The moment Marta finished speaking, the arena flooded with light.
It hit hard—white, blinding—burning into my eyes.
For a few seconds, I couldn't see anything.
Then it cleared.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
I moved on instinct—barely dodging a knife aimed straight at my throat.
A scream broke out behind me.
I turned—
just in time to see someone drive his leg onto a spike that had shot up from the concrete.
It pierced straight through.
The spike dropped back down.
Blood followed.
No time to look.
Something else came—fast, thin, sharp.
I twisted—
barely.
A spike burst up where I'd just been standing, scraping my pant leg.
Too close.
Shouts. Screams. Swearing.
Panic spread across the arena.
I forced myself to stay focused.
The lights flickered—blinding, then gone, then blinding again—throwing off any sense of direction.
I couldn't rely on sight.
And without my power—
I had nothing but this.
I took a breath, ducking low as an axe cut through the air above my head—
and pulled the mask down over my eyes.
Darkness.
I shut everything else out.
The noise faded.
The panic faded.
Only breathing remained.
Only space.
Only movement.
Like training.
I listened.
Felt.
The air shifted before anything struck.
The ground trembled under my feet—vibrations traveling up through my body.
I moved before I could think.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
I slipped between blades, spikes, steel—each step landing where it had to.
Not seeing.
Feeling.
Catching the rhythm.
Like in a dance.
Several times I almost misjudged—steel passing too close, spikes erupting where I nearly stepped.
Too close.
But I stayed on my feet.
I pictured Taisha.
Kept my movement tight—no more than a step in any direction.
A small circle.
Controlled.
Mine.
My body bent and shifted, light, precise, barely touching the ground.
Like I wasn't part of it.
Like none of this could reach me.
It almost felt calm.
My breathing broke first.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
The strain built up.
And then—
"Three, two, one! End of the trial!"
I pushed off the ground, flipping back to avoid one last spike—
landed—
steady—
and pulled the mask up.
I opened my eyes.
And froze.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Thick. Dark.
Across the floor.
On the walls.
Bodies.
Some didn't move.
At all.
Some sat where they had fallen, hands pressed against torn flesh, trying to stop the bleeding.
Some were still standing—
barely.
I searched.
Quickly.
Too quickly.
Robert.
Matthew.
I couldn't tell.
Black uniforms. Masks. No faces.
Everyone looked the same.
My chest tightened.
Relief—
and something heavier—
mixed together.
"Results!" Bol's voice cut through the arena. "Those who can move—center. Those conscious but unable to move—raise your hand."
We gathered.
Around fifteen people in white moved through the arena, kneeling beside the injured, checking pulses, dragging bodies away.
Only then did I notice—
Marta and Bol.
Sitting in a lowered section near the front rows.
Watching.
The entire time.
"In this round, numbers 42, 49, 1, 8, 10, 26, and 40 are eliminated. Cause—death."
Seven.
Just like that.
Seven people gone.
No reaction.
No pause.
"Numbers 17 and 22 are eliminated due to severe injuries. Forty-one candidates proceed."
Twenty-six of us stood.
The rest—
couldn't.
"Now—the results," Marta continued lightly. "Please set aside the numbers I've listed. Those candidates are out. And now—let's choose the best performance of this trial."
We stood in the center.
The injured had been dragged closer.
Still alive.
Still watching.
Waiting.
To see what they were worth.
One by one, the aristocrats raised numbered cards.
And then—
I saw it.
Marcus Holivan.
Holding up thirteen.
A sharp smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it.
"You've chosen your favorites!" Marta said brightly. "What a show! I agree with the majority—I couldn't look away."
"Marta, no favoritism," Bol laughed. "Personally, I'd choose number 21. Rough, messy—but effective."
"Maybe. But our winner didn't take a single hit. And you noticed—he fought with his eyes closed."
"…I did," Bol admitted. "That level of control is hard to ignore. Fifteen out of eighteen judges made the same choice. I'm curious to see who it is."
"And now—the results. But first—third and second place. One vote for number 21. Number 21—remove your mask."
The candidate stepped forward.
Pulled it off.
I exhaled.
A grin slipped out.
Robert.
"Third place, with one vote—Robert Torent, first-year student of Gordinstrit Academy and candidate for Kristina Vilis!"
Applause rolled through the stands.
Kristina stood, waving. Robert winked at her.
"Second place, with two votes—number 7. Remove your mask."
The man stepped forward and removed it.
Older. Calm. Several shallow cuts marked his face.
"A strong opening from the new Blocking School! Scott Roy, third-year student—trained there since its founding. A bold start."
The applause was louder this time.
Real.
"And now—the winner. Fifteen votes out of eighteen."
My pulse picked up.
"Number thirteen. Remove your mask."
I pulled it off slowly.
Didn't hide the smile.
Looked straight at the Holivan booth.
At Marcus.
I watched the color drain from his face.
Watched the tension carve deeper into his expression.
And this time—
I didn't hold back.
I enjoyed it.
"Alan Holivan!"
The name hit the arena like a strike.
Voices broke out.
People stood.
Stared.
"First-year student of Gordinstrit Academy and candidate for Clyde Silius!"
The noise surged—shock, excitement, disbelief.
Clyde stood.
"Remarkable!" Marta's voice rang out. "An aristocrat's son who entered the academy only months ago—and already shaking the system. First place in a blood-soaked trial."
Applause exploded.
The loudest came from the lower tiers—
and from those near Clyde.
"Mr. Silius—you should be proud of your choice!"
A brief pause—
Then the arena erupted.
My name.
Chanted.
Louder.
And louder.
I couldn't stop smiling.
A shout tore out of me—
and the crowd answered.