After Archmage Eldrin's speech, a thunderous applause erupted from the stands, accompanied by shouts and cheers of enthusiasm that filled the arena. The excitement was palpable, a wave of energy sweeping over everyone present.
The metallic clang of the iron gate closing behind Lyria Tessel, Eldrin Masjo, and Teur Draven echoed through the arena, leaving Gorrim Tarre alone at the center of the platform.
The air buzzed with anticipation, and soon the stands fell silent, all eyes fixed on the imposing figure of the Tanker supervisor, ready to face the first candidate.
Mirac, seated between Blake and Carmen, observed the scene with keen eyes, his heart beating steadily.
Beneath his black mask, which covered his face except for his eyes, his gaze focused on Gorrim.
Carmen, beside him, kept her arms crossed, her face impassive.
Blake nervously tapped his fingers on his knee, his eyes wide with excitement.
The wind stirred grains of packed earth around Gorrim, creating fleeting spirals in the air.
His massive steel-clad figure gleamed under the sunlight.
"Number 2, Korren Halstead!" Gorrim roared, his voice like thunder, making the stands tremble.
Korren, a sturdy young man, rose from the stands, headed toward an entrance carved into the stone blocks, and descended the staircase leading to the arena's lower access.
For a moment, he disappeared from sight, swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel.
Then, amid the growing murmur of the spectators, he reappeared: emerging from the mouth of the tunnel reserved for the contenders, stepping directly into the arena—already equipped with battle armor.
He wore an iron breastplate made of overlapping plates, painted ash gray with red borders.
The shield on his left arm was rectangular, sturdy, and decorated with various geometric engravings.
In his hand, he held a war axe, less massive than Gorrim's, but still menacing, with a double-curved blade and a hilt wrapped in braided cord.
Mirac observed him closely, intrigued.
Recalling Eldrin's earlier words, the masked boy hypothesized that there must be an area along the access corridor where candidates were provided with weapons and armor.
Perhaps that was where each candidate received standardized equipment tailored to their Class.
Meanwhile, Korren had stopped in front of the large gate marking the arena's entrance.
His face was tense, his vigilant eyes fixed on the imposing Master.
He swallowed hard but advanced with steady steps until he reached the center of the arena.
Gorrim pulled his axe from the ground with a fluid motion, lifting it with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
"Candidate, prepare yourself!" the Tanker Master exclaimed, his tone stern and uncompromising.
Korren nodded, planting his feet firmly on the ground.
With a deep breath, the young man closed his eyes for a moment, placing a hand on his shield and whispering what seemed to be an incantation.
When his lips stopped moving, crimson flames erupted from his body, enveloping his shield in a blazing glow that made the air crackle.
The runes etched into the metal lit up, pulsing like a fiery heart, while a trail of heat surrounded his arms and torso, enhancing his muscles with incandescent energy.
The metal reflected the flames' light, and his breathing became short but controlled, his red eyes burning with determination.
A murmur rose from the stands as the air shimmered around the Tanker like it was above a living flame.
Gorrim observed him with a satisfied smile. "Good… Let's begin!"
With a war cry, the Master charged forward, his axe tracing a devastating arc toward Korren.
The young man raised his shield, strengthened by enhancement magic, and the impact was like thunder: a wave of heat burst forth, kicking up dust and fragments of dry earth in a scorching whirlwind.
Korren staggered, his knees trembling under the brutal force, but his guard held firm, his body and shield reinforced by the crimson flames.
Without a moment's pause, Gorrim spun, delivering a second blow from the right, the axe whistling through the air.
Korren channeled more energy into his enhancement magic: the flames roared around his shield, helping him parry the blow with greater ease.
At the impact, the metal screeched but held strong.
Using the enhanced strength, Korren retaliated with an axe swing, his empowered muscles guiding the blade toward Gorrim's flank.
But without showing the slightest effort, the Master deflected the attack with the handle of his axe, quick as lightning.
"Not bad!" he grunted, a glint of approval in his eyes.
Gorrim's third blow came from above, a strike that seemed to cleave the air itself.
Korren, still reinforced by magic, raised his shield, but this time Gorrim's force brought him to his knees—the flames pulsed weakly under the pressure.
Gritting his teeth, his face contorted with effort, he remained kneeling for a moment, trembling under the blow's weight.
Only by channeling another surge of Mana into his enhancement magic did he finally stand, letting out a stifled roar.
While his muscles tensed and the flames enveloped him once more, Korren seized the moment when his body was still charged with magical energy to swing his axe in a decisive arc toward Gorrim, forcing the Master to step back to parry.
The stands erupted in murmurs of astonishment as Gorrim tilted his head, acknowledging the candidate's tenacity.
"Heh!" the Tanker Master chuckled.
In an instant, he closed the distance to the candidate, launching his fourth attack: a swift, relentless horizontal strike aimed at Korren's torso.
The young Tanker reinforced his shield with enhancement magic, parrying the attack just in time, though he felt the metal groan with a high-pitched wail.
Gorrim's fifth blow, a diagonal slash, made the arena tremble.
With his Mana beginning to wane, Korren planted himself firmly in the packed earth. His reinforced shield absorbed the impact, but his left arm trembled visibly.
With a defiant roar, Korren attempted another attack, a thrust with his axe guided by enhanced strength, aiming for Gorrim's shoulder.
The Master blocked it effortlessly, but a smile curled his lips beneath his visor.
"You've got guts, kid!"
The Master's sixth and seventh blows came in rapid succession: two crisscrossing slashes that hammered Korren's shield.
The flames of his enhancement magic flickered, the shield's metal now deformed.
Despite this, Korren held on, sweat streaming down his face, his breathing labored.
Gorrim's eighth blow was a spinning attack, so powerful it pushed Korren back several meters.
At that point, the stands exploded in a frenzy of astonishment, candidates leaning forward, stunned by the young Tanker's tenacity.
Korren, with his Mana nearly depleted, reinforced his shield with visible effort, resisting Gorrim's increasingly rapid strikes with sheer determination.
"You just won't quit, huh?" Gorrim roared, his voice laced with respect and a hint of admiration as he intensified the speed and strength of his attacks.
It was true that Korren managed to parry the Master's blows, but not without difficulty: his body staggered under each impact, his arms trembling, his breath short. His magical energy, nearly exhausted, dwindled with every second.
Yet, in the midst of that vise of steel and fire, Korren found the strength for a third attack: a slow, heavy swing guided by enhancement magic.
Gorrim, however, swift as lightning, deflected the attack with a simple wrist motion.
Immediately after, the Tanker Master countered with a diagonal slash.
Korren, at his limit, raised his shield to intercept the next blow—the flames that once enveloped him reduced to faint sparks.
But as his instincts had anticipated, the impact of the diagonal slash was devastating: it forced him back several steps, the metal groaning under the titanic force.
With one final, desperate effort, Korren channeled the last of his Mana into his body, launching a fourth and final axe thrust aimed at Gorrim's chest.
But once again, the Master parried with ease.
Then, leaving no room for hope, he countered with a horizontal slash that was the finishing blow.
Korren tried to summon one last spark of enhancement magic to defend himself, but his shield, now a wreck, shattered in an explosion of incandescent sparks. The glowing fragments rained onto the ground like falling stars.
Defenseless, the young Tanker was hurled backward. He fell with a dull thud, his axe slipping from his hand, his breath stolen by the blow, his enhancement magic completely gone.
Gorrim stopped, planting his axe in the packed earth with a heavy thud that shook the ground, his helmet reflecting the last sparks in the arena's air.
"Test concluded," he roared, his voice echoing like thunder.
Korren struggled to his feet, retrieving his axe and leaning heavily on it like a staff, his face drenched in sweat. Every muscle screamed from the superhuman effort, but his eyes burned with an unyielding spark of pride.
"Twelve defensive blocks, four offensive attempts, enhancement magic well utilized," Gorrim declared, his deep voice resonating through the arena, tinged with respect that hushed the stands. "Remarkable endurance and enhancement magic, candidate, but your strategy needs tactical improvement. That aside, excellent work! You may return to your seat."
At those words, a roar of applause erupted from the stands, a wave of enthusiasm sweeping the arena as the ground still smoked from the heat of the clash.
Drenched in sweat, Korren looked up at Gorrim, his eyes glowing with a pride brighter than the now-extinguished flames.
"Thank you… sir," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
After giving Gorrim a modest bow, the young man headed back to his seat—each step a triumph of will.
As he climbed the stands, the applause mingled with a chorus of murmurs: some candidates whispered in awe of his tenacity against a Master like Gorrim, others muttered nervously, intimidated by the Tanker's overwhelming power.
Blake was among those clapping enthusiastically, his hands beating frantically, his eyes wide with excitement.
Carmen, in contrast, remained still, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the platform.
Mirac, meanwhile, was lost in thought:
'That guy managed to withstand twelve blows from a Tanker Master. He's got talent, no doubt about it!' he reflected, his eyes narrowed. 'Although, come to think of it… Unlike Korren, Gorrim didn't enhance himself even once! I didn't sense a single trace of Mana in his movements. So, I suppose he wasn't really serious in this fight…'
As the applause echoed through the arena, Gorrim quietly withdrew, disappearing behind the heavy metal gates that closed with a dull clang.
In his place, two familiar figures emerged slowly from the same tunnel: Lyria Tessel and Eldrin Masjo.
The latter wore his usual long gray robe, reaching his ankles, exuding an air of austerity and calm.
Beside him, Lyria sported lightweight black leather armor, adorned with silver inlays forming patterns of broken wings along the shoulders.
Her curved daggers had handles decorated with red gems, and a purple silk scarf fluttered around her neck with every movement.
"Number 1, Felisia Tausah!" Lyria called, her tone cold as steel.
Felisia, a young woman with short charcoal-black hair, draped in an asymmetrical cloak that fell over one shoulder, rose from the candidates and descended the stairs with determined steps.
Like Korren, she vanished for a moment into the shadows of the staircase leading to the battlefield.
When she emerged from the tunnel and entered the arena, Mirac noticed that the girl had decided not to wear any kind of armor—probably to avoid being weighed down and thus slowed.
As for weapons, she had chosen two daggers with sharp blades, their hilts wrapped in black silk that intertwined like serpents.
When Felisia reached the two supervisors, Archmage Eldrin wasted no time: he took a deep breath and, with a measured gesture, raised his right hand.
From that simple wrist movement, a faint magical energy emanated, and within moments, a dozen fiery targets formed, suspended in midair by invisible threads of Mana.
The targets moved in circles, some faster, others with unpredictable trajectories, creating a controlled chaos that captured the attention of all the candidates.
After adding the final touches, Eldrin turned without a word and left the arena, disappearing through the exit tunnel.
Meanwhile, Lyria turned to the girl.
"Candidate number 1… are you ready?" the woman asked, drawing her daggers.
Felisia didn't respond immediately.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting Mana flow through her veins like liquid fire.
A subtle, almost invisible aura enveloped her body, enhancing her muscles and sharpening her reflexes.
When she opened her eyes, Felisia nodded firmly. "Yes, ma'am!"
Lyria gave a faint smile, a flash of approval that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Alright then… Three… Two-"
But Lyria cut herself off and moved before saying "one," without any warning.
For a moment, her figure seemed to vanish entirely, as if she had disappeared into thin air before the spectators' eyes, while a lightning-quick motion propelled her forward with such astonishing speed it left the impression she had simply vanished.
Actually, what had happened in that split second was that Lyria had lunged forward with a sudden, silent thrust, so fast that she could catch anyone off guard.
And for the briefest instant, Felisia was.
She hadn't quite expected it—not so soon, and not like that.
But the Mana she had already directed through her muscles, tendons, and senses was amplifying every perception, shortening every reaction time.
So even before a conscious thought could fully form, her body was already in motion.
With a swift, precise sidestep, she narrowly dodged the blow, letting the air brush past the spot she had occupied just a moment earlier.
There was no hesitation in her movements—only trained, enhanced instinct guiding her—and without pausing for even a heartbeat, she used the momentum to head straight toward her first target, her cloak billowing lightly behind her as if it were part of her own body.
Lyria's sudden attack hadn't just been an attempt to catch her off guard—it had been a test, a silent assessment of her readiness.
And even though doubt had flickered in Felisia's mind for less than a second, in the end, she had responded as expected of an Assassin: with razor-sharp reflexes, cold blood, and lethal precision.
'Not bad…' Lyria thought, watching the candidate as she ran toward one of the many floating fireballs.
Meanwhile, Felisia's dagger sliced through the fire of the first target, disintegrating it into a cascade of sparks and producing a sharp whistle that echoed through the arena.
But Lyria was already on her heels, pursuing like a predator.
With a fluid motion, her dagger flashed toward Felisia's neck, the steel reflecting light like a bolt of lightning.
Felisia parried the strike with her second dagger, the metal screeching in a high-pitched wail, and with a swift motion, she lunged toward another target.
Her hand moved with surgical precision, throwing a dagger that struck the center of the fiery sphere, causing it to explode in golden sparks.
The crowd held its breath, mesmerized by the deadly dance of the two women.
Felisia moved among the targets, her cloak billowing like a black wing, each step a perfect balance of grace and power.
She struck a third target, then a fourth and a fifth, her daggers cutting through the air with astonishing speed, the sparks illuminating her tense, focused face.
But Lyria gave her no respite: she was always one step behind, her daggers tracing lethal arcs, forcing Felisia to split her attention between the targets and the constant threat at her back.
With a bold move, Felisia blocked a slash from Lyria. The clash of blades rang out like a bell.
Then, seizing the moment, she countered with a quick thrust that forced Lyria to step back.
Felisia took the opportunity to swiftly strike a sixth, seventh, and eighth target, the sparks bursting like fireworks, illuminating the arena's arid ground.
But when Felisia turned to face Lyria again… she was gone!
Once more, she seemed to have vanished into thin air!
Felisia froze. She felt her heart race, her senses alerted by a sudden intuition.
But it was too late: Lyria was already behind her!
Before Felisia could react, one of Lyria's daggers flashed like lightning, aimed at the candidate's neck.
Guided by instinct and the Mana sharpening her reflexes, Felisia tilted her head to the left, the blade grazing her cheek with a chilling whistle.
But immediately after narrowly dodging the attack, she felt the cold edge of Lyria's second dagger press with lethal precision against her Adam's apple.
Felisia gritted her teeth, her breathing ragged.
With her body tense and no escape left, she dropped the daggers to the ground with a dull thud, the sound marking the end of the fight.
Only then did Lyria lower her dagger, still pointed at the throat of the disarmed girl.
Then, keeping her gaze fixed on her, she stepped back a few paces.
"You were doing well, but then you let your guard down and lost sight of me," Lyria said, her voice calm but sharp, as she sheathed her weapons with agile, measured movements. "You rely too much on your instinct, as if it were enough to guide you on its own. But a true Assassin must combine natural reflexes with awareness, always maintaining conscious control of the situation. If you hadn't made this mistake, the fight would have continued, and you probably would have managed to hit more than eight targets."
Felisia said nothing, but her downcast gaze and clenched fists betrayed the frustration she was desperately trying to hide: a quiet yet unmistakable hint of disappointment.
"Anyway, the test is over. Return to your seat now," Lyria ordered.
Felisia turned silently, heading toward the tunnel to ascend to the stands, catching her breath with each step.
"Tsk!" A sharp, barely hissed sound escaped her lips as she vanished into the tunnel's shadows.
Meanwhile, Mirac's mind processed what he had just seen:
'When Felisia turned to strike those three targets, Lyria seized the moment to slip away quietly. Then, fearing another attack from behind, Felisia turned to face the instructor. But at that precise moment, as the candidate was pivoting, Lyria exploited her blind spot to approach and circle around her unseen, creating the illusion of having vanished. And finally, before Felisia could react, Lyria surprised her from behind, forcing her to surrender. Truly an execution worthy of her title as Master Assassin!'
Mirac tilted his head just enough to catch Carmen, seated beside him, with her arms crossed and her face impassive, out of the corner of his eye.
'I'd love to see a fight between her and Carmen…' the masked boy thought.
But Mirac was far from the only one, in that moment, secretly watching her with a gaze filled with curiosity and unspoken intentions…
In the shadows of the corridor leading to Arena 02, a presence was staring intently at Carmen—particularly at her red hair.
'That hair…! That damn hair! It looks so damn much like his…!' thought the figure hidden in the darkness, as an echo of long-buried memories and emotions suddenly awakened, crashing over them without warning. 'Is it just a coincidence, or could it be that she's also one of them?'