Ethan Drakethorne
Each fight displayed different styles and disciplines, proving that technique mattered just as much as raw strength.
Then, Instructor Seraphine called the next name.
"Selene Vael."
A quiet buzz of anticipation filled the air. Selene was known for her exceptional skill.
She stepped forward, her silver hair catching the light as her violet eyes gleamed with confidence. Every movement she made was graceful yet controlled, exuding the air of someone who had mastered their craft.
Seraphine tilted her head slightly. "Your technique?"
Selene unsheathed her dual daggers, their edges gleaming like liquid silver.
---
The arena doors rumbled open, and a Crimson Shadow Lynx leaped into the battlefield.
The lynx was a blur of red and black, its razor-sharp claws capable of ripping flesh apart in an instant. It was one of the most notoriously fast wild beasts, moving like a shadow to strike with lethal precision.
The lynx launched forward at full speed, its claws extended.
Selene remained completely still.
Just as the claws neared her, she vanished.
Phantom Step.
She reappeared behind the lynx in an instant, her movements so smooth they seemed almost supernatural.
The beast whirled, snarling in frustration.
Selene smirked. "Too slow."
She lunged, spinning mid-air as she entered the second form—Fading Mirage.
Her daggers became a blur, striking the lynx's front legs in a series of precise, lightning-fast cuts.
The lynx screeched, stumbling as blood dripped onto the dirt floor.
But it wasn't done yet.
With a furious growl, it pounced again, its speed doubling.
Selene sidestepped effortlessly, slipping into the third form—Phantom Slash.
Her daggers flickered like ghostly streaks, cutting into the beast's flank before she flipped over it, her foot pressing against its back to propel herself into the air.
As she landed, she activated the final form—Moonlit Rend.
She spun once, her daggers slicing through the lynx's back and severing its tendons in one fluid motion.
The lynx collapsed, its body twitching as its breath came in ragged gasps.
Selene stood over it, her posture elegant, her daggers flipping once before sheathing them in a single motion.
---
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The way she had moved—it was like watching a dancer in a deadly ballet.
Even Instructor Seraphine paused before nodding. "Excellent. Precision, control, and elegance. A near-perfect execution."
Selene curtsied playfully. "Thank you, Instructor."
As she stepped out of the arena, she glanced at Ethan, her lips curving into a smirk.
"You're up soon," she whispered, her voice teasing. "Try to impress me."
Ethan chuckled, gripping the hilt of his practice sword.
His turn was next.
And he was ready to show exactly what he was capable of.
The tension in the air thickened as Instructor Seraphine called the final name.
"Ethan Drakethorne."
The murmurs that followed were different from the previous ones. There was a shift in the atmosphere—a quiet recognition of the weight carried by that name.
As Ethan stepped forward, his classmates watched with varying expressions. Some were curious, others anticipatory, and a few held veiled envy.
Unlike the others before him, there was no uncertainty in Ethan's stride. His storm-gray eyes were sharp and unwavering, his posture relaxed but eerily controlled, like a predator that had yet to strike.
---
Ethan reached the center of the arena and unsheathed his training sword, holding it with practiced ease. The silver sheen of the blade reflected the glow of the rune-lit walls, exuding an almost ceremonial feel.
Instructor Seraphine, who had observed countless tests in her time, regarded him carefully. "State your technique."
Ethan's voice was calm, unwavering.
"The Crimson Edge Technique."
The moment he spoke, several students exchanged glances.
Crimson Edge was not a beginner's technique. It was a legacy sword style, a technique that required precision, adaptability, and immense physical control. And yet, Ethan spoke its name as though it was just another skill in his arsenal.
Seraphine nodded and turned toward the attendants.
However, unlike before, a different attendant stepped forward.
---
The heavy, rune-etched metal gates of the arena rumbled open, their reinforced mechanisms groaning under the strain.
A deep, guttural snarl echoed from the darkness beyond.
Then, with slow, deliberate steps, the beast emerged.
It was unlike anything the students had faced.
A Liger—a monstrous hybrid of a lion and a tiger—towered over the battlefield, its massive, muscular body covered in golden-orange fur with striped patterns running across its sides. Its thick mane bristled with hostility, its golden-yellow eyes glowing with wild hunger.
But something was off.
The pressure in the air was heavier.
The liger's muscles twitched unnaturally, its limbs larger and more defined than a normal beast's. Its eyes burned with an unnatural gleam, and its aura flickered like a distorted mirage.
Then, realization struck the students.
"It's partially awakened," one of them gasped.
A murmur of shock and concern spread through the class.
Unlike the unawakened beasts fought before, this Liger had undergone a halfway Awakening, making it several times stronger, faster, and more dangerous than the other beasts.
The starvation it had been subjected to only heightened its ferocity, making it a creature driven by raw, uncontrollable hunger.
--
Despite the savage hunger in its gaze, the Liger did not attack the attendant.
The students immediately noticed this discrepancy.
It wasn't that the beast was being controlled—rather, its instincts told it that the man standing beside it was untouchable.
The attendant, a man clad in a long, rune-stitched robe, radiated an aura that was not oppressive, but untouchable—like a mountain standing amidst a raging storm.
The Liger knew.