The dust settled briefly in the arena before a fresh storm of chaos erupted. Thirty remaining candidates and Jordan surrounded Alden, their auras flaring like dying embers in the presence of a raging inferno.
Alden's sharp gaze landed on Jordan, who had managed to slip behind another group. He raised his sword slightly, preparing to strike him down. But before his blade could move, three candidates jumped in between, deflecting his strike.
Jordan scrambled back, barely holding his smirk. "Tch... thanks, guys."
Alden's lips curled. "Cowards hiding behind numbers."
He calmly walked forward, as if strolling through a park, eyes tracking each movement around him. He began slicing through the resistance—not with brute force, but with elegance. Every motion was clean, refined, and artistic, as though his sword were painting strokes of destruction.
"That swordplay… it's unreal," one candidate whispered.
Jordan's heart raced. Cold sweat ran down his spine.
