Elder Schwang’s face broke into a warm, proud smile, though his eyes betrayed a trace of sorrow beneath the surface. He stepped forward and raised his hand to silence the crowd. The room fell still, save for the faint crackle of the torches.
“It is with a heavy heart,” he began solemnly, his deep voice ringing clear across the hall, “that I must ask those not selected to take their leave.”
A heavy silence followed. Faces drained of color; some exhaled sharp breaths, others blinked away disappointment. The weight of those words sank deep into every soul present.
Schwang’s voice softened, layered now with genuine compassion, “But do not despair. Today was not your day—but your journey is far from over. Keep striving. Your time will come.”
Slowly, the crowd thinned as those not chosen quietly exited, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridors. The room grew emptier, quieter, until only the top 56 candidates remained, standing scattered but tense. The great oak doors groaned shut behind them, sealed instantly by a shimmer of magic that muted all sounds inside and out, cocooning them in an eerie silence.
“Candidates,” Schwang’s voice filled the room again, steady and welcoming, “make yourselves at home. You have one hour before the next trial. Use this time to rest… and perhaps get to know one another.”
He gave a slight bow and stepped back, leaving the candidates to their thoughts.
As the tension slowly unraveled, small pockets of laughter and chatter sprouted here and there. Some participants eagerly exchanged stories and whispered plans, their faces bright with the thrill of survival. Others, like Arthur, preferred to be left alone. He slid down the cold stone wall, letting his back rest against its rough, uneven surface, his eyes half-closed as he tried to steady the wild storm of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him.
His body wasn’t exhausted, but his mind raced wildly — memories and fears clashing like thunder inside his skull.
A faint scent of burning pine mingled with damp stone and the faintest trace of sweat in the air. Somewhere far off, the distant clang of metal against metal rang out, followed by a soft murmur of voices. Yet all this faded beneath the roar in Arthur’s chest, the pounding pulse of adrenaline and uncertainty.
Just then, a shadow fell across his legs, and a hand extended toward him.
“Name’s Lucas,” the boy said smoothly, a relaxed, confident smile curling his lips. “Rank number four.”
Arthur blinked up and met silver eyes that seemed too sharp, too calm for someone so young. His silver-grey hair shimmered faintly, catching the flickering torchlight, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He stood tall, shoulders squared, every inch radiating strength and self-assurance.
Arthur clasped the offered hand firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Arthur. Brilliant performance back there—with just a punch.”
Arthur grinned, feeling warmth bubble up in his chest. “Says the one who nearly shattered the crystal with his spear.”
A laugh slipped out, unexpected and strangely comforting. The tension in his chest loosened just a little.
“What are your attributes, Lucas?” Arthur asked, curiosity breaking through the nervous fog.
“Ice,” Lucas replied evenly, eyes momentarily distant. “I hail from the Ice Faction, so all my abilities revolve around ice.” He paused, voice softer now, “Though since my father was a water mage, I have water attributes as well.”
Arthur recalled what Bertha had told him — many factions existed, each with their own strengths and bitter rivalries. The Ice Faction was legendary, rivaling Wind, Fire, Water, Earth, and others.
“Well, what made you come here? The Frozen Kingdom’s supposed to be one of the best places to live, right?” Arthur pressed.
Lucas tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s true... to some extent,” he admitted. “My mother isn’t from the Ice Faction. My father was. He died when I was two. Since then, it’s been just me and my mom, living here in the central lands.”
He met Arthur’s eyes, searching.
“What about you?”
Arthur hesitated, then gave a dry chuckle, almost bitter.
“I don’t even know who I am.”
Lucas raised an amused eyebrow.
“No, seriously,” Arthur said, voice dropping. “I’m an orphan. Bertha—the granny next door and an old friend of my parents—raised me. I owe her everything. She’s one of the reasons I’m still standing here.”
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He sighed, gaze drifting to the darkened corners of the hall.
For a moment, the weight they both carried hung between them — unspoken but understood.
Lucas’s voice dropped, serious now.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you... How do you know Luke? And from the way you two look at each other, you’re not exactly friends.”
Arthur’s face hardened, gaze dropping as painful memories stirred.
“Luke and I were neighbors,” he said slowly, voice thick with memory. “I first saw him when I was six.”
His voice softened, the pain clear in his tone.
“Luke wasn’t like this then. He was like an elder brother—a friend, someone I looked up to.”
He swallowed hard, the air thick with emotion.
“But that changed.”
Arthur’s mind flashed back.
They were just kids, wild and careless in the dense forest behind their homes. The sun was warm on their backs, and laughter had filled the air. Then, without warning, a monstrous wolf appeared—eyes glowing, snarling as it lunged out of the shadows.
Luke was just fourteen, freshly finished with his trial, but he moved like a seasoned warrior—calm, focused, fearless. He faced the beast alone, holding it off with nothing but sheer will and skill. Most kids his age would have fled screaming.
Arthur had watched, frozen in terror and awe.
Back in the hall, Arthur’s voice lowered, haunted.
“That day changed everything... though I still don’t know why.”
“After the fight, I was badly wounded,” he whispered. “The wolf’s pack ambushed us. We were overwhelmed.”
His jaw clenched tight.
“I barely survived—because I awakened. Gained my attribute.” His eyes dimmed. “But it didn’t help. Not really.”
“Luke finished them off.” Bitter edge in his voice. “But the look he gave me after learning about my attribute...”
Silent tears traced down his cheeks.
Before Lucas could reply, a deep gong echoed through the hall, forcing everyone to rise. Elder Schwang strode to the center, commanding attention again.
Lucas patted Arthur’s back with quiet encouragement.
“Hey, visit my home once we make it to the finals,” he said with confidence.
Arthur chuckled softly, still unsure.
“Finals? Me?”
“Yeah, you bet.”
They exchanged a nod, an unspoken promise forming between them.
The candidates moved toward the center of the hall as Elder Schwang’s voice boomed out:
“Candidates, the main trial begins now. This trial will decide who advances to the finals. But beware—only fourteen will be deemed worthy to face the grand trial at the heart of the province.”
“Remember, this challenge cannot be overcome by strength alone. It demands something far greater.”
The charged silence that followed was heavy, as if the ancient walls themselves were holding their breath.
Arthur cast one last glance at Schwang—stern, expectant, warning.
The weight settled deep in his chest like a stone.
“Let the main trial commence!” Schwang roared.
The ground beneath them trembled violently. Shimmering portals erupted from the stone floor, crackling with raw magic energy.
Before Arthur could react, an invisible force yanked him forward, pulling him into a swirling void. His vision spun wildly as darkness swallowed him whole.
Then, suddenly, his feet hit firm ground.
He stumbled, steadying himself, breathing slowly as he took in the heavy silence around him.
Safe. But somewhere else entirely.
What is this place…? he thought, eyes adjusting to the dim flicker of torchlight.
A low, guttural growl rumbled in the distance, sending icy fear crawling down his spine.
He blinked, struggling to focus.
Suddenly, the truth crashed over him like a tidal wave—
This wasn’t just another trial.
This was a dungeon.
The words twisted his stomach into knots.
No longer a mere challenge, but a cage—a labyrinth designed to test will and survival.
Arthur’s heart thundered as the full gravity settled in.
No turning back now.
Elder Schwang’s voice echoed inside everyone’s mind through a powerful spell.
“Participants, you must clear the dungeon. The first 14 to fail will be eliminated. Use all your might.”
“If hurt or unable to move, you will be teleported back here and healed instantly by our healers. If unwilling to continue, shout ‘Withdraw!’ for safe return.”
The voice faded.
Each participant stood at their own dungeon entrance—dark, winding caverns lit by flickering torches. Shadows danced on jagged walls, and the air was thick with mystery and menace.
Schwang’s voice rang out again, steady and grave.
“Each dungeon is tailored to your strengths and weaknesses. At the final floor awaits a formidable boss. Defeat it to earn rare rewards and improve your standing.”
“But beware—it’s incredibly dangerous. Trying to conquer the boss may risk your spot among the top fourteen.”
The words lingered in the cold air like a warning.
Arthur stood at the cavern’s edge, heartbeat pounding louder than his footsteps. The shadows stretched endlessly ahead, torches sputtering weakly against the creeping dread.
How the hell am I supposed to get through this…? he muttered, teeth clenched.
No weapon but a dull training blade and a useless dagger. No magic attribute. No enchantments. No blessings.
Just him.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
“No spells… no advantages… nothing,” he whispered harshly.
“What do I even have?”
Then, suddenly, a sharp metallic cling echoed inside his mind—clear and unnatural, like steel striking glass.
He staggered backward.
Before his eyes hovered a glowing pane of light etched with glowing runes.
[Status Window Unlocked]
His breath caught.
“What... is this?”
The window shimmered with his name at the top. Rows of locked stats, question marks, and glowing icons pulsed as if alive.
For a moment, Arthur forgot the darkness.
Forgot the dungeon.
Something was changing.
Something inside him had awakened.