The final light of day cast long shadows across the arena floor.
The sun's beam, tracked across the ceiling's curved glass, hovered inches from the final mark. A single line engraved on the marble told the story of time. And when the light touched it, the test would end.
The last batch was called.
Xero stood among the final twenty.
They were a ragged mix. A girl with fire-scarred skin. A boy who walked with a limp from the third test. A quiet twin-blade wielder who hadn't spoken once. Survivors—not all of them skilled, but all tenacious.
Xero clenched his fists. His body ached, but his mind was sharp.
This was it.
They stepped forward.
The crowd of recruits watched in silence. The others—those who had landed their strikes—were gone. Teleported away to some safe location. The ones who failed were dead, eyes dark with fatigue and death.
Master Idran stood as he had from the start.
Unmoving. Calm. Perfect.
The instructor's voice rang out one final time:
"Begin."
The air shifted. The recruits charged.
The clash began like a crashing wave—twenty bodies surging across the arena, screaming, shouting, drawing blades, summoning power. The energy in the air crackled.
A boy in the front threw three knives at once. Idran caught two between his fingers and twisted his torso to allow the third to graze harmlessly past. His expression didn't change. Before the boy could react, Idran stepped forward with ghost-like speed and tapped the center of his chest. The boy's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed on the ground unconscious.
Another recruit, a girl with thick metal gauntlets, roared as she launched herself forward. She was large and muscular, and her footfalls cracked the stone beneath her. She swung a heavy right fist toward Idran's head.
He bent backwards, just enough for the fist to miss by inches, then used her own momentum to redirect her into a spin. With a precise jab to the back of her neck, she dropped like a stone, coughing out blood and bleeding from her head.
Xero hadn't moved yet. Not even a step.
He crouched at the edge of the arena, hidden by the chaos, observing every motion. Every strike. Every dodge. His eyes burned with focus.
Idran blurred again.
A spearman jabbed from a distance, aiming for Idran's torso with a rapid series of thrusts. Idran spun, parried the strikes with open palms, then caught the shaft of the weapon, twisted it, and launched the spear backward—into the stomach of another charging recruit.
Two down with one motion.
A red-haired boy shouted from behind and unleashed a wave of flame, engulfing half the arena in a wall of fire. Idran moved before the flames formed. He leapt above the blaze, flipped, and kicked the boy across the jaw mid-air. The flames dissipated and the boy crumpled on the ground. His jaw had shifted and was brutally dislocated.
Now Xero moved.
Not toward Idran. Not yet.
He crept sideways along the circular edge of the arena, using the fallen bodies and the thick columns as cover. He was light on his feet, nearly silent.
A girl named Freya raised her hands and summoned a swirling vortex of wind, creating a mini-tornado in the center of the arena. Dust and debris whipped into the air. Visibility dropped.
Three recruits dove into the storm with knives drawn, hoping the distraction would help.
Idran's voice echoed calmly.
"Predictable. Too Predictable."
He emerged from the whirlwind unscathed. One attacker lunged at him with twin daggers. Idran stepped forward, inside the swing radius, and struck the boy's throat with the side of his hand. A gurgled sound escaped his lips before he hit the ground. Blood spouted from an open wound on his throat.
Freya wasn't done.
She followed up with a pressure burst—compressed air shot from her palms. It blasted toward Idran like a cannon.
He dropped into a split-second slide, letting the burst tear overhead. Then he kicked upward, striking her under the chin with surgical precision. Freya flipped in the air and crashed.
Seven recruits down.
Xero narrowed his eyes. He had seen something.
In the half-second after the burst, Idran's balance shifted. His feet had spread wider than normal. The recovery had been slower.
A weakness...Maybe.
Another recruit, one of the quiet ones, knelt and began carving glowing runes into the floor. Light spilled out from each stroke. It was a spell. A trap.
Idran stopped. Tilted his head.
Then disappeared.
He reappeared behind the caster and tapped the back of his skull. The boy collapsed over his half-finished runes.
"What the... what sort of magic is that? Fuck! Damn! We are as good dead." someone cried out.
Another stepped in—this one wielding a scythe longer than his tall frame. He spun it in dizzying circles, keeping Idran at bay.
Idran didn't engage.
Instead, he waited. Patient.
When the recruit lunged, Idran ducked beneath the swing, caught the haft, and disarmed the boy in a single pivot. Then he kicked the scythe aside and knocked the recruit unconscious with a backfist.
Ten left.
Xero took position behind a column, watching carefully.
A trio charged from three directions: one from behind, one to the side, one overhead.
Perfect triangulation.
They thought they had him. They were wrong.
Idran spun on one foot, using the force of his rotation to knock two aside with minimal effort. The third, mid-air, was grabbed and hurled to the floor. At last his hits had left them half dead. Only a matter of time for them to finally breath their last.
Only seven remained.
Now was the time.
Xero ran.
He didn't head straight for Idran. He ran toward the wreckage of the broken spear he had seen earlier.
He grabbed the half shaft, flipped it in his hand, and hurled it—not at Idran, but at the arena wall behind him. It clanged loudly.
Idran's head turned.
Just for a second.
Rina—the blade dancer—attacked.
She twirled, blades flashing, slicing in wide arcs that forced Idran to engage.
He blocked, parried, countered.
Xero closed in.
Fast.
Silent.
He reached the edge of the engagement.
Rina screamed and drove her left blade toward Idran's chest. He caught it.
Right then—Xero lunged.
His reversed blade touched Idran's side.
Tap.
Slice.
Light.
Voom.
Xero vanished.
He reappeared in a quiet chamber lit with warm orange lanterns. Soft cushions lined the floor. A scent of herbs hung in the air.
He was alone. Out the last batch he was the only one here now. Then he looked at the counter outside the hall. Time had elapsed and if there was anyone still fighting then all that was in vain. Their time had elapsed and failure was written in.
He had been lucky to strike then. A simple wrong timing would have costed him this test or his death.
Master Idran stood before him, arms folded.
"You saw the pattern," he said.
Xero blinked. He was too engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice him close in.
"I waited," he said. "Watched. I didn't want to fight you head-on."
"Wise."
"You were distracted." Xero added.
Idran smiled. "And that was the test."
Xero stared. "It wasn't about strength."
"No. It was about opportunity. Only those who understood that survived."
He stepped forward.
"You learn well, Xero. Very well."
Xero breathed hard. His heart thumped. Sweat poured from his brow.
But he smiled.
He had passed. He had landed the strike. He had survived. And something stirred in him. Not pride. Something else.
A shadow.
Something whispering beneath his skin.
It had guided him. Helped him. Slid his blade forward at the right time.
Whatever it was—it was waking up.
But for now, he would rest.
He had earned it.
And the fifth test still waited.