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Chapter 110 - Chapter 110: Unexpected Visitor!

"Congratulations... 120 of you have made it to the next stage of the training, while the rest of you will remain here. You will train for one full year. Whether you eventually succeed or not is up to you," Uriel Commes, the Scarlet Raven, announced, his voice echoing like a decree from the heavens themselves.

Silence fell on the training ground. For a moment, no one moved. Then slowly, cheers and relieved sighs rose from the selected 120. A few jumped. Some cried. Others simply slumped to their knees from exhaustion, sweat trickling down their backs, unsure if they should laugh or sleep right there on the floor.

The trainees had been at it all day, grinding their minds and spirits against the invisible wall of mana. Jalel Arvey and his 49 goons—once rebels, now the most reformed souls you'd ever meet—had surprisingly made the cut. Cole and his entire room of guys had also made it, much to Innik's loud and exaggerated celebration, which earned him a glare from Uriel that made him freeze mid-jump.

Wuza Selone and all four other girls in her shared room had made it through too. Agatha and Lois exchanged surprised glances. They didn't expect unity to be the key, but somehow, their teamwork and emotional breakthroughs had paid off.

But not everyone tasted success.

The ones who didn't make it stood off to the side, faces blank, some stunned, others holding back tears. Their bodies trembled from the emotional toll of the day—and the weight of failure.

One girl, barely sixteen, rushed forward, her face contorted in desperation. "Please, Master Raven! Just one more chance! I was so close—I could feel it—please, let me try again, just once more tonight!"

Uriel turned to her slowly.

There was no malice in his eyes. No rage. But the look he gave her was colder than winter steel.

"The test is over," he said flatly.

"But—"

"Emotion is the key to mana. But desperation is not clarity," he added, his tone now soft, but still final. "Come back tomorrow. Begin your year. You'll either rise, or you won't. That is the only second chance you get."

The girl froze, swallowed her protest, and bowed, tears sliding down her cheeks as she walked back.

The others who failed didn't even try to beg.

They had seen what a "yes" sounded like—and that wasn't it.

"Dismissed," Uriel said finally, and with that, he turned and walked away, his dark robes fluttering behind him, trailing silence and a hundred troubled thoughts in his wake.

Archmage Amber Nois, who had watched the entire day's performance from her elevated seat, stood slowly, giving the selected ones a final approving nod.

"Rest well. Tomorrow… you truly begin the Oradonian path."

And with that, the day ended.

But for the 120, this was just the beginning.

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Region 1

Imperial city

Emperor's palace

While sweat and mana flowed like rivers in the Oradonian training grounds in Duke city, a very different energy filled the Emperor's quarters in the capital. Emperor Groa Aratat lounged lazily on his royal bed—an enormous construct of blackwood and golden trims, draped in crimson silk.

Two women, dressed in little more than perfume and silver chains, tended to him. One straddled his lap, giggling as she traced a finger along his jaw, while the other dangled a plump, glistening grape above his open mouth. He bit into it with the kind of indulgent glee that only came from years of unchallenged power.

The Emperor chuckled as juice dribbled down his chin. He pulled one of the women into a kiss, growling like a beast mid-feast. "Ahhh... the empire is quiet today. I love days like this."

But the room, once echoing with the light giggles of concubines and the shuffling of silk sheets, suddenly fell into an unnatural stillness. The fire in the wall torches dimmed slightly, and a strange, bone-deep chill swept through the air.

Then came a laugh.

Not just any laugh—one that made the grapes curdle in the bowl, and sent the two women scrambling behind the emperor like frightened kittens.

A voice followed. Smooth. Rich. Deadly.

> "So, this is what the mighty Emperor of the Nazare Blade Empire does all day. Interesting. I've been here for two hours, just observing the view and taking notes..., sigh, and I must say—this little peep show has given me more insight into your empire than your generals ever could."

Emperor Groa's blood turned to ice. He leapt to his feet, nearly tripping over his robe as he snatched for the glowing sword that hung by the edge of his bed.

"Who's there?!" he barked, voice shaking despite the effort to keep it firm. "Show yourself!"

There was a flicker by the fireplace—a ripple in the shadows. Then, as if darkness itself had grown legs, a figure peeled away from the wall. Tall, regal, and draped in robes that shimmered like the surface of an obsidian lake beneath moonlight, he stepped forward. His face… if one could call it that, was a sculpted mockery of humanity—smooth, pale, and chilling enough to make Antarctica wrap itself in a blanket. There were no eyes, only an abyss where they should have been, and below the hood, a grin stretched impossibly wide, carved from nightmare and silence.

The Trickster God.

The Emperor snatched up the glowing blade—his imperial sword, forged in ether fire of the spirit world, and blessed by the elder seers of the Nazarene bloodline. Its light flared to life as he gripped the hilt, veins tightening, heart pounding like a war drum. Whatever this abomination was, Groa Aratat, Emperor of the Nazare Blade Empire, would not go down without a fight. His stance was firm, defiant—ready to unleash all his might, even if it meant death.

"Don't bother," the Trickster said casually, inspecting his fingernails as if this were all terribly boring. "There's no sword forged by mortal hands that can cut me. And no prayer loud enough to call one who can."

Groa froze. Every instinct screamed at him to run, fight, call the guards—anything. But one look at the being before him told him a harsher truth:

This was no man.

The air around the Trickster God hummed with chaotic energy. It wasn't the overwhelming pressure of a brute force mage. It was more terrifying than that—it was the unpredictability. The feeling that at any moment, this figure could rewrite reality with a snap of his fingers and smile while doing it.

"The only person who might've posed a challenge?" The Trickster chuckled. "He's currently screaming in the 5th dimension—taking my place. Rather poetic, wouldn't you say?"

Groa's fingers twitched on the hilt of the sword, then slowly… he let it fall. It hit the marble floor with a hollow clang.

The Emperor raised his hands.

"Good choice..." The trickster god gave some more eerie laughs.

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