Chapter – 6 – The Entrance Trial Begins
Astral Academy was the largest and only institution in the kingdom where Realm Masters could learn to harness their powers. Its arena was a marvel of architecture—circular, vast, surrounded by sturdy stone seats that rose in tiered levels toward the ceiling. But the true wonder was the roof: an enormous dome of green-tinted glass that bathed the entire arena in soft, ethereal sunlight. From above, the arena looked like a giant emerald resting on the earth. From within, it felt like standing inside a jewel.
The noble and royal families claimed the highest seats, where the view was best. Peasants and mortals sat below, closer to the bloodshed. At first glance, one might think the lower seats offered a better view—but Realm Masters could fly, leap, and move at inhuman speeds. The battle would not stay on the ground. The upper sections allowed spectators to track the combatants across the entire arena.
Every noble family in the region had gathered for this event, which occurred only once every five years. They came to display their power, to measure rivals, to form alliances. Even the royal family would attend. And if some young fighter proved extraordinary, they might catch the eye of a great house—or perhaps royalty itself.
For a mortal, exceptional talent could mean elevation from poverty to nobility in a single day.
The Vale family, a fallen Viscount house, sat in the middle section. Lord Segast Vale and his wife watched in silence, their faces carefully neutral. Aria sat beside them, and for once, she said nothing mocking. Ever since the day Lucien had dismantled Liam Carter and his fifty soldiers, she had stopped her insults. She had even begun training harder, as if trying to close a gap she was only now beginning to see.
Lucien stood apart from his family, leaning against a stone pillar near the arena's edge.
Two hundred candidates had gathered for the Entrance Trial—Realm Masters and ordinary mortals alike. Only one hundred would be selected. The survivors would be divided into four classes of twenty-five, each with its own leader.
This world valued quality over quantity.
Those who failed could wait another five years or accept positions as commanders and guards for noble families. For most, failure was not an option. For some, like Evelyn, it would mean utter ruin.
Lucien was not worried.
For others, this trial was the summit of their ambitions. For him, it was simply another step toward absolute power.
Out of the hundred selected students, he thought, fifty will come from the Academic Trial. The other fifty will be chosen through the Entrance Trial. Fifty matches. Realm Masters against Realm Masters, mortals against mortals, and sometimes—like Evelyn's fight—mortals against Masters. Completely random.
There are many faces I recognize. Evelyn. Sarric. Ramon. Wally. Jasley. His gaze drifted across the arena floor, scanning the crowd of candidates. And most importantly… Seraphina Thornveil.
This Entrance Trial is crucial for me. I need to carve a place for myself in everyone's mind. If I am defeated, I will never get another opportunity. People remember only the strongest… and the weakest.
Let's see how I shape that image.
“Oh, it seems the Vale family has sent a weakling this year.”
The voice came from the left, loud enough to carry. Darson Mordric—a boy of fourteen with a sharp face and sharper tongue—stood with a group of young nobles, smirking.
Darson was a Viscount's son, powerful enough to act arrogantly. But his arrogance came from his elder brother, Sarric Mordric, who was widely considered a rising star. Sarric and Lucien had been close friends in childhood, as inseparable as brothers. But as Lucien's weakness became apparent, Sarric had drifted away—first slowly, then completely.
Now Sarric was participating in the trial as well. And his success allowed Darson to insult Lucien freely, knowing Lord Vale could not openly retaliate.
Sarric Mordric had already reached the Peak Tempering Realm. Many called him a future pillar of the kingdom.
Because of Sarric, Seraphina rejected me, Lucien thought. If you want to marry someone, and his close friend is stronger and more talented… you can imagine the dilemma.
Noble marriages are not built on love. They are built on benefit. Seraphina only did what any noble lady would do to strengthen her family. The original Lucien held a grudge, but honestly… that's just how this world works.
He decided not to waste time on Darson.
“Those are big words,” Lucien said calmly, “coming from someone who still hasn't opened his Realm.”
Fuck. I thought I wouldn't respond to provocation. But I guess it's in my nature. Whatever. It's not like he can do anything to me.
Darson's face turned red. His hands clenched into fists.
“What did you say?”
The reaction was telling. Nobles were trained to suppress pathetic emotions, but Darson looked like an enraged commoner. Lucien's response was completely different from what he had expected. In the past, Lucien would have remained silent, head bowed, accepting the insult.
Now he had grown a spine.
“Whatever,” Darson spat, turning away. “A weakling like you will never be accepted.”
He stalked off, his group following.
Lucien watched him go, expression unchanged.
The Academic Trial concluded, and the Entrance Trial officially began.
Eliss Alde approached the Vale family section, her white hair swaying gently. She had already completed her Academic Trial and would not be fighting. The Academic Trial tested intelligence and knowledge rather than combat ability—though physical strength still played a role.
“Greetings, Lord Vale. Lady Vale,” Eliss said politely, curtsying.
Lady Vale smiled warmly. “How was your Academic Trial, dear?”
“It went well.” Eliss's confidence was quiet but genuine. “I managed to answer every question.”
Nearby heads turned. The daughter of Count Alde had come personally to greet the fallen Viscount family. Whispers spread through the stands like ripples in a pond.
Eliss walked toward Lucien and stood beside him.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“No.” He did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on the arena floor. “Whatever happens is inevitable. Since I cannot stop it, why waste time feeling nervous?”
They stood together, watching the preparations below.
From across the arena, Seraphina Thornveil watched them.
Something burned in her chest.
She had rejected Lucien. She had chosen Sarric. It was the practical decision, the correct decision. Noble marriages were not about love. Everyone knew that.
Yet watching Lucien stand beside Eliss—calm, beautiful, utterly indifferent to Seraphina's existence—made her feel something she could not name.
Why does he look so… composed?
She had expected him to be broken. Defeated. Instead, he looked like a man who had already forgotten her.
Sarric Mordric stood nearby, speaking with his father. He noticed Seraphina's gaze and followed it to Lucien. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Soon, Sarric thought. After the trial, I will propose. And Seraphina will be mine.
A nobleman stepped onto the central platform—a tall man in silver robes, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of the arena.
“You all know the rules,” he announced, his tone brisk and businesslike. “Killing is forbidden. Anything else is permitted.”
He let that sink in.
“If a participant wishes to surrender, they must say so clearly. If they are unable to speak, they may kneel, bend over, and grasp their opponent's leg to signal submission.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“If a participant loses consciousness, they automatically lose. However…” The nobleman smiled thinly. “If anyone pretends to faint, our mages will know immediately. And not only will the offender be punished—their family will be as well.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
People would rather be beaten unconscious than surrender. Brutal. But interesting.
Beside him, Eliss shifted uncomfortably. Her father had helped create these rules. She understood their necessity, but watching them in practice was different.
“The first fight!” the nobleman shouted. “Alian versus Halmund!”
Two young men stepped onto the arena floor.
It lasted three seconds.
Halmund, a broad-shouldered boy in the Mid-Tempering Realm, crossed the distance before Alian could raise his guard. A single punch to the jaw. Alian crumpled like wet paper.
“Winner: Halmund!”
Lucien sighed. Boring.
Fight after fight unfolded.
Some were quick. Some were brutal. Some were embarrassingly one-sided. Most participants had only recently awakened their Realms, and the gap between Early and Mid was already a chasm. A few were mortals with no Realm at all, hoping to replicate the legendary feats of warriors who had killed Realm Masters through sheer skill.
Most of those mortals left on stretchers.
“The next battle,” the nobleman announced, “will be between Evelyn… and Kleric!”
Lucien straightened slightly.
Evelyn stepped onto the arena floor. Her blue hair was tied back, her simple clothes clean but threadbare. In her hands was the steel sword Lucien had bought for her. Her eyes were calm, focused—but beneath that calm, something burned.
Her opponent, Kleric, was a boy of seventeen in expensive silk robes. He carried no visible weapon, but the air around him shimmered with heat. Late Tempering Realm. A Master.
The gap between them was enormous.
But Evelyn had trained since she was five years old. Every morning before dawn. Every night long after sunset. She had dreamed of this moment for a decade.
“Oh?” Kleric laughed, flipping his hair. “A woman with a sword? Defeating you would bring me shame, especially since you're not even a Realm Master.”
Evelyn said nothing.
She lowered her stance, holding her sword upward with both hands. Her breathing slowed. Her focus narrowed until the crowd, the noise, the pressure—all of it faded away.
There was only the blade.
And the target.
She dashed forward.
Kleric's eyes widened at her speed. He activated his family's inherited Realm skill—Teleportation. In an instant, he vanished from his position and reappeared five meters to the left.
Evelyn's sword cut through empty air.
She did not pause. Did not hesitate. She turned and charged again, her movements so fast that ordinary mortals could barely follow them.
Kleric teleported again—four meters back.
Evelyn anticipated it.
She was already mid-swing when he materialized.
He barely avoided the blade, stumbling backward, his composure cracking.
“Enough of this!” Kleric raised both hands. A massive firebird erupted from his palms—a construct of blazing orange flame, easily three meters wide, screeching as it hurtled toward Evelyn.
She swung her blade once.
The firebird split cleanly in half.
The two halves detonated behind her, scorching the arena floor, but Evelyn was already through the flames, her sword raised, her eyes locked on Kleric's throat.
He teleported again—but this time, Evelyn smiled.
She had been counting.
Five meters. Four meters. Five meters again. His range was predictable. His pattern was predictable.
The instant he reappeared, she leaped—not toward where he was, but where he would be.
Five meters ahead.
Her sword came down.
Kleric screamed.
Both of his arms fell to the arena floor, severed cleanly at the elbows. Blood sprayed across the stone. He collapsed, writhing, his stumps pumping crimson.
Evelyn pointed her blade at his throat.
“Do you accept defeat?” Her voice was cold. Quiet. Terrifying.
Kleric could not answer. He was too busy screaming.
“Do. You. Accept?” she repeated, pressing the tip against his skin.
“I—I accept! I accept! Please!”
Medical Realm Masters rushed onto the arena, their hands already glowing with healing light. They gathered Kleric's severed arms and carried him away.
The crowd was silent.
Then—explosive noise. Cheering. Shouting. Disbelief.
A mortal had defeated a Late Tempering Realm Master.
Evelyn lowered her sword. Her face remained expressionless, but inside, her heart soared.
Mother, she thought, I did it.
“Winner: Evelyn!”
Lucien watched from above, a small smile playing on his lips.
Interesting, he thought. Very interesting.
He turned to Eliss. “She's talented.”
Eliss nodded slowly. “Her technique is flawless. But her aggression… she nearly killed him.”
“Nearly doesn't count.”
Maisy approached from behind, carrying a tray with chilled juice. She set it down on a small table near the Vale family seats, her movements precise and nervous. She could feel the tension in the air—the weight of watching eyes, the pressure of expectation.
She looked at Lucien. He seemed completely at ease.
How does he do it? she wondered. How is he so calm?
The nobleman stepped onto the platform again, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
“Now… let us proceed to the next match.”
He paused, dramatically unrolling a parchment.
“This battle will be between…”
“…Sarric Mordric…”
The crowd murmured. Sarric was a favorite. A rising star. The Peak Tempering Realm was nothing to dismiss.
“…and Lucien Vale.”
Author Note:
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