The Harvest Tally
The silence that followed the Watcher's final count was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the necropolis's ancient machinery. The cloaked mage stepped back, his voice amplified by a minor wind spell so it carried to the very edges of the obsidian courtyard.
"Team A, fifty-five points. Team B, forty-five points. Team A is the winner!"
The announcement hit Merlin like a physical blow. The ethereal calm he had maintained throughout the trial shattered instantly. "How?!" he shouted, his eyes wide with genuine shock. "We were tied fifty-fifty! I accounted for every flag on the field!"
Kayn Alabaster leaned against a crumbling pillar, a sly, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Not quite, Merlin. When I threw up that wall of shadows, it wasn't just to obscure your vision of the fight. I shrouded the entire area where you had your stash of flags hidden."
Nana Ravenspear stepped forward, her dark purple braids still crackling with the fading remnants of her lightning aura. A triumphant glint danced in her eyes as she reached into her layered robe and pulled out a small, jagged piece of silk. "We knew you'd be momentarily distracted by the dark. Right before I landed that last punch, I reached into the shadow and swiped a five-point flag from your pile."
Merlin stared at the flag in her hand, the realization dawning on him. A look of grudging admiration smoothed over his features. "And I was unaware because the impact of your strike masked the movement," he mused, shaking his head. "To use a high-level distraction to facilitate a petty theft... how clever of you."
George Lydia stepped forward, his emerald eyes bright. Despite the dirt and the bruising on his ribs, he extended a hand toward the prodigy of Elysium. "Arthur wasn't joking about you, Merlin. You're incredibly strong. Honestly, after a fight like that, I hope we can be friends."
Merlin looked at the hand, then up at George's warm, sincere smile. The aristocratic distance in his demeanor finally melted away, replaced by a genuine expression of respect. He grasped George's hand in a firm shake. "It would be an honor to be your friend, George. But just know this," he added, his competitive spirit flaring once more, "next time we face each other, I will defeat you."
George let out a bright, joyful sound of laughter that echoed through the skeletal ruins. "You can try!"
A Moment of Rest
The remaining candidates were ushered into the sleek, metallic Harvester Pods. Their bodies were weary and their mana pools were bone-dry, but their spirits remained high. The pods hissed as they pressurized, transporting them back to the Plant. Upon arrival, they were greeted by Grand Magi Gold-crest. His imposing presence, usually so stoic, seemed to radiate a rare sense of pride.
"Congratulations, candidates," Gold-crest's voice resonated through the arrival bay. "Today you have proven yourselves to be worthy mages. Please, make your way to the lounge. You have three days to rest, train, heal, and recuperate. Prepare yourselves, for your next test awaits."
The transition to the enormous, luxurious lounge felt like entering another world. George sank into the plush cushions of a magically enhanced sofa, letting out a long, contented sigh. The space was a sanctuary of gold-patterned marble and soft lighting.
"Man, I forgot how awesome this place is," George murmured.
Teams of specialized healers moved through the room, their hands glowing with a soft, rhythmic green light. As they worked, George felt the sharp aches and the dull, throbbing pains of the necropolis melt away under the gentle hum of restorative magic. For three days, the tension of the tournament was replaced by the luxury of the Plant, allowing the final eight to find their strength again.
The Final Sprint
When the three days concluded, the atmosphere shifted back to high-stakes electricity. The candidates were called to the main arena, standing atop a raised stage in front of a sea of spectators. The grandstands were filled to capacity, a roar of anticipation shaking the very air.
Grand Magi Gold-crest stood in the center of the arena, his form projected as a towering, translucent giant against the bruised sky above. "Congratulations, final candidates!" Gold-crest's voice boomed, silencing the thirty thousand spectators in an instant. "Out of the original thirty thousand who entered this festival, you alone have survived. You have proven your worth as mages, but now you must show the world your future. This next test is a gauntlet of speed and adaptability." He gestured to a massive structure being assembled by earth-affinity mages behind him. "We have designed an obstacle course specifically tuned to test the limits of your physical and magical abilities. Essentially, the eight of you will race from start to finish. The first four candidates to reach the finish line will advance to the final phase of the Harvest Festival. Once again, it is time to prove who among you is the best of the best." Gold-crest's projection looked down at them, his eyes piercing. "May lady luck be ever on your side, and may the progenitor of faith smile upon those whom he deems worthy. Now, please make your way to the starting line."