These days, Russher - the capital of Realm of Light - is bustling like a festival. The already crowded streets of the capital are even more packed with thousands of people from all over.

  Even those who did not meet the qualifications gathered here, eager to witness the most important event the Union held within the Realm of Light: the Pre-Selection of Ruler.

  The results of the first round - the Trial of Knowledge - had been posted three days earlier. Out of nearly four thousand participants, only a little over two hundred had passed. Among the familiar names of noble houses, the name Ferir Hakken appeared quietly, drawing little attention.

  The excitement among the people showed no sign of fading. After all, the most anticipated part of the selection still lay ahead.

  The Trial of Combat was yet to begin.

  The second round would take place over three days of trials. Those who had passed the first round would fight one by one under the watchful eyes of the judges and the gathered public alike. The purpose of this trial was to assess the candidates’ ability to defend themselves and engage in combat.

  “A Ruler must possess both wisdom and martial strength. The Union will not place its trust in those who cannot even protect their own lives.”

  The envoy of the Grand Palace had declared this during the opening address, explaining the necessity of this test.

  For these three days, the attention of the capital's citizens will be drawn on the location of the second round - the Training Ground.

  Located to the west of the Palace of Light, the Training Ground was widely known as a place where swordsmen once fought for the entertainment of nobles, or where prospective guards of the royal palace were tested before being accepted into service.

  It was a colossal, bowl-shaped arena capable of holding thousands of spectators. Rows of seats rose tier upon tier, all facing the center of the circular structure. There, elevated two meters above the ground, lay a stone platform fifty meters in diameter, the stage upon which the battles would unfold.

  Opposite the main entrance, on the far side of the arena, was a special viewing section reserved exclusively for nobles. Built at a comfortable height and shaded by a canopy, it offered a perfect vantage point from which to observe the fights below.

  In front of the noble seats stood the judges’ table. Seated there were three individuals clad in white, representing the Grand Palace, and two Captains representing the Realm of Light, among them Captain Rambeck.

  Beside the judges’ table rested an hourglass, its sand measuring out five minutes - the allotted time for a single match.

  Arvil and Ferir had found seats they were satisfied with in the third row. By now, nearly every seat in the arena was filled. The air buzzed with chatter and speculation, loud enough to make one’s head throb. Yet none of it reached Ferir’s ears.

  He sat there counting his toes over and over, tense as if he were the one about to step onto the arena floor.

  Ferir whispered nervously to Arvil:

  “Maybe… maybe I should head back early. You watch it, then tell me how it goes. I’m scared that if I watch, I’ll lose all my confidence…”

  Arvil clicked his tongue and smacked Ferir on the back.

  “What nonsense are you saying? Didn’t you survive my personal hell-training? Hold your head up.”

  A month earlier, when Ferir had told Arvil that he had decided to try entering the Selection, he had been very clear about one thing. He had absolutely no confidence when it came to the second round, the Trial of Combat.

  Based on what he had learned, the Pre-Selection in the realms usually consisted of three rounds.

  The first round was always a test of knowledge. Ferir has a certain level of confidence in this round.

  The third round was known as the Trial of Manner. Very little information about it was publicly available, but from what he could gather, it likely revolved around noble etiquette and matters of moral judgment.

  The round considered the most difficult and dangerous was almost always the second one: the Trial of Combat. It was meant to evaluate the candidates’ physical condition and their ability to fight. For those who had never received any formal martial training, it was practically an insurmountable wall.

  After hearing this, Arvil spoke after a moment of consideration:

  “Then let’s test your swordsmanship a little.”

  Still confused, Ferir followed him to the back courtyard of the library, where a wide stretch of grass lay open and undisturbed. Arvil casually tossed him a wooden sword, then crooked a finger in a clear come here gesture.

  Ferir eyed him suspiciously. In his mind, someone like Arvil, who spent most of his days sprawled across sofas, hardly looked like the type who knew anything about swordplay at all.

  “What’s wrong? Doubting my abilities?”

  Ferir shrugged, then swung his wooden sword forward. Arvil parried it effortlessly.

  “Don’t hold back, otherwise how am I supposed to judge you?”

  Ferir retreated a step, then gradually increased his strength. Arvil’s fluid counter-attacks emboldened him to swung the wood sword with all his might.

  Arvil was genuinely surprised that Ferir was not a bookish boy who knew nothing beyond the pages he read. His movements were structured, his strikes disciplined, and his strength was far from lacking.

  When Ferir was younger, there had been a free martial class in the slums taught by a retired soldier. The man was no true swordsman, but he helped the neighborhood children train their bodies and sharpen their reflexes.

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  Ferir had practiced under him until the age of twelve, when the old man passed away.

  In truth, that old soldier had praised Ferir’s potential more than once. Ferir had even been the only child he taught swordsmanship privately.

  Still, that alone had never given him much confidence. After all, he had never once crossed blades with anyone in a real fight.

  As for Arvil, no matter how much he might try to avoid the reality of it, he was still a noble. He had been taught swordsmanship from the moment he could walk. Before becoming a librarian, he had once been quite well known among the nobility for his talent.

  Because of that, deflecting Ferir’s relatively simple strikes posed no difficulty for him at all.

  After a while, Arvil raised a hand.

  “Switch roles. I’ll attack. Let’s see how your reflexes are.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he swung the wooden sword straight down toward Ferir’s head.

  Ferir blocked it.

  A left strike, then a right, both were stopped cleanly.

  Arvil’s brows lifted slightly. He feinted, then abruptly changed the angle of his blade. Ferir met it without much trouble and held his ground just as before.

  “Not bad at all!”

  Ferir rotated his wrist, loosening it a little.

  “I only know the basics, really.”

  Arvil studied him in silence for a moment. The techniques he had just used were simple, but the speed behind them was anything but. They were not attacks a person who had only learned a little swordsmanship should have been able to defend against so smoothly.

  Clearly, Ferir trained far more often than he let on.

  A crooked smile tugged at Arvil’s lips. He stepped forward and gave Ferir’s shoulder a solid pat.

  “Interesting, kid. I’ll take you.”

  Ferir raised his eyebrows:

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'll help you get through that second round smoothly. Get ready, I won't be going easy on you."

  After that, the two of them spent the following month undergoing what Arvil proudly called his “hellish training.”

  Even so, when Ferir was faced with the sheer scale of the Training Ground and the fervor of thousands of spectators, his confidence still plummeted straight through the floor.

  Fortunately, he had been scheduled for the final day of matches. At the very least, he would not be walking into the trial blind.

  Whenever he grew overly anxious or tense, Ferir had a bad habit of talking far too much. He kept muttering complaints to Arvil before realizing the librarian wasn't paying any attention to him. He was staring intently at the nobles' seats with a strange expression.

  "Look over there. It's terrifying."

  Ferir followed the direction of his finger.

  “A bunch of nobles gathered together? Yeah, I guess that is pretty terrifying…”

  Arvil smacked him lightly on the head.

  “That’s not what I meant. See the woman in the lavish purple gown at the center? That’s Monarch Sanguel. And look at how unusually dense the noble crowd is around her. For them to gather in such numbers just to watch the second round… that’s unusual.”

  Ferir could not come up with any explanation either

  When the stands were nearly filled, an envoy of the Grand Palace rose from the judges’ table and stepped forward.

  He received a mallet from someone else, then struck the large gong nearby three times, announcing the beginning of the trial.

  Then, dozens of war horns positioned around the arena sounded in unison. The sound of the horns drowned out all the chatter, and when they ceased, the arena was completely silent.

  The envoy lifted a strange device to his mouth. In an instant, his voice became so loud that the entire vast arena could hear it.

  “Good morning, citizens of the Realm of Light. I am Flinch Groom, and on behalf of the Grand Palace, I will be presiding over the second trial of the Pre-Selection of Ruler in Realm of Light.”

  His gaze swept calmly across the crowd before continuing.

  “The rules are simple. Candidates must defeat the enemy before them, or endure for at least five minutes without surrendering or being forced off the arena platform.”

  As he spoke, he raised a hand to indicate the enormous hourglass nearby, its pale sand already prepared to mark five minutes for each bout.

  “Once the trial concludes, the judging panel will deliver its final verdict. A raised green flag signifies that the bout was conducted properly and the candidate has passed. A red flag will be raised if the candidate fails the challenge or violates the rules, which will result in immediate elimination.”

  He did not allow the crowd even a moment to whisper about the rules that had just been announced. Instead, he called out the name of the first candidate to enter the arena.

  “Candidate number 23, Daniel Grok. Please step onto the arena floor.”

  As expected from someone who could pass the difficult knowledge test in the first round, the first candidate was a scrawny, thin man, gaunt from overstudying. Thick spectacles sat heavily on his nose.

  Candidate number 23 wore only a light set of armor and carried a compact sword sized to match his slight frame, yet even so, he already looked unsteady, struggling to keep his balance with the weapon hanging at his side.

  At the sight of him, Ferir felt an inexplicable easing of his nerves.

  He found himself hoping that if the other candidates all looked like this, then the Grand Palace would surely arrange a challenge designed to minimize the risk of serious injury. If that were the case, his chances of getting through were still fairly high.

  That fragile hope shattered the moment a group of people in unfamiliar uniforms appeared, each gripping a long staff as they forced something massive onto the arena floor. The bulky, box-shaped object hidden beneath a familiar tarpaulin sent a chill crawling up Ferir’s spine.

  Inside the cage was a grotesquely misshapen creature, its eyes glowing a blood-red hue. This was something that belonged only to demonic beasts.

  The candidates would have to face a demonic beast.

  Cold sweat broke out across Ferir’s back. The chaotic scene he had witnessed that day inside the palace was still etched deep into his mind. So the demonic beasts transported into the capital had been meant for this very purpose.

  Back then, dozens of soldiers had barely managed to contain a single rampaging beast. How could they possibly expect a lone candidate to deal with one?

  Yet as he looked more closely, he noticed that the creature inside this cage was smaller and didn't seem as aggressive as he'd feared. Instead, it looked restless and timid, as if… it were under the influence of some kind of sedative.

  Even so, it was more than enough to terrify the citizens of the capital, people who rarely ever had to face demonic beasts in their lives.

  Ferir guessed that the candidate must have been given some prior explanation as compensation for being sent out first. Otherwise, the man would have likely fainted on the spot the moment he saw it.

  Candidate number 23 stood frozen in place, his legs trembling so violently that even from ten meters away, it was painfully obvious. A shared sense of pity spread through everyone watching.

  Still, one detail offered a small measure of reassurance. The people who had pushed the cage onto the arena floor did not leave. Instead, they split up and took positions at the four corners of the arena.

  Each of them planted their long staffs firmly against the ground, standing at attention, as if ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

  A deep gong resounded through the arena. Nearby, the enormous hourglass was flipped, pale sand beginning to fall and mark the trial’s time limit.

  As the cage door sprang open, the battle officially began.