The Admission Exam - Physical Test (2)

After Lyria's silent withdrawal, Teur Draven, the Master Swordsman, stepped forward decisively to the center of the arena.

His long black hair swayed behind him with his gray cloak, lending his figure an imposing and menacing aura.

"Number 4, Rylan Voss, Swordsman!" Teur called, his voice calm but sharp.

Rylan stood up among the candidates and descended the stairs with a determined stride, plunging into the darkness of the passage leading to the arena.

When he emerged from the tunnel and set foot on the earthen surface of the arena, he was wearing a brown leather jerkin reinforced with steel plates shaped like feathers that glittered under the light, and metal guards encircling his thighs.

As a weapon, he had chosen a longsword, its hilt wrapped in black leather and the round pommel reflecting silvery gleams.

He gripped the hilt tightly, his eyes fixed on Teur, his face tense but alight with unwavering determination.

"Whenever you're ready…" the Master said, a challenging smile on his lips and a tone brimming with confidence.

Rylan wasted no time.

In an instant, he lunged forward, his sword tracing a swift arc toward Teur's flank.

But the Master was unfazed: with a fluid, lightning-fast motion, he drew his sword and parried with mastery.

The blades clashed with a metallic clang that echoed through the arena, sparks dancing like falling stars in the dim light.

Rylan didn't stop, chaining a series of rapid thrusts, but Teur deflected all of them with precision, his light steps making him seem untouchable.

Then, without warning, Teur countered with a flat strike on Rylan's sword, forcing him to stagger back.

The young swordsman refused to be intimidated and, regaining his stance, attempted a downward slash, determined to turn the tide of the duel.

But Teur was faster, blocking the blade firmly and pushing Rylan back with a well-calculated shoulder shove.

Rylan's breathing grew labored, sweat beading on his forehead, but his determination didn't waver.

He feinted left, momentarily deceiving his opponent, then attacked right, aiming for Teur's leg in an attempt to throw him off balance.

The Master dodged with a fluid sidestep, his sword flashing in a quick strike that grazed Rylan's arm, leaving him unharmed but visibly shaken—his breath catching for a moment.

Unwilling to give up, Rylan focused every ounce of strength into a final assault.

With a guttural cry that echoed through the arena, he swung a powerful downward slash, his sword descending like lightning.

But Teur, impassive, parried effortlessly, his blade meeting Rylan's with a sharp clang.

With a swift wrist motion, he disarmed the young man, sending his sword flying.

Rylan's sword landed on the dusty ground, and Teur, without hesitation, pointed his blade at the candidate's throat, stopping just a breath away from the skin.

The arena fell silent, broken only by Rylan's ragged breathing.

"Test concluded," Teur declared, sheathing his sword with a fluid motion, the leather scabbard emitting a faint rustle. "Decent technique, but you lack strategy. I read in your file that you don't possess a Mana Core. That means your only hope of competing with real opponents is to hone your swordsmanship. Because, I'm sorry to tell you, but as things stand now, you wouldn't even survive a basic-level assignment…"

Rylan nodded, his face flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment. "I-I see…" he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"Good. Then take to heart what I've told you today…" Teur concluded, before turning with a resolute step and walking away from the arena.

Rylan lowered his gaze, then gave a stiff bow to the instructor's retreating back. Teur's words still buzzed in his mind, heavy as the sword he hadn't managed to hold onto.

With slow steps, Rylan retrieved his fallen sword before ascending the stairs to rejoin the audience, the weight of their gazes pressing on him in heavy silence.

Throughout the duel between the Master and candidate number 4, Blake had stood with his mouth agape, eyes wide with astonishment.

"W-Wow… I also faced Master Teur in my entrance exam, but I didn't remember him being that fast!" the boy muttered to himself, following Teur's retreating figure as it was swallowed by the shadows beyond the gate.

Moments later, the heavy metal gates reopened with a dull clang, and Gorrim returned to the arena, ready to resume the cycle.

"Number 3, Marek Dren, Tanker!" Gorrim called, his voice roaring like thunder.

Mirac leaned back against the chair, feeling adrenaline surge up his spine.

He and Carmen, both Swordsmen, still had to wait for their turn.

But in the meantime, every fight taught them something.

In particular, Mirac missed nothing, observing, analyzing, studying every detail, and preparing himself.

'Soon it will be our turn!' thought the masked boy.

* * *

The arena boiled with tension, a whirlwind of relentless clashes.

Tankers challenged Gorrim, their defenses shattered by his brute strength.

Assassins measured themselves against Lyria, their blades flashing against fiery targets, only to be outwitted by her lethal cunning.

Swordsmen and warriors unleashed their best moves against Teur, but inevitably fell to his precise strikes.

Each test concluded amid applause, whispered judgments, and dust still hanging in the air, as candidates returned to the stands, exhausted but resolute.

At the end of the most intense duels, most of the recruiters bent over their notebooks, hastily jotting down brief evaluations along with the names of the contenders who had impressed them the most.

However, not everyone followed this custom.

A small minority hadn't written a single word the entire time.

Not because they lacked paper or pencils, nor because they preferred to rely on memory, but simply because none of the candidates had impressed them enough.

But it was quite understandable, since these recruiters had been sent by the largest and most prestigious Guilds of the Kingdom, and therefore followed a stricter and more demanding evaluation standard than the others.

They would never settle for merely good fighters, as they were looking for those rare talented individuals, endowed with extraordinary potential and capable of eventually changing the outcome of any challenge.

Isaac (Mirac), seated between Ananya (Carmen) and Blake, watched each fight with narrowed eyes, his black mask concealing his focus.

He analyzed every move, every mistake, every strategy of the Masters, memorizing details for his upcoming test.

Ananya, at his side, remained impassive, her arms crossed, but her eyes followed each strike with precision, as if she were already fighting in the arena.

Blake, on the other hand, buzzed with enthusiasm, whispering excited comments at every spectacular parry or bold attack.

When candidate number 29, an Assassin, concluded his test against Lyria, destroying nine targets but surrendering to her sudden strike, a tense silence fell over the arena.

The heavy metal gates opened with a dull clang, and Teur Draven advanced to the center, his gray cloak billowing like a menacing shadow.

"Number 30, Ananya Shak! Number 31, Isaac Belgram!" Teur called, his voice calm but sharp as a blade.

A confused murmur rose from the stands, a wave of surprise reflecting the bewilderment on Isaac and Ananya's faces.

"Huh? They called both of us? Why?" Mirac whispered, standing with a mix of caution and curiosity.

Carmen was equally confused, her face impassive but her eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty. "I don't know. But there's only one way to find out…"

So, as the crowd whispered in perplexity, the two descended the stairs, their steps echoing on the steps.

At the entrance to the corridor leading to Arena 02, an employee of the Association was waiting for them beside a wooden table covered with an arsenal of weapons and armor.

She was a stern-faced woman, her hair pulled into a tight braid, wearing a gray tunic marked with the Association's seal.

"Candidates," she said, her voice curt. "For the physical test, you may choose one weapon. If you forgo armor, you may take a second weapon. Either way, you must return everything you took after the fight."

Mirac and Carmen exchanged a glance.

Without hesitation, the boy approached the table, studying the blades carefully.

There were all kinds: straight and curved swords, maces, compact axes, daggers, light spears, and even a few iron-shod staves.

Yet all of them, without exception, bore the same seal engraved on their handles: an irregular circle, within which was depicted a stylized hammer striking an anvil, surrounded by three small sparks.

It wasn't the Association's symbol. Mirac knew that one very well, as he had seen it everywhere today: on the Central Headquarters building, on the staff uniforms, on the registration form for the Exam and even embossed on door handles.

It was an elegant and powerful emblem, yet also rich with meaning: it depicted a human heart pierced obliquely by a sharp sword. From opposite sides of the wound, two streams of blood flowed, different in color and meaning.

From the side where the sword had entered, a dark, almost black blood oozed—thick and heavy—symbolizing the sacrifice and memory of all those who had lost their lives fighting with skill and courage against the monstrous threats of the Dungeons. It was the blood of those who had fought to the very end, leaving behind a legacy of bravery and sacrifice.

On the other side, a bright red, fresh, and pulsing blood symbolized the future generations: young people ready to take the place of the fallen, to shoulder the responsibility of continuing the fight against evil, and to carry forward the hope of a safer world.

That seal was both a warning and a promise to honor the past and protect the future.

Meanwhile, the mark etched on the weapons was entirely different. And as soon as Mirac saw it, he instantly realized it must belong to the blacksmith who had forged those weapons.

'Whoever this blacksmith is, they must be truly exceptional if the Association has chosen to rely entirely on them to supply all these weapons…' Mirac thought.

For a few moments, he walked slowly along the table, observing the weapons with the same fervor with which, in his previous life, he would scour libraries in search of the perfect book to devour over the week.

In the end, his hands stopped, resting on a long sword with a hilt wrapped in black leather and adorned with vine-shaped engravings climbing up to the guard. Beside it, he picked up a sharp dagger, its pommel enhanced by a small silver inlay.

He gripped both, testing their weight.

They were not extraordinary weapons, but among everything on the table, they were the right ones for him and his fighting style.

"I'll take no armor," he declared, weighing the weapons with a decisive nod before securing the dagger to his belt behind his back. 'It would only weigh me down and slow my movements. Besides, the Physical Test isn't a fight to the death, so I don't need to fear serious injuries.'

Carmen followed the same reasoning, and a few seconds later, she chose an elegantly designed sword with a hilt engraved with flame motifs and a slender dagger with a handle wrapped in red silk.

"I'll take only weapons as well," she confirmed, her tone cold but assured.

The employee nodded, quickly jotting something down in a register. "Alright. You may proceed now."

The two continued down the corridor, the torches on the walls casting flickering shadows on the stone.

The clink of their weapons echoed with their steps as adrenaline began to build.

When they emerged from the tunnel, the sunlight hit them, making the blades at their sides glint.

The packed earth of the arena crunched under their boots as they reached Teur at the center, the audience holding its breath, the air thick with anticipation and confusion.

The Master Swordsman fixed them with a piercing gaze, a faint smile on his lips.

"I see from your faces that you're very confused, candidates. Allow me to clarify," Teur said, slowly reaching into his uniform's inner pocket. He pulled out an open, slightly crumpled envelope and held it up for the two swordsmen to see. "I'm not authorized to tell you from whom, but both of you have received a high-level letter of recommendation."

Mirac felt a shiver run down his spine. "What?! A letter of recommendation?" he repeated, incredulous.

"Exactly," Teur confirmed, his tone calm but firm. "As you likely know, not all letters of recommendation carry the same weight: their effect varies based on the authority or prestige of the issuer. Some grant immediate access to the organization you're applying to, while others secure a prominent position within its hierarchy. In your case, the letter you've received grants you the latter privilege!"

He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, then continued:

"If you choose to accept the recommendation now, upon passing the Exam, you'll be granted a high rank within the Association. However…"

He paused again, his tone darkening.

"It also means facing a different test. In fact, you won't be fighting me. Your opponent will be another examiner. Someone… much stronger than I am."

Carmen raised an eyebrow, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger. "So we can refuse it?"

"Exactly," Teur replied. "Since you didn't present the letter during registration, its effects aren't valid without your consent. You can choose to refuse it and proceed with the standard Physical Test. In that case, if you pass the Exam, you'll receive the starting rank of Fused Blade, like everyone else."

Mirac and Carmen were at a loss for words.

They stood in silence, their gazes locked, as the murmurs of the crowd in the arena grew, amplifying the tension.

Teur broke their exchange of glances, gesturing toward a corner of the arena. "If you wish, you can discuss it privately."

Carmen nodded. "Alright. Give us a moment to think…"

Without another word, the two stepped away, the packed earth crunching under their boots.

The crowd's silence weighed on them like a heavy cloak.

"What do you think?" Mirac asked in a low voice. "We don't know who sent this letter. And if they didn't inform us earlier, it must have been a last-minute decision. But why?"

Carmen crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the ground. "I have no idea. But starting our career with a high rank would open doors to high-paying missions. We could skip weeks of minor assignments and complete our preparations for the Red Desert much sooner than planned."

She raised her eyes to him. "But it's also true that an examiner stronger than Teur probably won't be easy to defeat."

Mirac nodded, his mind racing. "True, but we have nothing to lose. Assuming our Written Test went perfectly, even if we lose the Physical Test, the few points we earn will be enough to pass the Admission Exam. So, either way, it's a win for us."

At those words, Carmen didn't hesitate further, a determined smile curling her lips. "You're right… Okay, let's do it then!"

With their decision made, the two swordsmen returned to Teur, walking with greater confidence as the tension in their chests turned into a strange surge of energy.

Teur studied them for a moment, sensing the shift in their demeanor. Then, with a slight nod, he asked calmly, his tone tinged with curiosity: "So? What have you decided?"

Carmen responded with a firm voice:

"We accept the letter of recommendation."

Mirac nodded beside her, his steely gaze hidden beneath his mask.

Teur scrutinized them for another moment, then slowly inclined his head. "Hah! Very well, then… In that case, stay here and wait for your new examiner to arrive."

The Swordmaster turned and took a few steps forward.

But then he suddenly stopped and looked back at Carmen and Mirac, a smile on his face that felt almost like a challenge.

"Good luck against him…" he murmured, loud enough for them to hear, leaving behind a heavy sense of anticipation hanging in the air.

Without saying another word, he resumed walking, his cloak rustling softly in the breeze as he made his way toward the exit.

The massive metal gates swung open with a metallic clang that echoed through the arena, swallowing Teur into the darkness of the tunnel.

An absolute silence fell over the arena.

Then, from the shadows of the tunnel emerged a tall, powerful figure. Each step made the scattered stones on the ground tremble.

He wore no armor: only a white shirt clinging to his muscular torso, simple black pants, and a long spear held firmly in his hand.

Between his lips, he clenched a lit pipe, from which he occasionally exhaled slow curls of smoke before removing it with his free hand, as if it were a habitual gesture.

Though the years were evident in his features, the aura emanating from the man was oppressive, like a storm about to unleash.

The stands erupted in a deafening tumult of shouts, whispers, and excited murmurs.

"I-I can't believe it!" someone shouted.

"T-That's…"

"There's no doubt: it's the President of the Association!" another voice shouted, laced with reverential awe.

Mirac felt his heart pound in his chest, the crowd's buzz filling his ears.

The man stopped at the center of the arena, his face marked by wrinkles, framed by thick gray hair.

With a slow gesture, he raised a hand to silence the crowd.

"Ananya Shak… Isaac Belgram… It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jun Rassing…" the man said, his voice rough but powerful, resonating through the arena. "I am the President of the Association. And for you, I will also be your examiner."

A chill ran down Mirac's spine.

'Jun Rassing, he said? So he's the older brother of General Rassing?' he thought, swallowing hard, his eyes wide beneath the mask as he recognized in the man's features a strong resemblance to his brother's.

Mirac was well aware of the Rassing brothers' reputation.

Both were legendary figures, not only in the Kingdom of Ardorya but across the entire continent of Harmony!

George, the younger, was not only the General of Ardorya's Third Army, but had also been the mentor of the Great Knight Leonard and even King Arthur himself!

As for Jun, the President of the Association, he was known for once being the second strongest magical swordsman in the world!