After that, the manager stepped forward, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. His voice was calm but firm as he addressed the group.
"The order is as follows," he said. "Each candidate will be called one by one to enter the testing chamber. You will be evaluated based on how long you can survive against Sir Thandor and the extent of your injuries. It's a test of skill, endurance, and discipline. First up—Rian. Then Mikel. Then Kayt. Roneth, you're second last. Eamon, you're the last candidate."
Eamon gave a small nod but didn't say anything. He stood near the edge of the group, watching carefully as the first candidate, Rian, stepped toward the chamber doors.
The heavy iron doors creaked as they opened, and Rian entered with a confident stride. The doors closed behind him. Everyone turned silent. Time seemed to slow.
Minutes passed.
Exactly at the ten-minute mark, the doors flew open again.
Rian stumbled out, his shirt torn and a long gash running across his right arm. His lip was bleeding, and he held his left wrist awkwardly, clearly dislocated or fractured. A few healers rushed in to assist.
"I… I couldn't keep up… he's too fast," Rian muttered, before collapsing to the ground, breathing heavily.
Then Mikel stepped forward. He looked more serious. He clenched his fists, cracked his neck, and stepped through the doors without hesitation.
Thirteen minutes passed this time. Mikel came out barely standing. He was limping, and blood ran down his forehead. His right eye was swollen shut.
The healers grabbed him too. One of them shook her head.
"Two broken ribs," she whispered to another. "A few more minutes and his leg would've snapped."
Next was Kayt.
She was quiet, barely spoke. A dual dagger user. Everyone watched closely as she entered.
She also lasted for full thirteen minutes. She came out coughing, a nasty slash on her back. Her right dagger was broken.
Then came Roneth's turn.
He stepped forward slowly, not showing any fear. His eyes were fixed on the doors, his footsteps calm. He had a dense and serious look on his face. His hands were relaxed, hanging at his sides, but there was a tension in his posture, like a drawn bowstring.
Eamon watched him closely.
As Roneth reached the edge of the chamber entrance and the doors began to open, something strange happened.
Roneth… smiled.
It was brief, barely a twitch of the lips, but Eamon caught it.
He blinked.
Wait, did I just see him smile?
Eamon furrowed his brows and stared at the doors even after they shut behind Roneth.
Why would he smile right before facing Thandor? That wasn't normal. Does he really think he can win against a Rank 1 adventurer? Or does he know something I don't?
Thirteen minutes passed.
No noise from inside. No screams. No crashing sounds like the ones that had echoed when Mikel and Kay fought. All they heard was the sound of swords clashing.
Then the doors opened.
Roneth walked out.
He wasn't limping. He wasn't bleeding heavily. He had a few scratches on his arms and a small cut on his cheek. His tunic was torn, but his movement was smooth.
Everyone stared.
Eamon's jaw tightened.
What the hell… how is he barely injured?
Roneth didn't look at anyone. He went straight to the healer, nodded politely, and sat down. No pride, no gloating. Just calm and composed. Like he'd just gone for a walk.
Eamon kept staring at him.
Who is this guy?, he whispered to himself.
Then, the manager called out.
"Eamon. You're next."
Eamon took a deep breath.
He stepped forward, his boots echoing lightly against the stone floor. He didn't look at anyone as he passed by the others. Not even Roneth.
His true weapons, the vixterium sword and the dagger were safely hidden in his ring which was the secret pocket dimension Arvin had gifted him.
He thought using these right now won't be sensible.
He didn't want the manager or Thandor or anyone else sensing their presence.
Instead, he carried the ordinary steel sword Arvin had given him. It felt slightly unbalanced, but Eamon had trained with worse.
The doors opened.
He stepped into the chamber.
The air inside was different. Heavy with tension and the hum of magical energy.
The room was huge. Larger than he expected.
Huge rocks were scattered around the edges. A small pond shimmered in one corner. Trees with thick trunks and broad leaves stood in the far back, as if someone had taken a chunk of forest and dropped it in the middle of stone walls.
It was like a miniature battlefield built by magic.
At the centre stood Thandor.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a calm but stern expression. His dark eyes studied Eamon quietly.
In his hands was a steel sword. Not his actual one which he was carrying earlier, but a different one.
He didn't even bother wearing armor.
"So," Thandor said, his voice deep. "Shall we begin?"
Without waiting for a response, Thandor charged forward.
Eamon didn't panic. He drew his sword and blocked the attack with both hands.
The clash of steel echoed loudly in the chamber.
Thandor kept swinging. Quick, precise strikes. Not sloppy. Measured.
Eamon blocked each one. His arms ached slightly with the force, but his stance remained solid.
They moved across the chamber, their swords clashing again and again.
The wind from Thandor's swings brushed past Eamon's cheeks. If he had been even a little slower, those swings would've drawn blood.
Thandor wasn't playing.
Still, he didn't manage to land a single hit.
After two solid minutes of continuous strikes, Thandor stepped back.
He gave a short laugh.
"You're really good at sword fighting, kid. Not as skilled as the previous guy… Roneth. But still, you've got skill."
Eamon didn't reply.
In his mind, a question spun, "Just how strong is this Roneth? Thandor said he was better than me? He survived the entire 13 minutes and barely looked injured. Did he hold back during the last fight? Or is he really that skilled?"
Eamon shook his head.
"Focus", he said to himself.
He couldn't afford to let his thoughts drift. Not now.
Thandor stepped in again.
But this time, Eamon noticed something.
He wasn't going all out.
Even with all those attacks, Thandor's expression remained calm. His breathing wasn't heavy. His movements, while fast, didn't feel… full.
Eamon kept defending. He didn't try to attack. Not yet.
He knew he had to survive. Not win.
If he attacked recklessly, Thandor could turn the tide easily.
So he kept blocking.
Thandor swung high—Eamon raised his sword and blocked.
A sweep at the legs—Eamon jumped back.
A thrust at the chest—Eamon twisted his body and parried.
Minute after minute passed. The crowd outside waited in silence.
Inside, Thandor's eyebrows twitched.
He stepped back.
Then he smiled.
"Well then," he muttered to himself. "Let's turn up the heat."
Suddenly, Thandor moved faster.
Much faster.
His sword came down with a force that made Eamon's arms shudder as he blocked it.
Eamon slid back a few feet, his boots scraping the floor.
"So he was holding back after all." Eamon gritted his teeth. He tightened his grip.
If Thandor was increasing his power, Eamon couldn't hold back either. He shifted his stance.
He took a deep breath. Then he bent his knees lower, pulled the sword in tighter, and then—struck.
It wasn't a wild slash. It was clean and sharp, aimed directly at Thandor's shoulder.
Thandor blocked it, barely. The force surprised him. His foot slid an inch.
Eamon pressed forward, delivering three quick strikes in succession. Thandor backed away, parrying each one. He was on the defensive now.
The air between them grew tense again.
"Oh," Thandor said with a grin. "You were also holding back till now? Well, it's good that you got serious now."
Eamon gave a small smile.
He raised his sword again and said calmly, "Well, this is all I have. But I guess you're still not using your full powers."