations through a combination of skill and that mysterious bound creature.
A grin spread across Sariah’s weathered face, an expression that would have surprised anyone who knew her typical stern deanor.
"Interesting," she murmured quietly.
The Deans turned to look at her, recognizing that particular tone. Their Headmaster only used that word when sothing had genuinely captured her attention, when patterns erged that suggested the future might prove more entertaining than the past.
"Very interesting indeed," Sariah continued, watching Raze’s screen as he and Bephe tore through another pack of Expert Peak beasts with casual efficiency.
This year’s intake would prove exceptional. She could feel it in her bones, instinct honed through centuries of observing humanity’s rising stars.
And the Westia Count might just be the most interesting of them all.
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