Four months passed, Adam and Sigurd both of there classes, Sigurd reached second mana circle earning him some praise.
***
[Walking towards a smithy at a far end.]
"So we're getting to buy or make weapons. You never told me."
"Make, cause in two months, the mercenary registration is happening. Don't worry, I'll be doing the work."
"Ooh, OK."
[They arrive and Adam pays upfront to use the smithy. The blacksmithing process began.]
***
Two months later.
They stood in line outside the registration hall. At the front, clerks sat behind long desks. A placard above read: "Mercenary Guild – Entry Examination, Level One Certification." One of the clerks called for the next ten applicants. Adam and Sigurd stepped forward with the group, each given a sheet, a pencil, and a seat inside the adjacent building.
The written test began. Questions ranged from labyrinth survival protocols, monster classifications, terrain-based tactics, and the legal limits of mercenary conduct. Adam read carefully, each word processed and internalized before writing an answer. He kept his handwriting sharp and compact, saving time to double-check each response. Sigurd worked quickly, his brow furrowed but his expression calm.
There were no hints or retakes. The room stayed silent except for the scratching of pencils and the occasional shuffle of a chair.
When time was called, papers were collected. No announcement of results followed—only a call for all to leave and come tomorrow for skill appraisal.
***
[At night in there room.]
"That writing exam was simple, you did this research on every pass works and formed your own questions."
"You need to be prepared for anything, that is what I follow. And tomorrow, remember to show your best."
"Yea, yea I will."
***
Next day,
The field was cordoned off into sections.surrounded by others—some in armor, some in travel-worn coats, most carrying weapons of varying degrees of maintenance and age. The two of them—Adam with his bow and halberd slung across his back, and Sigurd with the simple blade at his hip—waited quietly.One area had targets set for ranged testing. Another held training dummies and open space for melee demonstrations. A single judge stood at the center—a broad-shouldered man with cropped grey hair and a veteran's bearing. Despite his age, the muscles in his arms bulged under the fitted black shirt he wore. His stance radiated discipline, and his eyes held the sharpness of a man who'd seen too many real fights to be impressed easily.
He stood before the group and spoke once, voice clear and deep.
"Time limit is five minutes each. No dueling me. You fight the space. I'll be watching. Show me what you can do, or leave."
He stepped aside and waved the first name on the list forward.
"Adam."
Adam stepped into the ring. His bow remained slung across his back; he held the halberd in both hands. He walked to the center, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them as the weight of the weapon settled into his grip.
He moved.
The first cut was clean—an upward sweep followed by a reverse hook. Each motion fed into the next, controlled and precise. The judge crossed his arms, watching in silence.
Then Adam began infusing aura into the halberd.
A faint shimmer ran down the shaft, enveloping the blade. His grip shifted seamlessly into a rear-leaning stance. The next sweep came faster, stronger. The halberd hummed with force as it cut the air, moving with intent far beyond raw strength.
With a breath, Adam conjured a small sphere of concentrated mana—barely larger than a pebble—and fixed it at the halberd's head. He held it in place with focused control. The weapon's weight immediately increased, shifting the center of gravity, changing the flow of movement.
Now each strike dug deeper, even against empty air. He adjusted for the weight mid-spin, pivoted on one foot, and transitioned into a forward thrust that landed with a crack against a training post. The impact snapped the thick wood slightly off center.
He didn't stop. With the magic sphere still in place, he performed rapid footwork—low sweeps, midline slashes, upward bursts—and reversed his grip mid-rotation to simulate surprise counterattacks.
At the two-minute mark, he slung the halberd onto his back and drew the bow.
In smooth succession, he fired three arrows, each reinforced with a thin aura line down the shaft. They hit three different targets with no time between shots. He adjusted posture and loosed two more—one angled high, the other shot on a fast draw while moving sideways.
He returned to the halberd to end the sequence. With the magical sphere still fixed at the head, he spun once—slow, heavy, and deliberate—then swept in a wide arc, halting the blade inches from the judge's marker pole. The wind of the swing stirred dust along the ground.
The judge raised a hand. "Stop."
Adam exhaled, released the spell. The weight returned to normal. He nodded once, then stepped back out of the ring.
The judge didn't speak.
He turned the page of his clipboard and called the next name.
"Sigurd."
Sigurd stepped in, drawing his sword with a practiced motion. His left hand remained free. His stance was casual—almost relaxed. He took position, centered himself, and then charged forward.
The first few strikes were fluid. His blade moved in arcs both wide and short, sometimes extending fully, sometimes returning to a tight guard. His aura flared briefly at the edge of each strike, giving each slash a sharper presence. But he didn't linger on swordplay alone.
After a sequence of parries and feints against imagined enemies, Sigurd dropped into a low stance and unleashed a spinning back-kick. His booted foot struck a training dummy hard enough to knock it backward. As he landed, he pivoted and elbowed the air behind him, spun again, and drove his sword into a reverse sweep.
It wasn't wild movement. Every step, punch, and kick was part of a rhythm—switching from blade to body, body to blade.
His aura spread not just through the sword but across his limbs. Each punch landed with more than muscle—he reinforced the strikes, keeping them stable. He caught a strike in the air, rotated his shoulder, and launched a knee into an upward rising motion, all while pulling the sword into a tight spin at his side.
The display continued, now faster. Sigurd darted forward, ducked under a swing from a weighted pendulum dummy, countered with a rising elbow, and spun into a low slash. He transitioned immediately into a somersault and released a forward burst of aura from his foot to simulate breaking past a shield line.
He didn't stop moving.
At the four-minute mark, he performed a chain of movements—punch, parry, blade draw, spin, strike, knee, elbow, backfist—each woven together without pause. His aura burned bright for a moment as he delivered a powerful cross-slash that split a wooden target in two, then stepped away.
He sheathed his sword.
The judge nodded. "Stop."
Sigurd bowed his head once and left the field.
The judge made a mark on the sheet.
No praise. No comment.
And the next name was called.
They wonder if they had shown enough for passing the test.