The older, mysterious man walked forward at a steady pace, each step weighted with an authority heavy as lead. The moment he released a mere fraction of his aura, the air itself thickened—pressure slammed down like a slab of stone over everyone present. In that instant, William understood why even someone as arrogant as Anthon treated him with such respect.
"Angel, scan that man," he ordered quietly.
"Scanning… Scan complete. Displaying results."
A floating screen appeared before William, projecting the newcomer's stats:
Strength: 62.3
Agility: 39.1
Vitality: 91.3
Two areas glowed red: his right knee and lower back.
"I see… He's way stronger than Anthon," William muttered. "But he's injured."
Even with a basic scan, Angel had pinpointed critical weak spots. While William processed the data in silence, the old man's voice thundered through the field, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
"Now that everyone's here, we can begin. This year's evaluation has been moved up. Your stay will be shorter, and the trials more intense. Why? Changes are coming… and we need to be sure you're ready."
With a wave of his hand, he signaled Irven to take over.
"All of you, line up! Nobles to my right, commoners to the left."
No one dared question the command. The tension was so thick, even a breath could be mistaken for defiance. Everyone moved quickly, forming military-precise lines.
"My name is Jayce, Commander of the Third Battalion. We're starting with the welcome ceremony and the Knight's Trial. It's simple—one battle between the two groups."
The commoners turned pale… all except Dixon, who remained composed, and William, who had already expected something like this.
"First, each group must choose a captain. There are two ways to do this: agree on one… or beat everyone else into submission." Jayce's eyes gleamed as they swept across the crowd. "The winner will hold absolute authority. No one will be allowed to challenge that once it's done."
Dixon stepped forward confidently, breaking the silence.
"William is our captain."
One by one, the rest of the commoners nodded in agreement—united. Meanwhile, chaos erupted among the nobles. No one had seen this coming, and their alliances were still fragile. They were split into eight factions, each led by the heir of a neighboring kingdom.
"You've got one minute. If you don't decide, you'll be split into solo groups or fight for control. In this place, only the one with the heaviest punch gets to speak. Remember: once a captain is chosen, their word is law."
Jayce's words struck nerves. Some nobles who'd planned to fake loyalty were now trapped. If the captain's authority was absolute, there'd be no switching sides or betraying later.
Dixon smiled calmly. He knew this would happen. During his brother's generation, there had only been two groups and over 200 nobles. It ended in a one-sided slaughter. But this time, there were 160 nobles and 8 groups—giving them a sliver of hope.
"Time's up. Form your ranks. Captains at the front, your people behind."
The commoners didn't need to move—they'd been ready from the start. The nobles scrambled to form lines, regrouping into eight shaky blocks. Their glares could've sliced skin, dripping with blame and resentment.
"Perfect. Now… let it begin."
With that, several instructors appeared, leading each group toward a massive field, forming the points of a nine-pointed star.
"The rules are simple," Jayce said. "Whichever team reaches the center and captures this flag must hold it for five minutes. The winner takes all. The rest… will face harsh punishment. On top of that, instructors will evaluate your individual and team performance."
Jayce turned and raised a hand. A black flag, marked with an ancient symbol, unfurled at the center of the field. As the wind caught his cloak, a strange mark on his back was briefly revealed. No one could quite make it out—but William felt a chill run down his spine.
"Good luck," said the commander with a smile that promised anything but.
While the nobles argued over tactics, William took charge of his squad.
"We've got a tough fight ahead, but I think we've got the edge. I hope you've all trained until you dropped—because today, we show results. I won't accept anything less than perfection. We can't afford it."
Before he could continue, their old trainer—Bigotón, the one who taught them the Eight Steps of the Plum Blossom—stepped in.
"You've made progress. That's good. Here's your first armor set and weapons. Pick what suits you best. Once the fight starts, there's no coming back for extras, so protect your gear. I wish you success—because luck is for the mediocre."
Without another word, he turned and left. The team began digging through the pile: leather armguards, new training clothes—no metal armor in sight. They turned to glance at the nobles, who were already decked out in partial armor with barely any weak spots exposed.
"Grab your weapons and get ready. This fight's going to be brutal."
Without wasting time, everyone geared up. Most picked two-handed swords, but William chose a longsword strapped to his back—and an elegant bow with two quivers full of arrows. He could carry no more.
Seeing this, the rest of his teammates followed his lead, each taking two quivers as well. They'd seen his almost supernatural skill with a bow. More arrows meant better chances for all of them.