The coliseum, which had been filled with the sounds of fierce competition moments earlier, was now gradually quieting down. The race results appeared on the screens, and the crowd in the stands began exchanging comments and reactions. Isaac, still kneeling, tried to steady his trembling hands and rapid heartbeat.

  Cornelius approached him with his hands in his pockets, a characteristic mocking smirk on his face.

  “Close, but not close enough,” he said coldly, though there was a hint of acknowledgment in his tone.

  Isaac raised his tired gaze to him, but before he could respond, the examiner's voice echoed through the sound system:

  “Participants, the results have been tallied. However, due to exceptional circumstances, the committee is awarding additional points for courage and actions taken during the mutant attack. Candidate number 647, Isaac Pilsudski, advances to the next stage.”

  The boy froze. For a moment, it seemed he couldn’t comprehend what he had just heard.

  “What?” he whispered, lifting his head.

  The crowd in the stands reacted variably—from murmurs of admiration to quiet sighs of disappointment. Cornelius rolled his eyes but smirked slightly.

  “Looks like you have more luck than brains,” he quipped, walking toward the finish line.

  Isaac slowly got up, ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm. He knew this wasn’t the end of the challenges, but now he felt an even stronger need to prove himself—mostly to himself.

  In a corner of the arena, the youngest participant, Clara, couldn’t withstand the pressure. She began sobbing, covering her face with her hands. Her quiet cries drew the attention of Anna, who approached her, trying to offer comfort.

  “Clara, it’s okay. You’re only thirteen, and you’ve come this far. That’s incredible!”

  The girl shook her head.

  “I’m not good enough… I never will be.” Her words were filled with despair, and her eyes glistened with tears.

  Anna wanted to say more, but her words were interrupted by Philip’s voice as he approached the group with his usual composed demeanor.

  “Clara, you don’t have to be the best right away. Trust the process. Your determination will attract the attention of those who value it.”

  The director’s words carried a hypnotic weight. The girl stopped crying, though the emotional burden still lingered.

  From the royal box, the King of India rose. His expression was one of outrage as he approached the examination committee.

  “What is the meaning of this? How can you bend the rules for one person? My son, Adhiraj, also demonstrated bravery. I do not accept this decision!”

  Philip, observing the scene from the side, stepped forward. His gaze was icy, and his voice sharp.

  “Your Majesty, your son’s bravery was assessed during the first stage of the exam. If he wishes to learn, he may join the regular class.”

  The king narrowed his eyes, his voice growing harsher.

  “And what if I offer a substantial donation to the school? Such decisions should be… flexible.”

  Philip gave him a cold smile.

  “Your money cannot buy a place in the elite class. Our rules are clear.”

  Adhiraj, standing beside his father, looked conflicted. He seemed torn between loyalty to his father and the desire to prove his worth.

  “Perhaps I should join the regular class…” he said hesitantly, glancing at Philip.

  The king looked at his son in disbelief, but seeing the determination in his eyes, he turned on his heel and walked away. Adhiraj lingered for a moment before following his father, leaving the field for further events.

  Meanwhile, Vitold appeared in the middle of the field. Despite being tended to by medics, he broke free from their grasp and lunged toward the director. Grabbing Philip by the collar, his face contorted with rage.

  “This is unfair!” he shouted, almost spitting his words. “Lucy broke the rules! She cut off my hand!”

  The director looked at him with cold composure.

  “And yet you’re alive. All tactics were allowed.”

  Vitold didn’t relent, his voice growing louder.

  “I should have passed! I earned it! How dare these brats interfere with my dream! All I wanted was to fulfill my ambitions!”

  Philip approached Vitold and placed a hand on his shoulder. Leaning close to his ear, he whispered something that made the older man freeze.

  “You are nothing but a worthless insect. You don’t deserve a place in the elite class,” Philip said, his eyes shifting from yellow to a deep red.

  Vitold stared at him in terror.

  “How… how did you do that? You changed the nature of your soul…?”

  Philip stepped back, maintaining his icy calm.

  “That is none of your concern. If you don’t want to lose more than your hand, I suggest you leave.”

  Shocked, Vitold lowered his hands and began retreating. Philip turned his back and walked away, leaving the man in silence.

  The screens displayed the final results, summarizing all the points earned. Cornelius claimed first place, earning the most points for his strategic skills and speed. Second place went to Lucy, whose awakened nature of speed gave her an edge in the race. Maya secured third place, showcasing exceptional determination and precision.

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  As the winner, Cornelius was given the opportunity to deliver a speech. He stepped onto the podium, adjusting his signature red scarf.

  “I have an announcement to make,” he began, his voice echoing through the coliseum. “My name is Cornelius Mickiewicz.”

  His words stirred the audience. Quiet whispers quickly turned into a buzz of conversations. Even in the royal stands, there was visible surprise.

  “Yes,” Cornelius continued, raising his head higher. “I am the last member of the Mickiewicz lineage. A lineage that perished during the Violet Night tragedy.”

  The stands fell into a deep silence. Even those who had been preoccupied with their own discussions now fixed their gaze on Cornelius, trying to grasp the weight of his words.

  “But let me clarify something,” the boy added, his voice growing firmer. “It is not my name or heritage that defines me. It is what I have accomplished here. Surviving these trials, competing with the best, and overcoming my weaknesses—these are the things that define me.”

  In the royal stands, King Joseph Poniatowski glanced at Michael, who seemed to have known Cornelius’s identity beforehand. Peter, the first prince, frowned, as if trying to understand why Cornelius Mickiewicz had withheld this information until now. After all, it marked him as a noble.

  Mickiewicz paused briefly, scanning the crowd before him. His gaze settled on Isaac, who stood to the side, still slightly hunched from the race.

  “There will always be people who judge you based on your heritage,” he said, looking directly at Pilsudski. “But true strength comes from what you do, not who you are by birth.”

  His words elicited mixed reactions. Some nodded in approval, while others whispered among themselves, as if searching for hidden meaning in his speech. Philip, standing off to the side, smiled faintly, as if knowing that Cornelius had achieved his goal.

  When Cornelius finished his speech, there was a brief silence before applause broke out—first scattered, then gradually building until the entire hall was filled with clapping.

  The young boy stepped down from the podium, maintaining his cool demeanor. As he passed Isaac, he remarked:

  “Better get used to it, Pilsudski. You’ll always be behind me.”

  Isaac raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. However, a glint of determination could be seen in his eyes.

  After the exam concluded, participants were invited to a special resting room where they could talk and gather their thoughts before the next plans were announced.

  Lucy sat in a corner, lost in her thoughts. Her hands still trembled slightly from the race, and her heart raced at the memory of Vitold. “I did what I had to do,” she thought. “But will it be enough to become a hero like my mom?”

  Anna approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “Lucy, you were amazing. Without you, I don’t know if I could have made it.”

  The girl looked at her with a faint smile but didn’t reply. A shadow of doubt still lingered in her eyes.

  Meanwhile, Adhiraj sat to the side, analyzing his mistakes. His confidence seemed shaken, and the thought of joining the regular class still stirred mixed feelings in him. The King of India, standing in the doorway, looked at his son, his expression reflecting both disappointment and hope.

  Suddenly, a chilling scream pierced the air.

  Isaac jumped from his seat. The scream was blood-curdling—raw, filled with pain and fear.

  “It’s Sora!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet.

  Cornelius raised an eyebrow at him but showed no hint of mockery.

  “Might be worth checking out,” he remarked.

  Together with the others, they rushed toward the room from which the sounds had come. When they arrived, the door was slightly ajar, revealing a horrifying scene inside.

  Sora lay on the ground, his head twisted unnaturally. His face was frozen in a grimace of pain and shock. Standing over him was Grace, surrounded by a dark aura, her black energy almost spilling out of her body.

  “He… didn’t deserve to live. Ahh… Great demon, accept his soul as my apology!” she screamed, her voice filled with pure fury.

  Isaac froze, unable to look away from Sora’s lifeless body. Mickiewicz, though seemingly calm, had a tension in his eyes that belied his outward demeanor.

  “You’re insane…” began Pilsudski, but before he could move, Philip appeared on the scene.

  “This is just the beginning,” he muttered to himself, turning away from the room and disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

  Philip entered the room, his presence filling the space entirely. His eyes gleamed with golden light that seemed to cut through the darkness surrounding Grace.

  “Stay where you are,” he said quietly, but there was something in his voice that made everyone freeze in place.

  Grace turned to him, her face twisted in a maniacal grimace.

  "Why? It should be me here, not them! Those weaklings, those talentless fools!"

  Nowak examined her as if analyzing every detail of her posture. In his eyes, a moment of understanding quickly transformed into what could only be described as anger.

  "Now I see why I couldn’t sense your intentions," he said, slowly approaching her. "This isn’t your true soul. You’re using an artificial one."

  Grace froze for a moment, then burst into laughter.

  "And so what? This soul gives me strength! More than I’ve ever had before!"

  Philip shook his head.

  "An artificial soul is nothing more than a poor imitation of real power. It’s unstable and toxic. And now I can see exactly what using it leads to."

  Grace lunged at him, surrounded by a shroud of black energy. Her movements were fast and erratic, but Philip moved with cold precision. He dodged her first strike and blocked the subsequent ones with ease.

  "Don’t charge in recklessly, kid," he said calmly, grabbing her wrist and twisting it with a brutal motion.

  Grace hissed in pain, but her dark energy surged even stronger. Philip, however, gave her no opportunity. His eyes glowed crimson, and a surge of spiritual energy burst from his hand, striking Grace and dispelling her aura.

  The girl fell to her knees, drained and defeated.

  At that moment, special security forces arrived, equipped with cuffs designed to suppress spiritual energy. Grace struggled against them but was too weakened to resist effectively.

  "You’ll all see!" she screamed as they dragged her out of the room. "This class is a joke! You have no idea what’s coming for you!"

  Nowak glanced at Sora’s lifeless body, then at the remaining participants who had gathered in the doorway.

  "I think you’ve had enough excitement for today. You can all disperse."

  Cornelius averted his gaze, while Lucy clenched her fists, as if trying to contain her anger. Isaac, still shaken, felt Mickiewicz place a hand on his shoulder.

  "This isn’t our problem," Cornelius said coolly, but there was a faint trace of sympathy in his voice.

  Philip took one last look at Sora’s body before turning to the examiners.

  "Make sure nothing like this ever happens again," he said with an icy tone, then walked away, leaving the room in silence.