Somewhere on the examination field where the five great clubs clashed, the air folded, and a portal opened with a metallic whisper. A cold light poured out, tinged a livid blue, before freezing into a stable rift. From that tear in the world, Oratius emerged slowly — a straight silhouette, black coat whipped by the wind, eyes of steel beneath the tremulous glow of mana.
Behind him, five shadows advanced. Not a word. Not a breath. Their outlines shivered as if the light refused to acknowledge them. They stood motionless, ready, their eyes empty, a presence carved for killing.
Oratius watched them for a moment, then spoke in a calm, precise tone — that of a man who had already weighed the value of every life on this ground.
— "Kill everything you meet. No matter the camp, the crest, the face. If it moves, if it breathes, it dies. No distinction, no mercy."
He then took a small folded portrait from his jacket. The paper trembled in the portal light, revealing a calm face.
