Shirone's Trial: The Leap of Light and Shadow

Shirone lurched forward as he materialized, barely catching himself before his torso could crash onto the jagged ground. His hands dug into the cold earth, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. For a long moment, he simply knelt there, breath ragged, staring at his trembling fingers.

"…Did I… do it?"

No searing pain. No shattered bones. Just the faint hum of residual magic clinging to his skin. A hoarse laugh escaped his cracked lips. "Heh… I did it."

The victory felt hollow—after 30 days of brutal training, he'd only managed a 10-meter teleport. To cross the 700-meter Uncrossable Bridge, he'd need to chain 70 flawless jumps. His body screamed in protest at the thought.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The midnight bell tolled, its echoes slicing through the training grounds. Shirone collapsed face-first into the dirt, the cold, earthy scent of soil clawing at his nostrils.

'I did it… but it's not enough.'

Exhaustion dragged him into oblivion.

Dawn of the Test

Mark flung open his dorm window, inhaling the crisp morning air like a conquering king. His reflection in the bathroom mirror showed a smirk sharper than a dagger.

'Today's the day,' he thought, slicking back his hair. 'The day I crush that talentless worm and claim my rightful place in Class Five.'

A knock interrupted his preening. His private tutor—a gaunt, 9th-tier mage hired by his influential family—slid into the room.

"How's our problem?" Mark asked, buttoning his embroidered jacket.

The tutor's lip curled. "Still flailing in the dark. No amount of theory can compensate for his… lack of practical guidance."

Mark's grin widened. "Perfect. Let's ensure he stays that way."

The Uncrossable Bridge

Students gathered at the cliff's edge, their nervous chatter swallowed by the roaring chasm below. The "bridge" was a single steel cable stretching 700 meters between two peaks, its surface glinting ominously in the dawn light.

"Where's the safety net?!" a student whimpered, peering at the raging river far below.

Professor Sad materialized behind them, his voice cutting through the panic. "The only danger here is you. Control your magic, or perish."

Among the crowd, Maria trembled like a leaf in a storm. Mark's threat from earlier echoed in her skull: "When I become your senior, I'll make you regret snitching."

Her eyes darted to the opposing cliff where upperclassmen watched like vultures. Among them—Amy and Seriel.

"Still pretending you don't care?" Seriel elbowed Amy, nodding toward the empty spot where Shirone should've been.

Amy scowled, tightening her grip on her telescope. "He's late. Probably overslept."

'Liar,' Seriel mouthed, smirking.

The Saboteurs

Mark huddled with his four conspirators—students bribed with promises of prestigious apprenticeships.

"First wave: flank him during the initial jump," a sharp-faced girl whispered. "Second wave: destabilize his landing coordinates. If he survives…"

"We push him off the cable," Mark finished, cracking his knuckles. "No witnesses in that chaos."

They nodded, their eyes gleaming with ambition and fear.

Shirone's Arrival

A ripple passed through the crowd as Shirone stumbled into the arena. His uniform hung in tatters, dark circles carved under his eyes like bruises. Yet his gaze—a blade forged in 30 days of agony—locked onto the cable.

Amy's breath hitched. 'You look like death… but you're still standing.'

Professor Sad raised his hand.

"BEGIN!"

Twenty students vanished in flashes of light—

—except Shirone.

He stepped onto the cable physically, his boots scraping steel.

Mark's laugh boomed across the chasm. "Too scared to teleport, genius?"

Shirone ignored him. One foot after another, he walked—

—then exploded into light.

10 meters.

He rematerialized mid-cable, momentum carrying him forward. Another flash—

20 meters.

Mark's gang blinked in disbelief. 'He's… alternating walking and teleporting?!'

"Now!" Mark barked.

Two conspirators teleported ahead, colliding with Shirone's coordinates—

—only to grasp empty air.

Shirone had already dropped into another stride, his rhythm unpredictable.

'He's conserving stamina,' Amy realized, her nails biting into her palms. 'Using walks to reset his focus.'

The Final Stretch

At 500 meters, Shirone's knees buckled. Blood dripped from his nose, his vision swimming.

Mark materialized beside him, magic crackling. "Time to fall, failure."

Shirone lunged—not away, but toward Mark.

Their collision sent both careening off the cable—

—into freefall.

"IDIOT!" Mark screamed, clawing at the air.

Shirone grabbed his wrist.

Teleport.

They rematerialized on the far peak, crashing into a heap.

Silence.

Then—applause.

Professor Sad stared. Amy's telescope clattered to the ground.

Shirone staggered upright, bloodied but unbowed. Mark lay motionless, his arrogance shattered.

"Winner: Arian Shirone."