The Trials Begin

Moto wakes early, the pre-dawn quiet a stark contrast to the thrum of anticipation in his chest. There's no time to pace, no one to talk to. He heads straight to the waiting area at the Elite School arena—the very grounds where Mukai and Najo once clashed. The place is quieter than expected, a heavy, silent hum of anticipation hanging in the air. The other candidates are already there, a handful of solemn figures, each lost in their own thoughts.

By royal order, the event is closed to the public. Soldiers stand rigid guard at the gates, ensuring no one enters uninvited. King Manasseh's arrival is fast approaching, and King Douglas has demanded absolute precision—no distractions.

High above the arena, on the royal terrace, King Douglas sits, his posture regal. Aritri stands silently beside him, arms crossed, her expression utterly unreadable, a sentinel of quiet authority.

Elsewhere, Sheu and Sukai approach the imposing gates. They spot a wiry old man with slick, surprisingly glossy red hair arguing fiercely with the guards.

"The King said no spectators," one soldier repeats, his voice flat with officialdom. "We can't let you in. Orders are orders."

Sukai steps closer, his presence immediately prompting the guards to bow slightly. "It's alright," he says, his voice calm. "What's going on here?"

The old man blinks slowly behind cloudy, ancient eyes. "My grandson's fighting today," he says, his voice soft but firm, a tremor of emotion underlying the words. "Since he was just a little lad, he's dreamed of standing by the King's side. I just… wanted to see him take one step closer to that dream."

Sukai's expression softens, visibly moved. "I understand." He turns to the guards. "Let him through."

The old man's face crinkles into a grateful smile, his eyes glinting with a flicker of something ancient. Sheu walks up and gently takes his arm, offering support as she helps him toward the stands. As they walk, her gaze falls on the simple gold bracelet on his wrist—each link intricately engraved with the number 7.

"Where did you get this?" she asks, a casual curiosity in her voice.

"My brother gave it to me," he says, almost dismissively, covering it quickly with his other hand. He insists on sitting alone near the very top row, a solitary figure watching from the shadows. Sheu and Sukai settle a few rows lower. Sheu scans the arena, her gaze sweeping across the battle platform.

There. Moto stands, a familiar figure beside Mukai, Hawa, and Albert. He spots her and waves with exaggerated energy, a wide grin breaking through his focus. She offers a small smile and a modest wave in return. Albert notices too, winking playfully. She pointedly ignores him.

Across the arena, the King's Hand stand like formidable statues—silent, unmoving. Each wears a ring identical to Douglas's, etched with gleaming square orange gems, faintly shining under the arena lights. Their collective presence radiates immense power.

Mr. Jumbo strides to the podium, his robes trailing behind him. "Greetings," he begins, his voice echoing crisply through the quiet air. "The rules are simple: each student will face a member of the King's Hand. Victory is achieved in one of two ways—forcing your opponent to exceed ten percent of their strength… or lasting twenty minutes." He lifts his hand solemnly. "May the worthy succeed."

With that, the Succession Trials officially begin. A moment of profound quiet descends upon the arena, pregnant with anticipation.

Albert breaks it, his voice carrying clearly. "Man, this year's trials are way too awkward without a crowd, don't you think, Mukai?"

Mukai doesn't blink, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "This isn't a show."

Across the arena, King Douglas lifts his hand. The ring on his thumb flashes, a brilliant gleam in the light. From the opposite gate, Zed, the imposing Master of Earth, leaps into the ring. His bare feet slam into the ground with thunderous weight, his muscles carved like stone. A matching ring gleams on his thumb. He stands tall, formidable—then remembers. No crowd. No applause. He hears a faint chuckle. Albert.

Zed turns slowly toward him. "Do you think you have what it takes to become the King's strength?" he asks, his voice low and steady.

Albert steps onto the platform, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, brimming with a youthful confidence. "Watch." He twists his fist, then stomps. The arena floor beneath him instantly transforms, flattening and hardening into dense, jagged stone. He spins and throws a compressed wind ball directly at Zed's face. The wind kicks up a blinding cloud of dust, veiling Zed's vision. Albert tears a jagged slab of stone from the ground and hurls it into the swirling haze.

It never lands.

Zed's arm explodes from the dust cloud, a blur of raw power, shattering the boulder with a single, brutal punch. Shards of rock scatter violently across the field. Albert barely has time to raise his arms in defense before Zed charges, each colossal step cracking the ground beneath him. Albert desperately summons another stone slab, trying to form a barrier, but Zed drops into a crouch, punches low—an earthquake pulse rips through the ground. The stone shield ripples, fractures, and explodes from beneath. Albert is launched off his feet, tumbling hard. His wind kicks in just fast enough to stabilize his frantic fall. He groans, coughing dust.

Zed doesn't move, a silent, unyielding monument. The fight ends. No need for the time limit. No indication Zed used more than a fragment of his power.

The second match begins. The Master of Wind floats gracefully into the arena—his robes fluttering unnaturally even in the still air, his body language loose but deceptive, meticulously calculated. Facing him is Hawa, composed and silent. He walks calmly to his mark, offering a respectful nod.

Mr. Jumbo lifts his arm. The match begins.

Hawa moves fast—wind spirals form around his limbs as he dashes in, hands outstretched. He leaps, creating a curved arc of water in the air, using his wind to shear it into sharp, glistening blades. The Master dodges effortlessly, twisting midair and releasing a precise gust that counters the arc. The violent pressure exchange sends both fighters sliding back several feet. Hawa doesn't waste time. He follows immediately with a spinning water drill, encased in a shimmering wind shell, forcing his opponent to block with an air pocket wall. They clash again and again, a rapid dance of elemental power. Where Albert was impulsive, Hawa is precise. Efficient.

But as the clock ticks down—nineteen minutes remaining—the Master exhales sharply. His eyes narrow. A thin spiral of air twists up his arm. In one fluid motion, he vanishes—reappearing directly above Hawa. A powerful wind burst slams downward, cracking the arena floor. Hawa skids back, blocking with a desperate surge of water pressure from his palms. Just before the match ends, the Master lands silently behind him and whispers, "Ten percent." A single, devastating strike sends Hawa to his knees, sliding back across the platform, his body screaming in protest.

"Enough!" Jumbo declares. "Ten percent reached."

There's silence once more. Hawa slowly stands, offers a respectful nod, and limps off the platform. He didn't win—but he earned respect.

Back at the battle platform, Mukai steps forward, his gaze locked on his opponent. Moto looks at him—quiet, steady, a silent understanding passing between them. Mukai doesn't look back. He steps onto the arena floor without a word, his resolve unwavering.

From the opposite side, the Master of Water rises from a towering pillar of liquid, standing effortlessly on a swirling tide.

Jumbo steps forward, his voice booming. "Next match: Mukai versus Aran, Master of Water."

The bell rings. And the pressure in the arena shifts, suddenly heavier, alive with anticipation.