[11th June]
The capital's stadium awakened once more.
Not with curiosity like the first day.
Not with excitement alone.
But with anticipation.
Today, Sections C and D would take the stage.
And everyone knew it.
From nobles in silk-lined galleries to commoners crammed shoulder to shoulder, no one wanted to miss what might be born today. Talents were no longer rumours. Monsters would finally step into the light.
Contestants arrived early.
Too early.
No one dared gamble their future on timing.
Inside the preparation hall, silence ruled.
Names scrolled across the massive screens.
Batch numbers rotated with mechanical precision.
Referees moved to their assigned grounds, faces stern, bodies tense.
Then, exactly on schedule, the host's voice thundered across the stadium.
"Citizens of the Dragon Kingdom," he announced.
"Today marks the second day of the Imperial University Selection Tournament."
The noise dipped, then steadied.
"Sections C and D will now commence."
A pause.
"Batch One contestants—report to your assigned grounds within two minutes. Failure to comply will result in immediate disqualification."
The first forty moved instantly.
No chatter.
No hesitation.
Rey watched calmly from the side.
Battles erupted.
Some ended before the crowd could even react.
Others dragged on, grit and desperation grinding against skill.
Rey's eyes narrowed slightly.
'This is different.'
Not overwhelming.
But sharper.
Cleaner.
'The weak are already thinning out.'
Batch One ended swiftly.
Batch Two followed.
Then Three.
The pace was ruthless.
Efficient.
Rey didn't feel bored.
He felt… satisfied.
'Good. End it quickly.
Let me fight.
Let me leave after that.'
As the batches passed, his gaze grew more focused. He catalogued movements. Judged footwork. Measured intent.
There were still many average fighters.
But now—
A few stood out.
'Maybe my batch won't be disappointing.'
When the third batch ended, Rey stood.
Not abruptly.
Not nervously.
Simply… when it was time.
Several others near him rose as well.
Phone vanished into the inventory.
Weapons were adjusted.
Breaths slowed.
No one approached Rey.
Partly because of his calm.
Mostly because of how out of place he looked.
Armour was everywhere—steel plates, leather coats, reinforced guards.
Rey wore none of it.
Only a long, dark overcoat that hung lightly over his frame.
Too light.
Too casual.
It didn't scream weakness.
It whispered confidence.
And people listened.
They unconsciously gave him space.
Rey didn't mind.
The Shadowbranch Bow rested across his back, quiver steady at his side. The dagger beneath his coat was perfectly positioned, hidden but ready.
Focus.
"Batch Four—enter."
The gates opened.
Rey stepped onto the battlefield.
Sunlight crashed down on him, heat and noise colliding in a single overwhelming wave. Thousands of voices surged together, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
He didn't flinch.
He walked forward with the others, posture relaxed, eyes scanning.
Ground numbers were clear.
Referees stood ready.
Ground Seven.
Rey stopped.
His opponent wasn't there.
He glanced left.
Right.
Every other ground was occupied.
Thirty-nine contestants stood ready.
Only his ground was incomplete.
The referee frowned, murmuring urgently into his headset.
Seconds passed.
Then—
"If your opponent fails to appear within two minutes," the referee announced, "you will be declared the winner."
A countdown began.
Rey's eyes drifted toward the entrance gate.
He felt no relief.
Only irritation.
'Winning like this proves nothing.'
Whispers spread through the crowd.
Some scoffed.
Some smirked.
Some looked envious.
Rey waited.
Calm.
Patient.
He didn't believe his opponent had vanished.
Someone like him wouldn't.
"Two minutes have passed. The winner of Ground Seven is—"
"Wait."
A voice cut through the stadium.
Clear.
Unhurried.
Confident.
Every head turned.
A figure stepped through the gate.
A long sword rested across his back, black sheath faintly humming with restrained power. His steps were relaxed, almost lazy, as if time bent slightly to accommodate him.
Black hair framed a handsome face.
A dangerous kind of charm.
He hadn't rushed.
He hadn't apologised.
He walked like the world would wait.
Rey exhaled slowly.
'Good.
At least fate didn't cheat me.'
But the crowd—
The crowd reacted instantly.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Sharp intakes of breath.
One contestant muttered nearby, voice low and grim.
"This guy's luck really turned into a nightmare."
"What?" another whispered. "Who is he?"
The first scoffed softly.
"You're not from the capital, are you?"
"No."
"That's Aric Falk."
The name carried weight.
"The pride of the Falk Noble House. A sword prodigy. Peak Initiate—some say he can already challenge a freshly ascended Apprentice."
The listener stiffened.
"And that's not even the worst part," the man continued.
"Pure Lightning Spiritual Root. Born chosen. Rumoured candidate for Duke Stormrend's disciple."
A pause.
"He's a genius among geniuses."
Silence followed.
Someone whispered, "Thank the heavens I didn't meet him today…"
Rey heard every word.
His expression didn't change.
But something inside him sharpened.
A storm-bringer.
Not empty fame.
Not borrowed talent.
A real blade.
Rey adjusted his stance.
The wind shifted subtly across the arena.
For a brief moment—
It felt like the stadium itself was holding its breath.
This was no longer a first-round match.
This was fate stepping in.
And refusing to look away.
Rey exhaled slowly.
'Hoh… so fate decided to mock me today.
Ask for a challenge, and it throws the hardest one it can find.'
His gaze stayed steady on the man approaching.
'Still… he's not a god.'
That thought alone was enough to anchor him.
Aric Falk stepped onto Ground Seven with unhurried confidence.
Not a trace of tension.
Not even a hint of urgency.
As if the match had already ended in his mind.
He stopped beside the referee and casually pulled out his Applicant ID, handing it over without even glancing at Rey.
Rey followed suit.
Both IDs were checked.
"Ground Seven," the referee confirmed.
"Applicant 17,329 versus 19,082."
Only the winner would reclaim their ID.
The loser would walk away empty-handed.
They returned to their starting positions.
Rey settled into his stance, breathing slowly, posture grounded.
Aric… didn't.
His sword remained strapped to his back, sealed in its black sheath.
Relaxed.
Almost bored.
That irritation Rey had been suppressing finally surfaced.
"Aren't you going to draw your sword?" Rey asked, voice calm but edged.
"Or is that just decoration?"
Aric chuckled softly.
"Oh? I thought it would be overkill," he replied lazily.
"A long-range fighter against a swordsman? Feels unfair, doesn't it?"
A few laughs rippled through the crowd.
Aric's tone wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Confidence like his didn't shout. It assumed.
Rey's jaw tightened.
"I suggest you draw it," he said quietly.
"Because if you don't… even I can't guarantee what happens next."
That drew attention.
Aric's brows lifted slightly, amused.
"Oh? Brave words."
He smiled, warm and dazzling, the kind that made people forget danger.
"If you're asking for a brutal loss instead of a clean one, who am I to deny you?"
Girls in the stands squealed.
Some even applauded.
Rey closed his eyes for half a second.
'Enough.'
Mana stirred.
Not explosively.
Not recklessly.
But deliberately.
'I wasn't planning to use it today.
But holding back here would be stupidity.
I'll show you something your sheltered life has never prepared you for.'
When Rey opened his eyes again, the tension around him had changed.
Sharper.
Denser.
The referee felt it and stepped back instinctively, raising his hand to signal the start.
The stadium quieted.
Not because they were told to.
Because instinct demanded it.
This wasn't just a match anymore.
It was Aric Falk, the shining genius of the capital.
Against a nameless archer in a coat too light for battle.
Most nobles had already decided the outcome.
Except one.
Hosric sat rigid in the noble gallery, fingers clenched.
'This isn't a hurdle…This is a wall.
Rey… if you fall here, it won't just end with hurting your body.'
Elsewhere in the stands, two figures watched closely.
Gravion leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest.
Beside him sat a lean young man holding a spear that clearly didn't match his worn clothes.
Davin.
The Demon Spear.
Their meeting yesterday had gone exactly as Gravion predicted.
Bullied.
Cornered.
A noble's pride was bruised after defeat.
Gravion had stepped in at the perfect moment.
A saviour.
A benefactor.
A friend.
A Peak Stage 1 spear, gifted like it meant nothing.
For Davin, it meant everything.
Now they hunted talent together.
And Gravion's gaze never left Ground Seven.
'Interesting…'
He knew Aric Falk.
Everyone did.
In the future, his name would echo through eras.
Nine-Heavens Lightning Swordsman.
A man who would one day command nine heavenly lightnings and stand against a near-divine being without kneeling.
Undefeated.
Unbroken.
Until death.
'Today won't change that,' Gravion thought calmly.
'But this match… will tell me something important.'
On the battlefield, the air itself felt charged.
Rey stood still, bow in hand, presence coiled tight.
Aric finally reached back.
With a soft metallic whisper, he drew his sword.
Lightning flickered faintly along the sheath's edge.
The referee's voice rang out.
"Match—"
The world seemed to pause.
Every eye locked onto Ground Seven.
The result felt obvious.
The tension said otherwise.
And only one truth remained:
When the fight ended, someone's belief was going to shatter.