The iron gates swung wide open.
A long, sharp squeal... Screeeech...
It cut through the cold morning air. Then the doors slammed against the wall.
DOOM!
The Forgotten poured out in two long lines. Sixty-six bodies dragging their feet heavily. Pale faces. Uniform grey clothes revealing their starvation. Some wore old, cracked shoes. Others walked barefoot on the cold ground.
The training arena revealed itself before them.
They knew this terrain by heart. But today, it looked like a crime scene waiting to happen.
in the center three massive circular platforms. Raised half a meter above the ground. Large enough for a duel. Evenly spaced. The floor was stone darker than the rest. Smooth and hard. Designed for serious combat.
To the right was the forgotten building. A deaf stone block. Small high windows A heavy door like a cargo warehouse, not a human dwelling.
Behind the combat platforms, stone stands rose up. wooden seats added just for today. Packed with men and women from the Third Realm.
The luxury of the crowd screamed against the misery of the arena.
Men in dark suits and long, dignified coats reaching their knees. Wide-brimmed hats or bowlers. Tight ties. Shiny leather shoes reflecting the sunlight.
Women in elegant long dresses covering their legs. Sleeves to the wrists. Some wore light scarves or small hats with simple feathers. Cloth or soft leather gloves hiding part of their hands.
This time... the assessment was not a secret buried between walls. It was a theatrical show.
On the edges, guards stood in a full circle around the arena. Strict stance. Long rifles with shiny wood and metal magazines on their shoulders. Barrels pointed inward.
That alone... made the whispers of the Forgotten catch fire.
A voice whispered from the back row, trembling. "W-What is this... rifles surrounding us."
Another replied, looking at the black muzzles with despair. "Maybe... they decided today is our end. Our work here is done."
On the other side of the arena, wooden crates sat open carelessly. The Forgotten walked by them.
Each took a weapon. Rusty daggers. Short swords with corroded edges. Heavy sticks.
No one really chose. Each one just grabbed what their trembling fingers touched... and moved on.
Levan stood in line with Romo and Ina.
He ignored the long swords and heavy sticks. They were a useless burden for a normal build like his.
His hand reached out and picked a short, light dagger.
He studied it for a moment. Corroded blade and rough handle. But easy to hide and fast to move.
For someone without ZEN energy, a heavy sword is just extra weight hindering movement.
A burden that could cost him his life. He tucked the dagger into his belt skillfully. He needed something light to move freely.
To use for dodging or a flash defence at the last second. The priority here was staying alive, not looking like a warrior.
Romo spoke with a trembling voice, eyes darting around. "Just like Jared said... rifles, and a huge crowd. It seems I won't go back to the village. We... we are really finished."
Levan didn't comment, but he felt the same tightness pressing on his chest like a heavy stone.
For the past five years, they heard terrifying whispers about a Final Assessment happening every few batches.
A duel where the goal wasn't just training the Chosen... but purging the remaining Forgotten to make room for new merchandise.
Today, for the first time, it seemed those tales were no longer just talk. They were a reality waiting for them a few meters away.
The Forgotten lined up on the right edge of the arena, aligned with the three combat platforms.
Opposite them, on the other side, the Chosen lined up in a parallel row.
The contrast was painful. The Chosen uniform was standardised. Designed for combat and pride.
Dark training vests reaching mid-thigh. Wide leather belts around the waist holding polished weapons.
Practical trousers tight at the calves for easy movement. Heavy boots suitable for running and fighting.
From a corner of the upper stands, in a special spot, stood a man in a long white coat. Round glasses reflecting the light.
Arms folded across his chest. Watching the arena with steady eyes. Observing with terrifying focus.
Then a rough voice boomed from a small stone podium at the edge of the arena.
One of the trainers. "Prepare for the Final Assessment! Forgotten on the right. Chosen on the left. Any attempt to escape... is treated as treason. Penalty is immediate death."
Ina frowned, and whispered with low sharpness. "He... means us."
At the back of the line, a skinny man moved suddenly. As if fear had made him lose his mind. A step back... then another.
Then he turned completely. Started running madly toward the half-open gate.
A warning scream rang out behind him. "Get back to your place!"
He didn't stop. He was running toward a false hope.
A guard raised his rifle coldly. Placed his finger on the trigger...
BANG!
That was the first shot of the day.
The sound sliced the air like an arrow... then hit something soft suddenly.
The skinny man fell to the ground. Blood spilled under his shoulder fast. Turning the dirt beneath him into red mud.
In the back rows, more than one turned involuntarily... as if expecting the next bullet in their own face.
In the closest row, two Forgotten fainted on the spot. One couldn't handle the sight of blood... the other couldn't handle the thought that the bullet could have been in his head a moment ago.
From the stands came a cold comment in a deep voice from someone sitting in the middle rows. "Looks like their turn ended early."
In the upper stands, the man in the white coat pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger... and a small, pale smile passed over his mouth.
Levan felt his hands turn cold, despite the heat of tension in the air.
Five whole years of endurance and dodging... for this miserable end. A bullet in the back or slaughter in the arena.
The calling began.
The referee raised a wooden board with the number (1) written on it. He hit it with his palm. A short, dry clack sounded. Then his voice rose in the arena. "First Group... to the platforms."
Three Forgotten dragging their feet. Three Chosen jumping lightly. One for each platform.
The first bodies moved inside the stone circles.
In the second platform, the duel didn't last long.
The Chosen there was a young man holding a short energy sword glowing faintly. Its edge shined for a moment... then launched in one fast arc from low to high.
Crack!
The Forgotten didn't notice until he saw something white spinning in the air in front of him... before realizing it was his head. And before his body fell to its knees then collapsed.
A muffled sound rose from the back rows of the Forgotten. Some covered their mouths without realizing it to stifle a scream of terror.
In the third platform, a Forgotten thought he could survive by jumping out of the circle before his opponent touched him. Believing that leaving meant only loss.
He jumped...
But another bullet came from the edge. From a sniper watching closely.
Bang!
The bullet tore the side of his head while he was in the air. He fell outside the combat platform like an empty sack of meat.
Suddenly, an angry voice rose from one of the front seats in the stands. As if commenting on a disgusting mass execution scene. "I don't understand the point of all these massacres!
They are Forgotten anyway. They live miserable lives and serve us day and night... Isn't that enough? Why must they be killed so brutally too?"
No one answered him. The show went on.
The groups passed one after another.
Second Group... Third... Fourth... Fifth... Sixth.
Each time, two or one of the Forgotten returned on their feet... while the third was dragged or carried out as a corpse.
Sometimes the Chosen was the one bleeding more... but the referee only looked at who remained inside the platform. Whoever remained inside... was the winner.
With every duel, Romo's face grew paler, until he looked like the dead. Ina clasped her fingers together silently until her knuckles turned white.
As for Levan, he remained silent.
He was watching.
Searching for the opponents' breaths... for hesitation in their steps... for the moment focus wavered.
His mind was working at frantic speed trying to find a loophole for survival.
In the back stands, traders and gamblers from the Third Realm sat watching the fight with examining eyes.
A young trader—it seemed this was his first attendance—leaned toward the man sitting next to him.
He whispered, pointing to the faint colored shine around the bodies of some Chosen fighters. "What is the story of these colors appearing around them during the fight?"
The older man didn't move his gaze from the arena. He answered with expert calm. "Colors aren't decoration, son. The ZEN Aura tells you which skill class the owner's body leans toward. Memorize them well.
Red... for power and devastating heavy strikes.
Blue... for perception, speed, and visual tricks.
Green... for barriers, threads, and building weapons and defenses.
And Purple... for techniques that bind, choke, and paralyze the opponent."
He fell silent for a moment, then continued his explanation. "Most of these students are still beginners.
Their auras are weak and unstable. Like a candle flame in the wind. That is why you see them faint. From Level 2 and up, we call ZEN owners Awakened... and then the aura becomes clearer."
The young trader whispered in confusion. "So, do the strong ones have clear auras?"
The older man replied quietly, with a meaningful tone. "Not necessarily. The truly strong learn how to hide them completely.
To extinguish your aura means to hide your intentions and power... and that is the real danger."
Then he nodded toward the arena, pointing at one of the Chosen. "That one there is from the Red Class without a doubt... and there is one... with no color."
"Group Seven!"
The referee raised the board once again. He hit it with his palm... a clack louder than the first time. As if the sound was intended for the ears of the three specifically this time.
Six groups passed... six death and survival sentences... six scenes of blood.
And when the referee said Group Seven...
The number fell into the ears of the trio like a cold knife on their necks.
Romo turned to Levan. He swallowed his saliva with extreme difficulty.
"This... is our turn."