Minerva slowed down, her breath still rapid, but her mind alert.
She observed carefully.
The successful candidates didn't seem to choose randomly:
- Some looked at the sword's position,*
- Others paid attention to tiny details invisible at first glance.
Minerva: "GGGGGGgggggggrrrrr."
As she continued running, she clenched her fists and groaned.
It wasn't enough to be fast.
She had to stay focused until the very end.
Minerva stepped into the field of swords, knowing that this final stage would decide everything.
One mistake... and her dream would end here.
Minerva: "Right there."
Minerva spotted the first sword as soon as she stepped into the field.
The blade protruded from the ground a few dozen meters ahead, slightly tilted, as if someone had hastily planted it before vanishing.
Without further thought, she lunged toward it, her legs still heavy but driven by urgency.
The field was vast.
Each sword was spaced about 15 meters apart, forming an almost empty expanse, punctuated only by these metallic silhouettes frozen in the earth.
This detail changed everything.
If a sword turned out to be an illusion, it wasn't enough to simply turn toward the next one.
She had to run again.
Four to five seconds lost.
Four to five seconds during which another contestant could seize the last real weapon still available.
Minerva immediately understood the trap.
The trial allowed no room for reckless haste.
One couldn't simply run to a weapon and quickly pull it from the ground, for each sword was deeply embedded, requiring the use of both hands to succeed.
She slowed slightly as she approached the sword.
Minerva: "...Huuh....... huuh.......... huuh......"
Her breathing was still uneven, her legs trembled, but her mind was perfectly focused.
She examined the ground around the blade.
The earth seemed compacted, as if it had been recently disturbed.
Minerva: "Is this real... or an illusion?"
Around her, the field was becoming increasingly chaotic.
Candidates were arriving from all directions, some lunging for the first sword they saw, others hesitating for too long, paralyzed by the fear of making a mistake.
A shout rang out not far from her.
An illusion had just been shattered.
Candidate: "Oh no, it can't be true."
Minerva gripped the handle of her bag, took a deep breath, and took another step closer.
She knew she couldn't afford a second easy mistake.
If she made a mistake, she would have to run again, pushing her already exhausted body, while the number of real swords dwindled.
She held out her hand.
The moment to choose had arrived.
And that choice could decide everything.
Minerva: "Sword, even though I know you're an object and can't hear me."
"Please, don't be an illusion."
Minerva placed her hand on the palm of the sword.
Minerva: "........."
Nothing happened.
The blade didn't dissipate.
It didn't vibrate.
It remained there, solid, cold, utterly real beneath her trembling fingers.
Minerva: "YES!"
A breath she hadn't known she could hold escaped her chest.
She had succeeded.
A wave of relief washed over her so violently that her legs nearly gave way.
But she held firm.
Her heart pounded wildly, no longer just from the effort, but from the pure joy rising within her.
Without wasting a second, she placed her other hand on the sword's hilt.
Minerva: "I finally hold a sword."
The metal was rough, worn, but strangely reassuring.
Minerva took a deep breath, straightened her back, and spoke aloud, as if the whole world needed to hear her.
Minerva: "MY NAME IS MINERVA CAESULA."
Around her, the tumult of the trial field seemed to have receded.
The shouts, the footsteps, the shattering illusions… everything became secondary.
Minerva: "I swear to follow the path of the Valkyrie."
"To become stronger."
"And to prove my worth, whatever the cost."
Her words were neither perfect nor grandiloquent.
But they were sincere.
Each syllable carried the weight of her choices, her doubts, and her burning desire to be recognized.
She tightened her grip.
Then, with a final effort, she fired.
Slash
The blade left the ground with a sharp crack, freed from the earth that held it.
Tap
Minerva took a step back to regain her balance, then instinctively raised the sword to the sky, her arm outstretched, the tip gleaming faintly in the light.
The signal.
The signal that she had passed the test.
Around her, some turned.
....................
A few glances fell upon her, envious, admiring, or bitter.
Other candidates, still searching for a real sword, looked away, aware that time was slipping away.
Minerva, however, remained motionless for a moment.
Sword in hand.
Breathless.
But standing.
She had passed through the first gate.
Minerva: "I have passed the test."
And this was only the beginning.
A few minutes later:
The following minutes stretched into almost unbearable tension.
Minerva remained apart, her sword still raised for a few more seconds, before slowly lowering it.
She took a few steps back, giving way to the other remaining candidates.
Minerva: "Huuh ......... huuh ......... huuh."
Her breathing was still uneven, her legs trembled slightly, but she no longer needed to run.
She had succeeded.
Around her, the trial continued mercilessly.
Some candidates, arriving just after her, also managed to pull a sword from the ground.
Each success was marked by the same gesture:
- A blade raised to the sky
- A sigh of relief
- Sometimes a stifled cry
- Sometimes tears.
These moments of victory, however, were rare and brief.
For many others, failure was immediate:
- A sword vanished in a deceptive flash.
- A fixed gaze.
- A collapsing body.
Others gave up without even trying.
Exhausted, they collapsed to their knees, unable to cover the fifteen meters needed to attempt another weapon.
Candidate #1: "........... "
Candidate #2: "........... "
Candidate #3: "........... "
Some remained there, their gaze lost, as if their minds still refused to accept reality.
Candidate #4: "........... "
Time passed.
Five minutes later:
Five long minutes during which the field of swords gradually emptied.
When the commotion finally began to subside, the realization was stark.
Only about fifty swords remained planted in the ground.
Among them, twenty were illusions.
Minerva watched the scene in silence, her heart heavy.
Instinctively, she counted the candidates still standing, those still running, those hesitating, those looking at the remaining swords as if they were death sentences.
The tally was undeniable.
120 people had succeeded.
43, defeated by exhaustion or panic.
That left 80 participants still in the running.
For only 30 real swords.
Understanding struck everyone almost simultaneously.
The murmurs ceased.
Breaths became heavier.
The tension rose another notch, even more oppressive than during the race.
This was no longer a simple selection test.
It was the final elimination.
Every candidate still without a sword knew it now:
Even if they made it this far, even if they survived the race, the majority would fail.
Minerva tightened her grip on her weapon slightly.
She felt no excessive pride.
Only a strange mixture of relief and gravity.
Minerva: "Let's hope those who succeed aren't weaklings."
She had just crossed a threshold that many others would never cross.
And as she watched these final moments of the trial, she understood one essential thing:
The Knights' Academy wasn't just looking for talent.
It was looking for survivors.
All those who had passed the test were ordered to step aside.
The candidates still standing but without swords needed to be able to clearly see the remaining field, unobstructed by those who had already succeeded.
Minerva joined the group of successful candidates, forming a small crowd with them at a distance:
- Some spoke in hushed tones.
- Others remained silent.
- Too shocked or too relieved to say anything.
The field of swords now seemed emptier.
The remaining blades, spaced apart, appeared almost menacing.
Each sword still planted in the ground represented a chance… or another illusion.
Minerva observed the scene, her sword still clutched in her hand.
Minerva: "Huh?"
It was then that her gaze was drawn to someone.
Minerva: "Who is he?"
Among the remaining candidates, a young man with dark hair advanced calmly across the field.
Dark-haired man: "............".
His demeanor contrasted sharply with the rest.
Where the others ran, hesitated, or trembled, he walked.
Calmly.
His hands were in his pockets.
His face was partially hidden by his dark hair, making his features difficult to discern.
There was no sense of urgency in his movements, no panic in his posture.
He advanced as if strolling, indifferent to the passing time and the tense stares fixed upon him.
Minerva frowned slightly.
Something about him made her uneasy.
He wasn't looking around.
He didn't seem to be analyzing the swords.
He walked straight towards one of them, as if he already knew which one to choose.
Minerva: "…........ "
Minerva looked at this young man with a puzzled expression. While most of the other candidates were out of breath, he walked calmly without a single drop of sweat on his body.
Chapter 6: MY NAME IS MINERVA CAESULA
The End