Eghosa stood with her heart pounding. She was no Theran, but she had her fair share of combat experience. Her weapon of choice — a slightly longer gladius — gleamed under the arena lights. She wore the standard cadet armor, orange in color, the chest plate rising and falling with each uneven breath.
Her opponent — the instructor — said nothing. He only watched, his gaze calm and dissecting, as though he were reading her through her stance, her weight, the tremor in her grip.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet — almost disappointing.
"Begin."
Eghosa moved. Fast. Her boots thundered across the marble floor. She lunged, gladius aimed straight for the instructor's ribs — but it was a feint.
At the last moment, she twisted her body in a beautiful spin, blade slicing in a diagonal arc meant for his shoulder.
Steel whistled.
He caught her arm.
Gasps erupted from the stands. He had grabbed her blade arm barehanded — a suicidal move against a live weapon.
He twisted, pressing her wrist until her grip faltered. Then a brutal punch came — clean, efficient, decisive.
The impact cracked across her face, sharp enough to echo through the dome.
Eghosa stumbled back, vision blurring. Blood filled her mouth.
He didn't press the advantage. He waited, hands loose, breathing slow.
Up in the viewing box, Dean Ancelot's brows furrowed. He's not testing her strength, he realized. He's measuring her resolve.
Eghosa spat blood, lowering into stance again. Her opponent was older, slower — yet somehow faster where it mattered. Every move was thought before it was made.
She realized something terrifying.
He wasn't fighting her.
He was teaching her.
She charged again — a low feint, then a rapid jab. The instructor stepped aside, minimal movement, his body a whisper of precision. Their blades kissed once, twice — sparks dancing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
But each time, he turned her momentum against her.
Patience. Awareness. Decisiveness.
Her strength meant nothing against his experience.
---
In Cairn's arena, the clash was the opposite — loud, brutal, filled with pride.
Sparks exploded with every strike.
The noble's voice boomed across the coliseum.
"You think I came to pass a test of combat?" he roared. "No. You've been sent to see if you're worthy to face a Velros!"
The crowd erupted — chanting his family name.
From the viscount's booth, the older Velros watched with a half-smile. His son had inherited everything, he thought. Pride, power, madness.
When Cairn's blade finally shattered — a gasp tore through the audience.
The instructor lunged to press his advantage.
Cairn only laughed — wild, fearless.
He dropped the broken sword and raised his fists.
"Now the battle's fair!"
He rushed in barehanded.
The crowd exploded into thunder. Even Crassus leaned forward, muttering, "Monster."
And when the instructor finally surrendered, the cheers shook the arena.
---
Melissa's duel was pure precision. She moved like a blade personified — fast, cold, flawless.
Every swing was mathematics. Every parry, an equation solved in motion.
The audience barely breathed as she dismantled her opponent — a surgeon in armor.
Helena's battle ended in betrayal.
No clash of steel — only a quiet fall.
Poison.
The crowd murmured in disgust, the judges unmoved.
Bastet surrendered before her first strike.
There was no fear in her eyes, only distance.
She had never wanted this — only done her duty as a noble's daughter.
Even her defeat carried elegance.
Trisha's victory was brutal.
Her sword dripped blood.
She stood, swaying, her opponent crawling away in defeat.
The crowd roared her name, but she barely heard it. Every cut on her body sang louder than their cheers.
---
And then — Eghosa again.
Her opponent shifted slightly, as if studying her will to continue.
"You see?" he said quietly. "Choice is the sharpest weapon. Whoever decides first… controls the battle."
Eghosa's arms trembled. Her breathing grew uneven. The thought came unbidden: If I lose this… it's over. Five points gone. The villa, the team, everything.
"I have to win," she muttered. "I have to."
Her muscles screamed as she lunged once more.
"Then I'll decide faster," she shouted.
The man's eyes narrowed. "No. Decide clearer."
Their blades met again — once, twice — but he always deflected, redirecting her motion like water around a stone.
She was strong, but he was inevitability.
Each strike grew more desperate. Sweat rolled down her chin.
Her hand shook from exhaustion — and then it cracked.
A sickening snap.
Pain flared white-hot as her weapon clattered to the ground.
She screamed, staggering back, clutching her broken arm.
The instructor didn't gloat.
He simply advanced.
His face calm, expressionless.
Predatory.
He's going to end it.
Eghosa's thoughts swirled — Amos, the test, the failures, the villa, her mother's voice.
She saw everything she'd worked for hanging by a thread.
And then, clarity hit.
"What would Amos do?"
He wouldn't wait.
He'd decide.
She switched her sword to her left hand.
Her opponent sighed, disappointed.
"You never learn."
He lunged.
She met him head-on.
The grapple locked.
The weapon slipped.
He had her again — the same trap, the same certainty.
But this time — she kicked.
The sword flew from her hand, spinning through the air.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze — audience, instructor, even Ancelot.
And then, impossibly, she caught it midair — the blade reversed.
And drove it through her own abdomen.
Gasps tore through the hall.
The blade went clean through — her body and his.
Blood and shock filled the space between them.
For a second, no one breathed.
Then the instructor's eyes softened — pride, not anger.
"You did well, kiddo," he whispered, collapsing with her weight.
"You used the weapon of choice… well."
---
The medics rushed in instantly.
Eghosa lay pale but smiling faintly as they lifted her.
She heard the roar of the crowd — waves of it, endless.
They weren't cheering victory.
They were cheering courage.
---
Dean Ancelot rose, cane trembling. His voice was low, awed.
"She finally learned," he whispered. "She chose before the world forced her to."
Crassus glanced sideways at him.
"And she bled for it," he said simply.
"Then she's ready," Ancelot replied.
---
The stage was cleared.
The lights dimmed again, refracting in the faint mist left by the previous matches.
The announcer's voice echoed through the dome:
"Final match — Candidate Amos Devon versus Instructor Rhogar of the Second Division."
The arena tensed.
Even the nobles leaned forward, curious — the quiet boy with the children's book had become a mystery everyone wanted to solve.
Rhogar stepped onto the platform, spear in hand, scar running down his cheek like an old signature. He twirled his weapon once — not to intimidate, but to remind everyone that he wasn't just a name.
Amos walked calmly into the light.
Still no armor.
Still that faint, absent smile.
And the book — always the book.
Eghosa, lying on a stretcher near the arena's edge, tried to lift her head. The medics whispered for her to rest, but she couldn't. Not now.
Her voice came as a strained whisper:
"He's not holding a weapon… what's he planning?"
Trisha, standing beside the viewing glass, answered without looking away.
"Whatever it is — he's sure it'll work."
Rhogar's spear scraped the floor as he lowered into stance.
"Begin!"
The word hadn't even faded when Amos reached into his robe.
A flash.
One sound.
Not the cry of metal — the whine of plasma.
A blue beam tore through the air.
The instructor froze mid-step. His spear fell. A perfect hole steamed through his armor.
Silence.
No time passed between command and conclusion. The fight was over before thought could form.
Gasps erupted from every side of the arena.
"What—did he—how—?"
Even the nobles leaned forward. The viscount's jaw tightened.
Eghosa's eyes widened. The shape in his hand was unmistakable.
> "The X-blaster…" she breathed. "He brought it from the last trial…"
Crassus Devon's laughter broke the silence — sharp and knowing.
He turned toward the judges' stand, his voice low but clear enough to reach.
"He simply carried the lesson forward."
The viscount snapped, "This is no lesson! This is defiance of protocol!"
Crassus's grin widened.
> "No, my lord. This is combat. THE AIM IS TO WIN. — victory is five points, nothing less."
Dean Ancelot had risen from his seat. His gaze was locked on Amos, expression unreadable.
"He reused his invention," he muttered. "He carried the logic of science into the battlefield. The boy doesn't separate his trials — he evolves them."
The UNE judges exchanged looks. One finally stood, speaking into the mic.
"Combat Trial Complete."
"Candidate Amos Devon: 5 points — victory by instant elimination."
Murmurs rippled like a physical wave through the audience.
One student — one shot — perfection.
---
Final Combat Results:
Amos Devon — 5 points (Winner)
Eghosa Precious — 5 points (
Trisha Stephen — 5 points
Cairn Velros — 5 points
Melissa Santos — 5 points
Helena Troy — 0 points (Defeated)
Bastet Trueworth — 0 points (Forfeit)
---
The roar of the crowd returned — divided between awe and disbelief.
Some called it genius.
Others called it blasphemy.
But Eghosa said nothing. She watched Amos turn away from the stage, his steps unhurried, his book swinging gently at his side.
And in her heart — beneath the pain, beneath the humiliation — something strange stirred.
Not anger.
Not envy.
Recognition.
He had seen the world as it was, not as it should be.
He hadn't just acted first.
He had refused to play by the world's rules entirely.
"He doesn't wait for the right moment," she whispered. "He creates it."
Dean Ancelot's cane tapped the floor softly beside her stretcher.
He looked down at her, eyes steady.
"You're learning faster," he said.
"But he's already years ahead."
Eghosa didn't look away. Her hand clenched slightly, bloodied and bandaged.
"Then I'll catch up," she said.
The dean gave a faint smile.
"Good. Because from here on, the real trials begin."