The second round had just begun, and my heart beat a little faster than usual.
Not from fear.
Excitement.
This wasn't like the first round, where we slaughtered fierce beasts for points like butchers in a meat market. No, this time, it was about coordination. Strategy. Defense. This wasn't just a test of strength. It was a test of leadership.
Of control.
Of intelligence.
And I wanted to prove I had all three.
I let out a slow breath, stretching my arms behind my head as the familiar tingle of teleportation mana stirred across my skin, crawling like a silent current beneath my uniform.
"Master," I whispered under my breath, addressing the ring around my finger—a vessel that housed the soul of the one who had trained me. "What do you think about this round?"
A shimmer of silver light flickered over the ring, coalescing into the faint silhouette of a man's face—stern, regal, and calm as ever.
"Julien," came his voice, smooth as ever. "This is the kind of trial that shapes champions. That's why I will not intervene this time."
My brow furrowed. "You mean… you're not going to help at all?"
"I've taught you what I could. Your technique, your instincts—this is where they're tested. If I speak now, it will only dull your edge. Go. Fight. Lead. You are ready."
Not a rejection.
A challenge.
And, in his own subtle way, a vote of confidence.
I nodded slowly. "Understood."
And then the world dissolved.
Mana surged upward like a tidal wave, swallowing my vision in blinding white light. The platform beneath my feet vanished, and I felt my body being pulled through the stream of teleportation. When the brightness faded, the world returned—sharper, colder.
I stood in an ancient stone hall.
Cracked marble tiles stretched beneath my boots. Vines and moss grew in the seams. Narrow windows, broken and jagged, let in sharp shards of morning light. Arched hallways opened into darkness, and the air smelled of dust, time, and mana.
A fortress.
Abandoned, but not dead.
Built for war.
At the heart of the chamber floated a glowing orb—deep violet, suspended above an etched stone pedestal ringed with ancient runes. Soft pulses of mana throbbed from its core, steady and powerful, like a giant heartbeat.
I stepped closer and saw the silver inscription carved into the surface of the orb:
[Arthur Valerian]
Of course.
Because who else would it be?
I turned, already knowing who I'd see.
Arthur stood near the far wall, back straight, arms crossed loosely as his golden eyes scanned every corner of the room. His black hair shimmered faintly red under the mana light, and there was no tension in his body—just calm, controlled awareness.
Even in silence, he radiated command.
He saw me. Nodded once.
I returned the gesture, stepping forward. "We meet again."
Arthur's gaze didn't waver. "Didn't expect to be on the same team."
"Neither did I." And truthfully, I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Standing beside someone like Arthur meant one of two things—you rose to meet him… or got left behind.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and a third figure emerged.
Tall. Spectacled. Chestnut-brown hair and calculating eyes.
"Ron Hollaran," he said, his voice even and unhurried. "Illusion mage. Minor noble. I specialize in trap runes and decoy wards. I'll handle perimeter deception and reinforcement glyphs around the core."
Arthur studied him. A brief pause, then a single nod. No small talk. No warmth. Just silent approval.
"Arthur Valerian."
That was all he said.
More footsteps. Confident. Rhythmic.
A fourth student entered, spinning his spear once before leaning on it with casual arrogance.
"Julien Reinhardt," he said smoothly, flashing a crooked grin. "Flaming Spear. Ranked among the top. I'll lead the charge."
He didn't need to say more. We all knew who he was.
Julien—the son of the famed Spear of Flame. A walking legacy. A reputation with skin.
It hit me then—this team wasn't random.
Arthur Valerian, the prodigy who awakened his ninth circuit at ten.
Julien Reinhardt, the flaming legacy who crushed every duel he fought.
Ron Hollaran, the cunning illusionist.
And then… the rest of us. Unknowns. Risks. Pieces to be placed.
The room filled quickly after that.
A boy with a predator's eyes and twin daggers stepped forward. "Nikolai Fen. Assassin. Dark affinity."
A tall, focused girl with short-cut hair nodded stiffly. "Leona Rystan. Speed sword user."
A stocky boy with scorched gloves added, "Drake Marnes. Fire magic."
A quiet girl, barely more than a whisper in form, spoke next. "Tess Elwen. Healer. Light affinity. From Valhalla Church."
Then came a wall of a boy with a tower shield. "Bryce Tawn. Shield and sword. Defense."
"Jace Morin," said the muscular teen cracking his knuckles. "Hand-to-hand. I hit stuff."
"Serra Quinlan," said the final girl, shouldering a sleek bow. "Archer."
No one laughed. No one smiled.
There wasn't time.
Arthur stepped forward, his presence like a blade cutting through fog.
"We're splitting into three squads," he began, tone even, but sharp enough to silence the room.
"Julien leads the assault squad. Leona, Jace—you're with him. Push through the central corridor and apply constant pressure. Be fast, loud, and deadly. Make them believe the core is unguarded."
Julien nodded. "Just the kind of assignment I like."
Leona said nothing. Just shifted her weight, blade ready.
Jace cracked his neck, then his fists. "Time to break bones."
Arthur turned. "Tess, Bryce, Rodin—you're on core defense. Bryce, your shield stays locked to the core. Rodin, barrier spells layered in cycles. Tess—heal only when it's critical. We conserve mana. No exceptions."
Tess gave a quiet, "Yes."
"Ron," Arthur said, already moving to the pedestal. "Traps at every entrance. Illusions on choke points. Make fake cores if you can. Multiple layers of deception. Keep them guessing."
"I've already started," Ron said, unrolling enchanted parchment. "Give me two minutes."
"Nikolai."
The assassin grinned without warmth. "I'll be where they least expect. Leave their commanders to me."
Arthur met his gaze, unflinching. "Do it clean."
Then he turned to the last two. "Serra, Drake—you're our ranged support. Cover every approach. You see anything moving? Fire first. Don't wait."
Drake clenched a fist. "Understood."
Serra just nodded, eyes narrowed.
The silence that followed was heavy. Tense.
Not a team.
Not yet.
Just strangers assigned to survive together.
So I stepped forward.
"We may not know each other," I said, letting my voice carry, "but if we follow the plan, we make it out. Simple as that."
A few turned toward me. Some with nods. Others with blank stares.
Trust didn't come easy.
Especially here.
Mana shimmered behind us as Ron's illusions came to life—dozens of flickering versions of ourselves and false Kingdom Cores layered through the ruined halls. They moved, flickered, even spoke in hushed voices.
A maze of lies.
"Good work," Arthur said softly.
Then he addressed all of us again, voice like cold iron. "This isn't about friendship. This is survival. You want someone to watch your back? Prove you deserve it—out there, not in here."
And with that, a bell echoed from above.
A deep, resonant sound that sent a chill down my spine.
The countdown had begun.
Five minutes.
That's all we had before the enemy arrived.
Five minutes to prepare.
Five minutes to earn our names.
And as Arthur stepped toward the violet core, placing one gloved hand on its glowing surface, I saw it clearly for the first time:
We weren't just here to protect mana.
We were here to protect the future.
Because in Eldrion, names mattered.
Legacies mattered.
And this round wasn't just a test.
It was a war game.
And I was ready to play.