The hour passed quickly.
We found a quiet corner of the Academy grounds, a small courtyard behind the main hall where fewer candidates had gathered.
Kyle went through his warm-up routine, all traces of his usual cheerfulness replaced by concentration.
I stretched carefully.
Around us, other candidates prepared in their own ways. A girl in leather armor ran through knife-throwing drills, each blade hitting a practice target with precise thuds. Two boys sparred with practice weapons, their movements sharp and disciplined.
Everyone looked ready.
But... I didn't feel ready.
"You're doing that thing again," Kyle said, pausing his stretches.
"What thing?"
"That brooding thing. Where you stare into the distance and think about how everything's going to go wrong." He grinned. "Stop it. You survived nine bandits. This is just one person at a time."
"One person at a time who's been training their entire life for this."
"So? You've got tricks." He tapped his temple.
I kept my expression neutral. "Lucky break."
"Sure." Kyle didn't push it.
A bell tolled across the grounds, deep and resonant, cutting through every conversation.
"All candidates report to the Combat Arena," a magically amplified voice announced. "Trial One begins in ten minutes."
Kyle stood, rolling his shoulders. "Here we go. You ready?"
"No."
"Great! Me neither!" His grin was back, bright and fearless. "Let's do this anyway!"
Then we moved with the cluster of student candidates.
The Combat Arena was a massive circular structure at the eastern edge of the Academy grounds, stone walls rising forty feet high, with tiered seating that could hold thousands.
We filed in through arched entrances, the crowd of candidates funneling into the sandy arena floor.
The space was enormous, easily a hundred meters across, marked with white lines dividing it into separate combat zones.
Instructors in Academy robes stood at intervals, their expressions stern and evaluating.
The tiered seating above was already filling with spectators, older Academy students, instructors, even some nobles who'd apparently come to watch their children or evaluate prospects.
I scanned the crowd of candidates.
The silver-haired girl stood near the far wall, isolated from the groups around her. Her posture was relaxed but alert, like a predator waiting.
Marcus and Adrian were clustered with their noble friends, all of them in expensive armor that probably cost more than my family's monthly income.
The massive guy in plate armor stood alone, arms crossed, looking bored.
And everywhere, faces I didn't recognize. Fighters, mages, hopefuls just like me, all of them wanting the same thing.
Top 500. I need to place in the top 500.
Instructor Aldwin appeared on a raised platform at the arena's center, his voice magically amplified.
"Candidates! Your attention!"
The conversations died.
"The Physical Combat Trial is simple. You will face opponents in single-elimination matches. Win three consecutive fights, and you pass to the next trial. Lose once, and you're eliminated."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Three fights. Three chances to fail.
"Matches will be randomly assigned," Aldwin continued. "No killing blows. Surrender is accepted. Incapacitation ends the match. Magic is permitted but will be monitored, excessive force results in disqualification."
He raised his hand, and dozens of floating boards appeared throughout the arena, names appearing on them in glowing text.
"Find your name. Report to your assigned zone. You have five minutes."
The crowd surged forward, everyone pushing toward the boards.
Kyle and I got separated immediately, the press of bodies forcing us in different directions.
I fought through the crowd to the nearest board, scanning the names.
"Jin Raith - Zone 7 - Match 1"
Zone 7 was near the eastern wall. I pushed through the crowd.
By the time I reached it, my opponent was already there.
A boy maybe a year older than me, lean and tall, wearing light leather armor. His sword was well-maintained, his stance confident.
He looked me over, his expression shifting to something like disappointment.
"You're Jin Raith?"
"That's me."
"Victor's brother." He said it like he was confirming bad news. "I heard you were... underwhelming."
Great. Even people I've never met have heard about the family disappointment.
"Guess you'll find out," I said flatly.
An instructor approached, a woman in her thirties with a scarred face and cold eyes. "Candidates. Ready positions."
We moved to opposite ends of the marked zone, maybe fifteen feet apart.
I drew the sword I'd taken from Garrick, plain iron, slightly worn, but functional. Not ideal, but it was all I had.
My opponent drew his own blade, settling into a textbook-perfect combat stance.
He's trained. Properly trained.
The instructor raised her hand. "Match begins... now!"
My opponent moved immediately, closing the distance with practiced footwork.
I activated Debug Vision.
[Entity Analysis - Combat Opponent]
Name: Derek Ashford
Level: 7
Combat Style: Classical Swordsmanship
Threat Assessment: Moderate
Higher level. Higher stats. Formal training.
But predictable.
Derek's first strike came in a standard overhead slash.
I executed a Parry, redirecting his blade with minimal force.
The Adaptive Blade Style technique worked smoothly, his momentum carrying past me.
His eyes widened slightly, surprise that I'd defended competently.
I didn't counter. Just reset to defensive stance, watching.
Read his patterns. Find the openings.
Derek attacked again, this time with a horizontal slash aimed at my torso.
I pivoted, the blade missing by inches, and came in with feinting high, then striking low at his exposed knee.
My sword connected, drawing first blood.
Not a serious wound, just a shallow cut. But enough to score points.
Derek's expression hardened. He pressed the attack more aggressively, his strikes coming faster.
But faster meant sloppier. More committed. More predictable.
I defended, parried, redirected, using his strength against him.
Economy of motion. Minimal energy expenditure. Exploit openings.
My ribs screamed with each movement, but I pushed through it.
Derek overextended on a thrust, his weight too far forward.
I sidestepped and brought my sword down on his wrist...
His sword clattered to the sand.
The instructor's voice cut through immediately.
"Match concluded. Winner: Jin Raith."
Derek stared at his empty hand, then at me, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief.
"How did you—"
I didn't answer. Just moved away, breathing hard, my ribs throbbing.
One fight down. Two to go.
Around me, other matches were concluding. Some quick, some brutal. I caught a glimpse of Kyle grappling with a larger opponent, his face red with effort but grinning like a maniac.
The massive guy in plate armor ended his match in maybe ten seconds, a single overhead strike that shattered his opponent's guard completely.
The silver-haired girl moved like water, her opponent unconscious on the ground before I even saw what she'd done.
These people are on a different level.
"Zone 7 - Next match!" the instructor called. "Jin Raith versus Kara Venn!"
A girl stepped into the zone, shorter than me, but with the compact build of someone who'd been fighting since childhood.
Twin daggers at her hips.
Daggers. Close-range. Fast.
I raised my sword, settling into defensive stance.
My ribs hurt. My leg was stiffening. Exhaustion was creeping in.
The instructor raised her hand.
"Match begins... now!"
She moved like lightning, closed the distance before I'd fully processed the match starting, both blades coming at me from different angles.
I barely got my sword up in time, deflecting one dagger while the other scored a line across my forearm.
[HP: 153/200]
Shit!
I backpedaled, creating space, but she pursued relentlessly.
Her style was completely different from Derek's, no textbook techniques, just raw aggression and speed. Both daggers moving in constant motion, giving me no time to counter.
I activated Debug Vision while defending desperately.
I can't match her speed. Can't outfight her directly.
I needed an edge.
Kara came in with a double-thrust, both daggers aiming for my torso.
I twisted away, her blades missing by inches, and focused on the sand beneath her leading foot.
[Target: Sand surface friction]
[Change: 0.65 → 0.20]
Her foot hit the edited patch mid-lunge.
Her leg shot out from under her, balance completely destroyed.
"Wha—!"
I didn't give her time to recover. Stepped in while she was off-balance and swept her other leg with my flat of the sword, knocking her completely off her feet.
She hit the sand hard, both daggers flying from her grip.
I pressed the tip of my sword to her throat before she could move.
"Yield," I said quietly.
She stared up at me, breathing hard, fury and confusion warring in her expression.
"How—"
"Yield," I repeated.
She glared. Then: "I yield."
I stepped back, lowering my sword.
The instructor called it. "Match concluded. Winner: Jin Raith."
She pushed herself up, still glaring. "What the hell was that? Did you use magic on the ground?"
"No idea what you're talking about." I kept my voice neutral. "You slipped."
"Bullshit. I don't slip."
"Apparently you do."
She looked like she wanted to argue further, but the instructor was already calling the next match.
I moved to the side of the zone, breathing hard.
My ribs were on fire. The cut on my forearm was shallow but bleeding.
Exhaustion was setting in properly now.
One more. Just one more fight.
I glanced around the arena. Fewer candidates now.
Kyle was still in.
Marcus was in the middle of his second fight, his expensive armor gleaming as he battered his opponent with raw strength.
Adrian fought with precise, controlled techniques, clearly well-trained, every movement economical.
These people are going to be in the next trial too. The real competition.
"Zone 7 - Final match!" the instructor called. "Jin Raith versus..."
A pause. The instructor checked her board, then frowned slightly.
"...Thomas Greaves."
A name I didn't recognize.
But the murmurs that rippled through nearby candidates suggested they did.
A boy stepped into the zone, maybe eighteen, built like a brawler with broad shoulders and scarred knuckles. His sword was massive.
He looked at me, and his expression was... pitying?
"Tough luck, kid," he said. Not mocking. Just matter-of-fact. "Nothing personal."
The instructor raised her hand. "Match begins... now!"
Thomas didn't rush. Just advanced steadily, his massive sword held in a two-handed grip.
I tried Debug Vision.
[Entity Analysis - Combat Opponent]
Name: Thomas Greaves
Level: 15
Combat Style: Power-based Swordsmanship
Threat Assessment: CRITICAL
Oh fuck.