The heat of the competition — and the weight of its importance — could be felt in the air.
The viscount sat on a raised chair, surrounded by nobles of the lesser houses. But somewhere behind them, almost invisible yet sharply present, stood two men in suits.
They looked like they belonged, yet somehow didn't.
The viscount cleared his throat. The sound alone was enough to command silence. All eyes turned toward the podium.
The speaker for the competition was Crassus himself — a man the crowd had come to know all too well these past few days. His voice carried across the marble dome, calm and confident.
"Now," he said, "I shall announce the competitors across all ten universities."
Eghosa's lips twisted. She leaned toward Trisha and whispered under her breath, "This smug bastard again."
Trisha smirked faintly. "Don't worry. Once we win, we'll wipe that grin off his face. We'll show these nobles what we're made of."
Eghosa gripped her palms tightly — her heart steady, her resolve unshaken.
Crassus's voice echoed again.
> "From the University of Eleanor — disqualified, due to infighting and the deaths of four students."
"The University of Slamar — disqualified, for failing to reach the competition grounds."
"The University of Gaphor — withdrawn willingly."
"The Union of Calamar — also withdrawn."
"The University of Demin — forfeited."
"The University of Athos — all representatives deceased."
"The University of Soter — detained for theft."
"The University of Temar — absconded with their villa properties; still unaccounted for."
"The University of Feitry — disqualified for possession of illegal materials."
A murmur rippled through the nobles — shock, disbelief, morbid curiosity.
Crassus let it linger before speaking again.
> "And finally… the University of Candor. Three students forfeited after admitting incapability. Only two remain — Eghosa Precious and Trisha Stephen."
Gasps filled the hall.
The two girls exchanged a quick look — fear flickered for only a moment before something else replaced it: defiance.
They stepped forward. The earlier announcements had chilled them; they weren't naïve enough to think coincidence explained the downfall of nine entire universities.
Death, withdrawal, scandal, disappearance — no pattern, yet one truth: someone wanted all rivals erased.
It was terrifying.
But even fear couldn't drown the spark that burned in them.
They straightened their backs and steadied their steps.
Whoever was behind this wouldn't stop them from winning.
They silently vowed it.
From the crowd, Dean Ancelot observed in silence — a flicker of pride in his eyes, tempered by deep worry. Whoever had orchestrated this was no ordinary schemer.
He didn't mind enemies who fought with weapons or those who flaunted power.
But the kind that fought with reality itself — the kind that never broke a law, only bent reason — that was the most dangerous kind of all.
As he replayed the list in his head, his mind ran through possibilities.
Who would dare such a thing? The viscount? One of the noble houses? Belmore Devon himself — Crassus's grandfather, and the wealthiest man on Earth 236?
But if it truly was Belmore, would he have been foolish enough to send his own grandson into the fire?
No matter how he turned it, the logic folded in on itself.
All Ancelot could do now was watch — and prepare for what came next.
Crassus's voice cut through his thoughts.
> "And lastly — the representatives of the Imperial Academy:
Cairn Velros.
Melissa Santos.
Bastet Trueworth.
Helena Troy.
And lastly… Amos Devon."
As they stepped onto the stage, Eghosa studied each of them intently.
Cairn — the same prideful warrior she'd met before, eyes sharp and disdainful, carrying himself like gravity bent to him.
Melissa — calm, dangerous, her spear resting casually at her side; there was something too relaxed about her stance, and that was exactly what made her terrifying.
Bastet — regal, every movement dripping with privilege and precision; she looked like she'd come to win a beauty crown, not a fight.
Helena — a female mirror of Cairn, brutal even in stillness, her gaze cutting through the air.
And finally, Amos Devon.
The moment Eghosa heard that surname, her pulse spiked. Devon.
The name she had grown to despise through Crassus.
But when she saw Amos, her anger wavered.
He looked… gentle.
No arrogance, no malice. Just calm eyes, soft expression, silver hair brushing his shoulders.
He wore an attire that was a blend of Roman strength and Chinese elegance — and in his hand, a children's book.
No weapon. No armor. No fear.
He was an enigma that didn't fit in the blood-red world around him.
For a fleeting moment, Eghosa felt something like pity.
Perhaps he'd been forced here — another noble bound by duty, not desire.
But she quickly hardened her heart. She wasn't here to pity anyone.
Beside her, Trisha whispered, "What do you think?"
Eghosa's eyes stayed on Amos. "Cairn and Melissa are dangerous. The others… maybe less so."
Trisha nodded. "I don't like that Devon."
"Because of Crassus?" Eghosa teased.
"Yes," Trisha said flatly. "Because of Crassus."
Eghosa smiled faintly. "Well, I think he's cute."
Trisha gave her a mock glare. "Defending Prince Charming now, are we?"
Eghosa chuckled under her breath — the last bit of warmth before the storm.
Crassus raised his hand for silence.
"Due to unforeseen reductions in participants," he announced, "the trials will proceed in an accelerated format. Each student will face the three disciplines — Art, Science, and Combat — in rapid sequence. They will duel not against one another, but against Imperial instructors. This is to ensure fairness."
He gestured slightly toward the two men in suits.
"They will serve as impartial judges — representatives of the UNE."
Then, with a low bow, he turned toward the viscount. "Your Excellency, the competitors await your blessing."
The viscount rose.
He was an older version of Cairn — the same bone structure, the same cold authority — only deeper, heavier, royal.
His voice rolled through the arena like thunder.
"All of you have come here today to fight for the right to represent humanity — to fight for honor, and for glory. But remember…"
He paused, letting silence frame the weight of his next words.
"This competition is not a test of strength. It is humanity asking you a question: what qualifications do you have to lead our future?"
He sat back, and the hall erupted in applause — though it was impossible to tell whether they cheered the competitors, or the viscount himself.
Crassus raised his hand again.
"You shall now face the first discipline — Art."
His smile sharpened.
"Let the competition begin."