Raiden Alaric

The space was wide and open, with smooth floors and skylight panels stretched across the ceiling. Natural light poured in, reflecting off the polished surface below. Everything screamed "it's the little details", from the meticulously arranged weapon racks along the far wall to the training dummies positioned at exact intervals across the floor.

#68 stayed beside me as we entered. I hadn't asked him to, and he hadn't offered. It just happened, like we'd silently agreed on it. That felt right, oddly enough.

"Fancy," I muttered, taking in the training zones. Each was set up for different combat styles, close-quarters sections with padded mats, distance markers with reactive triggers, even elevated platforms for terrain advantage drills.

"Efficient," #68 corrected, his voice low enough that only I caught it. "No wasted space."

I glanced at him. "You've been in places like this before?"

A slight shrug. "Similar enough."

Trees lined the upper levels, rooted into metal planters along the balconies. The greenery softened the clinical precision without making it feel artificial. Screens hovered near the ceiling, displaying names and simulation times. Our group wasn't up yet.

"Look up there," I nodded toward the balcony where a small crowd had gathered. "Think they're taking bets on who checks for friendly fire first?"

#68's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Scouts. Academy representatives."

I raised an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"

"The tablets. And they're not cheering."

Sure enough, half of them were holding screens, eyes locked on the data rather than the spectacle. They were here to find talent, not entertainment.

That worked better for me. If someone was oh-so-gracious enough to offer me a full-ride scholarship to one of the top academies, I'd happily show off a bit.

But my eyes kept drifting toward the weapons.

"We've got time before they call us up," I said, already moving toward the racks. #68 matched my pace, hands in his pockets, eyes forward like he was already visualizing five steps ahead.

The weapons were displayed with museum-like precision. Swords of varying lengths and curves. Axes. Spears. Blunt instruments that would cave in a skull if swung with enough force. Smaller blades for precise work. All regulation gear, no enhancements, no sigils, just steel and balance.

"Planning to pick something flashy?" I asked, running my fingers along the hilt of a curved blade.

#68 studied the array with clinical detachment, then his eyes met mine. "Only if it comes with a win."

I snorted. "If they start grading on flair, I'm doomed. I don't twirl, I hit things." I paused, tilting my head. "Well, then again, sometimes flair will help throw someone off. Maybe I will twirl." I mimicked an exaggerated flourish with an imaginary sword.

That earned me the smallest hint of a smile.

My gaze caught on a spear. Long, balanced, sharp on both ends. I reached out, feeling its weight.

"Reminds me of sparring with a girl named Ella," I said, more to myself than to him. "She had these clean thrusts, quick pivots. Hard to forget when you've been on the receiving end."

I noticed #68 watching me with quiet interest.

"You remember everyone's moves like that?" he asked.

I almost hesitated then shrugged with a half-smile. "I pay attention. You'd be surprised what sticks with you after getting hit enough times."

Next, a set of bracers caught my eye. Nothing special, just solid metal with inner padding. Enough to throw real punches with the added benefit of blocking weapons without wrecking your wrists.

"These are more my style," I said, slipping one over my hand. "I still have phantom pains from sparring partners."

#68 nodded. "Hands are tools. Makes sense to protect them."

I removed the bracer, placing it back exactly as I'd found it. "There are a lot of weapons here," I said, lowering my voice. "And many people who'll be swinging them."

"You're thinking of the opportunity," #68 observed.

I glanced at him, surprised by his perception. "Let's just say I'm an observant guy."

His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. Then he nodded, like he'd slotted another piece of me into place. "Smart."

I grinned.

The waiting area was filling up with other examinees now. Some paced nervously, others practiced forms without weapons, a few were trying to intimidate each other with stories of past victories.

"Too much energy being wasted," I muttered.

I found a spot near the edge of the floor and sat down. Cross-legged. Eyes closed.

It wasn't about centering myself or whatever spiritual nonsense people liked to chant about, it just helped pass the time. Kept the nerves from bouncing around in my limbs and turning into wasted energy. Left to my own devices, I would grab a weapon or two and start hitting people just to feel the rhythm of it.

A moment later, I heard the shift of footsteps beside me. #68 sat down too, his presence somehow both solid and unobtrusive.

I cracked one eye open. "Copying me?"

He had one eye open too. "Conserving energy."

We both grinned. There was something about him, a recognition I couldn't place. Like meeting someone who spoke your language in a country where no one else did.

We closed our eyes again. I didn't know much about #68, but his silence felt more comfortable than most people's conversations.

Time passed. I wasn't sure how long. Eventually, I heard more footsteps. A small group. Probably the last few examinees.

I opened one eye again.

Funnily enough, a few of them had joined us on the floor... and were also meditating.

I blinked. "Come on. Be original, guys."

A couple of them laughed. One guy rolled his eyes and kept pretending to be at peace with the universe.

#68 didn't say anything, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

"First they take your spot, then they steal your vibe," I said to him, quietly enough that the others couldn't hear. "People are predictable."

"You're not," he replied, so matter-of-factly that I almost missed it.

Before I could respond, a new voice cut through the room.

"Glad to see everyone's embracing the calm before the storm," Gerald said, boots echoing across the floor. "Now get up. We're starting."

As we rose to our feet, #68 glanced at me. "Good luck."

I smirked. "Don't need it. But you might, if you're up before me. I intend to set a high bar."

He almost, almost, smiled fully. "We'll see."

We lined up along the edge of the floor while Gerald ran through the briefing.

"Seventh test: Combat Simulation," he said, pacing in front of the screens. "You'll be asked to use a variety of weapons in a live scenario against A.A. combat dummies. Each dummy's response differs depending on your performance."

He paused just long enough to let that settle in.

"Technique, adaptability, and control. That's what's judged here. Not brute strength, not style points."

#68 looked over at me and smirked. I shrugged my shoulders. So maybe I wouldn't twirl after all.

The moment Gerald stepped aside, the first number lit up on the display.

I dropped to the floor again, elbows on my knees. This was where the real show began, where I'd find out whose techniques were worth stealing and whose weren't.

#68 sat beside me, his posture relaxed but attentive. "Studying the competition?" he asked quietly.

I grinned, keeping my voice low. "Something like that. Everyone shows their hand before they realize it."

They picked up a staff. Clean swings, good spacing. They landed a hit or two, but the dummy was already reacting, ducking, blocking, swaying. When the second hit got stuffed, the staff cracked against its shoulder and bounced. The feedback knocked the guy off balance.

I grinned.

The next few weren't much better. A blade user got parried clean by the dummy and nearly tripped over his own foot trying to recover. A girl with twin daggers did alright, her footwork was sharp, but the moment she over-committed, the dummy punished her with a sweep that nearly took her down.

I was eating this up.

But a few actually had something worth watching.

I watched their performances with an intensity that probably looked unhinged to anyone paying attention. Each one came in with their own style, their own go-to moves, and the dummy punished all of it. Overreach? Countered. Hesitation? Exploited. One guy with a poleaxe got through with raw force, but his technique was trash. He landed two hits before the dummy caught the shaft mid-swing and flipped him.

I didn't even try to hide my grin.

There were actually a decent amount of spear users. Three of them in a row. Clean form. Good range control. Not bad.

But none of them would've lasted ten seconds against Ella.

And Illya? She'd eat them alive.

They were too rigid. Too textbook. You could tell exactly where each strike was going before it left the ground. The dummy didn't even need to dodge, just sidestepped and reset until they ran out of angles.

"Predictable," #68 muttered beside me, echoing my thoughts.

I nodded. "Like they learned from simulations instead of real world experience."

I leaned forward a little, elbows resting on my knees. This was better than any class I'd ever sat through. Half the people here were handing me techniques just by showing up.

And I planned to take every single one.

I'm stealing everything~

One of the dagger users finally caught my eye.

Quick movements. Sharp cuts. No wasted motion.

Then I saw his face.

Renith.

Of course it was him.

Cocky, high elf, always acting like he was above the room he walked into. I expected flair. Arrogance. Maybe even sloppiness. Didn't expect something this calculated.

He didn't fight head-on. He never had. Everything about the way he moved avoided commitment. His positioning stayed off-line. His strikes were shallow until they weren't. And all that flair? It was set-up. He exaggerated posture to draw attention, made openings look real just long enough to pull someone in.

He wasn't showing off. He was waiting for mistakes.

The problem was, the dummy didn't make them.

It didn't lunge at bait. Didn't overextend. Didn't hesitate. It reacted the same way every time, efficient, controlled.

And Renith had to keep adjusting.

I could tell he wanted more. The way he shifted mid-fight, changed tempo, tried new setups. He was itching to test it on someone who'd actually take the hook.

I kept grinning.

He'd never land it on that dummy.

But me? Yeah. I'd probably fall for it on purpose just to see what he'd do next.

"You know him?" #68 asked quietly, noticing my focus.

"Unfortunately," I muttered. "Same guy who couldn't accept being fifty-third in the aura test. The kind who thinks being a high elf automatically makes him better than everyone."

#68 nodded, watching Renith's technique. "Baiting style. Needs a reactive opponent."

"Exactly." I was impressed by how quickly #68 had read him. "All that arrogance isn't just for show, it's tactical. Makes you want to shut him up, and that's when he gets you."

"Professional ragebaiter then?" He smirked.

"Exactly."

Renith finished with a score of 87.4. Not bad, but not great either. When he walked off, he caught my eye and gave me that same insufferable look I'd seen back in the aura test. I just smiled back, which seemed to annoy him more than any insult would have.

"Fifty-third place doesn't seem to be sitting well with him," #68 observed with the slightest hint of amusement.

"Nothing ever does," I replied. "I'd be more worried if he actually looked happy."

A girl with a lightweight sword stepped into the arena next. She held it loosely, almost carelessly, but the moment the dummy activated, her grip shifted. Not tighter, just more precise. She led with quick, economic slashes that created openings rather than finishing the job. When the dummy overextended to block her third strike, she was already pivoting behind it, sword tip trailing a perfect arc before connecting with its back.

That transition, weight on the ball of the foot, momentum carried through the shoulder, not the elbow. Clean. Efficient.

My eyes narrowed, tracking the movement pattern, storing it away. The familiar warmth spread through my forearm, a phantom sensation of holding that blade exactly as she did.

"That one's smart," #68 commented quietly beside me.

I nodded. "Timing the aura release? Yeah. Most people waste half their energy before they even connect."

The axe user adjusted mid-swing to chain momentum into a second hit? Took it. The dagger feint from the girl who nearly landed a throat jab on her third combo? Snatched that too. The spear user that managed a snap pivot off a failed thrust? Not bad. Cleaned it up in my head and filed it away.

#68 shifted beside me. "Why are you smiling?"

I chuckled. "I just like to see new things."

With aura fueling my brain and boosting my comprehension speed, I didn't need to throw myself into every fight to understand it anymore. I could just watch. Pick it apart. Break it down. It was much more efficient now.

I mean, it's not like I still won't throw myself into a fight.

I bookmarked a bunch of martial arts tournaments a while back. It might finally be time to run through them.

Aura techniques, though... that's still a different game. I can see the structure, the flow, how people shape it, but I still need to mess with it myself. Get a feel for how it moves through my frame, how it reacts to push and pull. I bet I would have scored higher on a lot of these tests if I had that down already. But Chronos isn't any help since I can't see his aura.

Filthy weeb still needs to show me how to sense a person's rank.

My body? That I know inside and out. No surprises there.

Aura's just new territory. But it won't be for long.

Then came #68.

He stepped forward without a word, didn't even glance at the weapon racks. Just cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders.

Hand-to-hand.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, eyes locked in. If I had popcorn, it'd already be gone. If they sold seats closer to the action, I'd be in someone's lap.

The dummy activated, the same model as the others. Neutral stance, subtle aura flicker through its joints. Calibrated to react to intent.

#68 didn't rush in. He walked up casually. When he closed the distance, his posture shifted just enough to set the dummy off. It snapped forward with a straight punch, and #68 flowed right under it. A clean pivot, hand up, palm strike to the torso.

His weight shifted smoothly into the strike, balanced and tight. I caught the way his foot locked in for stability, and the timing of his pivot stuck with me. I could feel the movement starting to imprint, his mechanics syncing into something I could break down and steal later.

He didn't stop there. His left foot circled behind the dummy's lead leg as he followed up with a rising elbow under the chin. The dummy reeled back, sensors already recalculating, but he stepped in again, no break, no hesitation, and fired a knee into its abdomen, snapping it upright.

That footwork, circular instead of linear. Using the opponent's recovery time as an opening.

My muscles twitched involuntarily, already rehearsing the movement pattern without me even standing up.

His aura stayed tight to his frame. It didn't spike or spill. Just a visible sheen coiled around his limbs, enhancing every strike without dragging his movement. It wasn't there to impress, it was there to hit harder.

Most fighters leak aura when they strike, wasting energy. But his... it pulsed precisely at impact, then retracted immediately. Efficient. My own aura stirred in response, trying to mimic the pattern. I'd need to practice that control.

He wasn't just good; he made clean work look fun. Every hit was sharp, timed, and stupidly hard to counter.

I want to fight him.

The dummy staggered back, recalibrated, then launched a kick. #68 blocked with his forearm, stepped into the blow, and elbowed straight through its guard. A crack rang out.

Counter-attack timed to the millisecond. He's using the dummy's own momentum against it, minimizing energy expenditure. My eyes burned slightly, the telltale sign that I was, in fact, not blinking.

The dummy turned with the impact, and he used that momentum against it, grabbing the arm mid-spin and dragging it into a shoulder check that sent the whole frame tilting sideways.

Joint manipulation. Shoulder rotation at exactly seventeen degrees past normal range. Aura condensed at his fingertips for the grip, that's why it didn't slip. I could almost feel the pressure points he was targeting.

It tried to recover, stance shifting low for a sweep. It was too late. He jumped just enough to avoid it and came down hard with a hammer fist to the top of its shoulder.

Perfect vertical clearance, not a centimeter higher than necessary. And that downward strike, gravitational force combined with aura concentration at the point of impact. The timing...

I blinked rapidly, my vision momentarily overlaying his movements onto my own body's potential.

It was the execution that made you want to fight him immediately. Or steal everything he just did.

I felt myself grinning again.

Actually, grinning wasn't the word. I was locked in. Eyes wide. Every part of me waiting to see the next move. My foot tapped without realizing it. I probably looked unhinged.

My origin was working overtime, breaking down every twitch, every shift in his center of gravity. The familiar warmth spread through my limbs, the physical sensation of technique acquisition.

The test ended the moment #68 landed a clean strike to the side of the dummy's neck. It staggered, froze, and then powered down with a soft hiss.

That final strike, aura channeled through the first two knuckles, concentrated to a needle point. Targeted the neural relay system. If this were a real person, they'd be unconscious before they hit the ground.

He stepped back without a word.

The screen lit up above the arena:

Score: 93.7 – Gold-Tier.

Yeah. Sounds about right.

My fingers tingled, the last phase of my ability completing its work. I flexed them slightly, feeling the ghost of #68's techniques already settling into my muscle memory.

I caught myself grinning like an idiot.

Then the next number appeared.

69.

Finally.

I stood up, rolled my shoulders, and let out a slow breath. Not to calm myself, just to give the grin on my face some room to stretch.

Time to have fun~

I walked past the weapons without slowing down. Didn't need them.

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. After watching #68's hand-to-hand performance, they probably expected me to pick something to differentiate myself.

Let them talk.

The dummy was already in position, standard model, humanoid frame, and full mobility. Reminded me of the dolls I fought at Chronos' place. I'd watched enough runs to know how it operated. Everything it did was based on what you gave it. Give it nothing, and it stayed neutral. Push too hard, and it punished you. Move too slow, and it overwhelmed you.

I stepped into the circle and cracked my neck once. It raised its arms the moment my foot hit center. Stance squared, knees slightly bent, weight forward. Same as the others.

My aura was already in place, compressed around my arms and legs, settled across my spine and core. I gave it just enough tension to hold everything in sync. The pressure shifted slightly when I moved, reinforcing the parts that needed it: elbows, knees, wrists, shoulders. It wasn't about output. It was about control. Tight, steady, responsive. Built to keep me moving, not slow me down.

The signal flashed.

It moved first, lunging with a straight. No test jab, no hesitation. I sidestepped and caught its arm mid-extend, guiding it away as I pivoted inward and slammed my palm under its shoulder. The joint buckled slightly, just enough to throw off its balance.

Just like #68's opening, but with my own twist.

It tried to reset with a backstep, but I stepped in again before it could plant.

It raised a guard. I tested it with a jab, half-speed, angled high. It flinched, and I ducked low, sweeping my leg toward its knee. It hopped back, reacted cleanly. Good. That gave me more to work with.

The next punch came from its left. A wide hook. I leaned into it, letting the motion pass by my shoulder as I drove an uppercut into its ribs. I made solid contact. Its torso twisted, recalibrating on the fly. It shifted weight to its rear foot and launched a kick straight at my midsection.

I rotated through the strike, turned my core, and slammed my elbow down into the side of its leg. The frame stuttered for half a second before the next sequence fired.

My strikes landed harder than they should've. Aura control was doing its job, tight around the joints, reinforcing each hit without draining me. Just enough pressure where it mattered.

That pulse-on-impact technique I'd just seen, already putting it to use.

This one was faster, three strikes in succession, testing high, low, and center. I weaved the first, blocked the second, and sidestepped the third, tagging it in the side with a short elbow. It spun from the force, recovered, and came in again with a quick combination.

That one was new. It hadn't used that string on anyone else.

It was adapting.

Good.

I surged forward, catching its wrist mid-combo, and used its momentum to drag it off balance. My shoulder rammed into its chest, knocking it back a few feet. It landed on its feet, slid slightly, and adjusted its stance again.

My aura shifted with me. I didn't need to push more into it, just enough to keep my body synced. It was like second skin now. Supporting without slowing.

I waited, and it hesitated. That was all I needed.

I darted in and feinted a strike to the head. It raised its arms. My real hit came low, knee to the stomach. When it bent forward, I grabbed the back of its neck and launched an elbow into its spine. It twisted, jerked, and threw a wild counter.

I ducked, drove a strike into the side of its jaw, and then hooked behind its leg with mine. It stumbled. I didn't let it fall alone. My grip shifted, weight dropped, and I flipped it hard into the ground.

That takedown was courtesy of the dagger girl, her weight distribution applied to a throw instead of a slash.

The floor shook slightly under the impact.

I backed away, hands loose at my sides, breathing steady.

The dummy didn't get up.

For a second, the arena was quiet. Then the crowd lost it.

Cheering, shouting, some even standing. I caught a whistle from somewhere in the back. Guess they liked the show.

I turned and walked toward the sideline. #68 was waiting. He said nothing, just raised a fist.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I bumped it without a second thought.

The screen above the arena lit up a second later.

Score: 94.1 — Gold-Tier.

Huh...

I probably would've scored higher if I'd put on some gloves and called them gauntlets.

From the corner of my eye, I caught #68 looking at the screen, then back at me. His expression didn't change much, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, maybe curiosity. He'd scored 93.7, and I'd just edged him out by less than half a point.

I shrugged slightly. "Lucky hit."

He shook his head. "Good execution. Does it sting, yes, but it pales in comparison to your disrespect during the reflex test."

I gave an impish grin, "Oh did I ruffle your feathers?"

We both laughed. I'd spent the entire time before my turn studying everyone's technique, including his. What I'd just demonstrated was a synthesis, the best elements of what I'd seen, filtered through my own style and ability.

I sat down near the edge of the platform, arms resting over my knees. The rest of the examinees were still waiting their turn.

Perfect.

More techniques to collect.

The final few examinees went through their paces, and I watched every single one. A chain whip user who controlled segments individually. A staff fighter who converted defensive blocks into offensive strikes. Even a guy with gauntlets who used micro-adjustments in his grip to change impact angles mid-punch.

Each technique, each innovation, each little detail worth copying, my ability drank it all in.

By the time the last examinee finished, I realized something.

I was breathing hard.

Not from physical exertion, I'd been sitting the entire time. But my ability had been working overtime for the past hour. Breaking down every movement, analyzing every aura application, storing pattern after pattern in my muscle memory. The familiar warmth that came with technique acquisition hadn't stopped once.

It was like my brain had been sprinting while my body sat still.

I flexed my fingers and felt ghost sensations of holding a dozen different weapons I'd never touched. My shoulders twitched with the memory of movements I'd never performed. The phantom weight of a war hammer. The precise grip adjustments of twin daggers. The flowing footwork of a spear master.

This is insane.

I had enough new material to practice for months. Maybe years.

"You alright?" #68 asked, noticing my slightly labored breathing. "You look like you just ran a marathon."

I wiped a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead that I hadn't realized was there. "Just... processing everything I saw."

He raised an eyebrow. "That intensely?"

I grinned, unable to hide my excitement. "You have no idea."

Gerald stepped forward as the last score posted on the board. "That concludes the Combat Simulation test. Take a fifteen-minute break before we move to the final examination."

People started getting up, stretching, talking among themselves about the performances they'd witnessed. A few approached #68 to comment on his score. Others came up to me.

I barely heard them.

My mind was still cycling through techniques, categorizing them, refining the imperfect ones, integrating the exceptional ones into my existing knowledge. The chain whip user's wrist control. Renith's psychological warfare disguised as flashy arrogance. The way that one girl had used her aura to extend her blade's effective range.

I found a spot against the wall and slid down to sit cross-legged again. But this time, instead of meditating to conserve energy, I was trying to organize the chaos in my head. Techniques were still settling into place, my muscle memory still adapting to movements I'd never physically performed.

The familiar tingle in my fingers intensified as my ability finished processing the last few acquisitions. Tomorrow, I'd wake up knowing how to fight with weapons I'd never held, in styles I'd never trained.

I caught myself grinning like an idiot again.

Best. Day. Ever.

The fifteen minutes passed faster than I wanted. Just as I was starting to feel the technique overload settle into something manageable, Gerald's voice cut through the chatter.

"Final examination. Live sparring. Form up."

The energy in the room shifted immediately. This was it, the test everyone had been thinking about since the beginning. No dummies, no simulated targets, no predetermined patterns to figure out.

A real opponent.

We followed Gerald through reinforced double doors into the largest chamber we'd seen yet. The space was circular, with padded flooring and observation galleries rising on all sides. Multiple sparring circles were marked on the floor, each one about twenty feet in diameter.

But what caught my attention were the instructors.

Five of them stood along the far wall, each wearing the same dark gray uniform with silver trim. They looked relaxed, but there was something in their posture that made it clear they weren't just here to go through the motions.

These were professionals.

Gerald stepped to the center of the room, tablet in hand as always.

"The eighth and final test is a live sparring match against one of our instructors. No weapons unless cleared, and you'll be evaluated on everything: control, pressure management, reading flow, and restraint."

He gestured toward the instructors.

"Don't try to win. That's not the point. Show us what you can do without losing control. Impress them with technique, not aggression. Last longer than expected, but know when to yield."

One of the instructors stepped forward. Middle-aged human woman, average height, but something about the way she moved suggested she could end any of us without breaking a sweat.

"We may be Blue Rank but we're not here to crush you," she said, voice carrying easily across the room. "But we're not going easy either. We'll push you until we find your limits. How you handle that pressure determines your score."

Gerald checked his tablet. "You'll go one at a time. Three minutes maximum, but most matches end earlier. Questions?"

One examinee raised their hand. "Will they be wearing binds?"

"Yes, this is to both prevent accidental injury as well as make sure you are all on the same playing field for accurate results. This doesn't always apply in real life, so just remember this is only for the test. Anymore questions?"

Silence.

"Good. First up..."

I felt that familiar tingle of anticipation. All those techniques I'd just absorbed, all that analysis I'd done watching the others fight, this was where it would all come together.

But more than that, these were real fighters. Instructors. People who could actually challenge me.

My heart started beating faster, and not from nerves. This was excitement, pure and unfiltered. The kind that made my hands shake slightly and put an uncontrollable grin on my face.

Finally.

After watching dozens of examinees fumble through predictable patterns against dummies, after analyzing technique after technique with no chance to test them myself, I was going to get to fight someone who could fight back.

Someone stronger than me. Someone who might actually make me work for it.

My fingers flexed unconsciously as my body remembered movements I'd never made. The ghost sensation of Renith's dagger work, the weight distribution from the axe user, the footwork patterns I'd stolen from at least six different fighters.

I was practically vibrating with anticipation.

This was going to be the best day of my life.

Gerald checked his tablet. "You'll go one at a time. Three minutes maximum, but most matches end earlier. Questions?"

Silence.

The matches began.

I watched each one intently, analyzing not just the examinees, but the instructors themselves. Footwork patterns, reaction times, preferred counters. The way they tested each student's limits before ending the match.

After several examinees had their turn, each lasting between thirty seconds to two minutes before hitting the mat, a familiar number came up.

"#68."

I straightened up, suddenly more focused. This would be interesting.

#68 stepped into the circle across from a lean instructor with dark hair and calculating eyes. But as I looked closer, I caught the distinctive features, wolf ears twitching slightly atop his head, a tail that swayed with predatory focus, and when he grinned at #68, sharp canine teeth flashed in the light. A wolfman from the beastkin race.

The moment they faced each other, I could tell this would be different from the previous matches.

The wolfman instructor moved first, but not with a simple jab. He dropped low and came in fast, claws extended, using his natural weapons in combination with practiced technique. #68 didn't just block, he redirected and countered in the same motion, that familiar aura control making his movements sharp and efficient as he avoided the claw swipes.

The instructor's ears perked up, and his grin widened, showing more of those sharp teeth. He stepped up the pace, moving with the fluid, predatory grace unique to his kind.

Now this is what I wanted to see.

The match lasted nearly the full three minutes, both fighters pushing each other, neither giving ground easily. When it finally ended with #68 yielding to a joint lock, both were breathing hard and grinning.

"Impressive," the instructor said, helping #68 to his feet. "Very impressive."

Gerald made a note on his tablet and looked up.

"#69."

Finally.

I stood up, rolling my shoulders, that uncontrollable grin spreading across my face again. Every technique I'd absorbed, every pattern I'd analyzed, every movement I'd stolen, it was all about to come together.

But as I walked toward the circle, I felt a pang of disappointment. Just one instructor. One fight. After all that buildup, all that excitement about facing real opponents who could challenge me, I'd get three minutes at most with a single person.

Still better than nothing, I told myself, trying to maintain the enthusiasm.

But as I approached the center, something unexpected happened.

All five instructors stepped forward.

"I'll take this one," said the wolfman who'd just fought #68, still slightly out of breath but eyes bright with interest, his tail swishing with anticipation. "That combat performance was flawless. I want to see what he can do against a real opponent."

"Like hell you will," countered a stocky dwarf woman with arms like tree trunks and intricate braids woven with metal rings. Her beard was neatly trimmed, and when she crossed her arms, I could see the corded muscle beneath her instructor's uniform. "You just had your turn. Besides, did you see his strength scores? Platinum tier. I need to test that power myself."

A wiry wood elf with scars across his knuckles shook his head, his pointed ears twitching with irritation. His silver hair was pulled back in a warrior's knot, and his movements had that fluid, almost otherworldly grace that came naturally to his kind. "Are you both missing the point? His speed trial was insane. I've never seen anyone push that hard for that long. That's what I want to test."

The middle-aged dryad instructor crossed her arms, bark-like patches visible along her skin, and small leaves seemed to shimmer in her auburn hair. Her steel-gray eyes held the patience of someone who'd lived far longer than her appearance suggested. "His agility score was perfection. Every movement calculated, every transition flawless. That's the kind of precision I want to challenge."

"All of you are thinking too small," The fifth instructor grinned, a young human guy who looked like he could bench press a car. "His aura control is what caught my attention. That level of mastery in someone his age? I need to see it in action."

Gerald looked up from his tablet, blinking in confusion. "Uh... what's happening here?"

"We all want to spar with the kid," the lean instructor explained, not taking his eyes off me.

I stood there in the middle of their argument, and my disappointment completely transformed into pure, unadulterated joy. Not just one opponent, they were all fighting over who got to fight me.

Best. Day. Ever.

"So..." I called out, loud enough to cut through their bickering. "Does this mean I get to fight all of you?"

The instructors stopped arguing and stared at me.

Gerald's tablet nearly slipped from his hands. "That's... that's not how this works."

I shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, I'm not complaining. The more the merrier."

They laughed. Not polite chuckles, but genuine amusement at my audacity.

"You know what," I said, raising my voice as an idea struck me. "How about this? Give me one minute with each of you. If I can land a single hit within that time, I get to move on to the next one. Keep going down the line until either I fail or I've fought you all."

The laughter stopped. The instructors exchanged glances.

"That's..." the wiry speed instructor started.

"Actually kind of brilliant," the agility instructor finished.

"You're serious?" the strength instructor asked.

"Dead serious," I replied. "One hit. One minute. Move to the next. Think you can handle it?"

The lean combat instructor stepped forward first. "You know what? I'm in. This sounds way more interesting than a standard evaluation."

"Same here," the speed instructor nodded. "I want to see if you can actually tag me in sixty seconds."

One by one, they all agreed. Even Gerald looked intrigued, though he was still staring at his tablet like it might explain what was happening.

That's when I felt it.

Just the slightest edge of killing intent, barely perceptible but unmistakably hostile. My head turned automatically, scanning the crowd of examinees.

There…Renith.

His face was a mask of controlled neutrality, but his eyes were locked on me with an intensity that had nothing to do with curiosity. The moment our eyes met, he looked away, but not before I caught the flash of something darker.

Interesting.

I filed that away for later. Right now, I had five instructors to impress.

I turned back to the circle, cracking my knuckles.

"So, who's first?"

"Alright then," the dwarf instructor said, cracking her knuckles. "But how do we decide who goes first?"

The wood elf grinned. "Rock, paper, scissors. Winner takes first shot at the kid."

"Are you serious?" the dryad asked.

"Dead serious," the wolfman replied, already raising his fist. "Unless someone has a better idea."

I watched in amusement as five professional Blue Rank Ascendants from the A.A. formed a circle and began the most serious game of rock, paper, scissors I'd ever witnessed. After several rounds of elimination, the human instructor emerged victorious, pumping his fist in the air.

"Finally," he said, stepping toward the circle. "I've been wanting to test that aura control all day."

As he approached the center, I felt a familiar sense of formality wash over me. This wasn't just a test anymore, it was a proper duel. And Chronos had taught me the proper way to approach one.

I walked to the edge of the circle and stopped. The human instructor paused, watching as I pressed my fist into my open palm and bowed deeply.

"Proelium," I spoke clearly, the Latin word carrying across the suddenly quiet chamber. "Let this contest sharpen us both."

The formality of the gesture seemed to ripple through the room. The other instructors straightened, recognizing the old traditions. Even Gerald looked up from his tablet with newfound respect.

The human instructor's expression shifted from casual interest to something more serious. He returned the bow, pressing his own fist to his palm.

"Proelium," he replied. "May we both learn from this exchange."

I straightened, feeling that familiar thrill that came with proper combat etiquette. Chronos had drilled this into me, respect your opponent, honor the fight, and give everything you have.

I turned back to face the human instructor, who was settling into his stance across from me.

"Ready when you are."

Gerald raised his hand. "Begin!"

The moment the word left his mouth, I exploded forward.

No hesitation, no testing the waters. I drove straight at the instructor with a flurry of strikes, my aura channeling through my arms to increase my attack speed just enough to make it look like I was trying to overwhelm him with pure aggression.

The instructor's eyes widened in surprise, but his training kicked in immediately. He deflected the first two punches, stepped back from the third, and started to move into what I recognized as a standard grappling pattern.

There.

I'd seen that setup before, the way his weight shifted, the angle of his arms. He was planning to catch my next strike and transition into a joint lock. Similar to the Wolfman, but not exact.

Not happening~

I dropped low, channeling aura into my legs and left arm. Using my left hand to support my weight, I spun my body horizontal and drove my right leg up in a spinning kick that caught him clean in the side.

He staggered, more from surprise than damage, and the chamber erupted in laughter from the other instructors.

"Oh, Marcus got schooled!" the dwarf instructor called out, slapping her knee.

"Thirty seconds!" the wood elf laughed. "That might be a new record!"

The wolfman was grinning, his tail wagging with amusement. "And here I thought you were supposed to be good at reading opponents, Marcus!"

Marcus, the human instructor, straightened up, rubbing his side with a rueful smile. "Well played, kid. I definitely wasn't expecting that level of aggression right out of the gate."

I stepped back, breathing steady, that grin spreading across my face again.

"One down," I said, looking toward the remaining instructors. "Who's next?"

The wood elf stepped forward, rolling his shoulders with fluid grace. "I'll take that challenge," he said, his voice carrying the melodic undertones typical of his kind. "Name's Sylvan, by the way. Let's see if you can catch something a bit faster."

He moved into the circle with that otherworldly elegance, every step perfectly balanced. As he settled into his stance, I walked to the edge and pressed my fist into my open palm.

"Proelium," I said, bowing. "Let this contest sharpen us both."

Sylvan's pointed ears twitched with what might have been approval. He returned the bow with the natural grace of his kind, his movements flowing like branches in the wind.

"Proelium," he replied. "May we both find worthy challenge."

I could already tell this would be completely different from Marcus.

Gerald raised his hand again. "Begin!"

I launched forward with the same aggressive opening, but Sylvan simply wasn't there anymore. He flowed to the side like water, and my punch passed through empty air. I pivoted and threw a quick combination, but he danced around each strike with minimal effort.

Okay, brute force isn't going to work here.

I needed to get creative. I threw a high jab, then dropped low as if going for his legs, but it was a feint. As he shifted to counter the takedown, I sprang back up with an uppercut. It grazed his chin, but he was already moving away.

"Better," he said with a slight smile. "But you'll need more than that."

I started incorporating the flair I'd criticized earlier, exaggerated movements, theatrical wind-ups that disguised my real attacks. A dramatic haymaker that was actually a setup for an elbow. An overextended kick that flowed into a spinning backfist.

Sylvan's eyebrows raised slightly. He was having to work harder to read my intentions now.

But then I noticed something else. His aura wasn't just enhancing his speed, it was flowing in a specific pattern, concentrating at his joints just before he moved, then redistributing as he shifted direction. It was like watching liquid light follow his movements.

That's... brilliant.

On instinct, I tried to mirror it. Channeling my aura to flow more dynamically, pooling it at my ankles just before I stepped, then letting it flow up through my legs as I moved.

Sylvan's eyes widened. "What the—"

My next strike came faster than before, more fluid. He dodged, but barely, and I could see the surprise on his face.

"Interesting technique," he said, his stance shifting subtly. "But let's see how you handle this."

He stepped up the pace.

Suddenly, he wasn't just fast; he was everywhere at once. His strikes came from impossible angles, his footwork creating afterimages in my peripheral vision. I was barely keeping up, blocking and dodging by pure instinct, my copied aura technique was the only thing allowing me to stay in the fight.

But despite being completely outmatched, despite knowing I was seconds away from getting tagged, my smile kept growing wider and wider.

This is exactly what I wanted.

Sylvan noticed my expression and laughed, even as he pressed his attack. "You're completely insane, aren't you?"

"Probably!" I managed between dodges. "But this is the most fun I've had all day!"

The pace was becoming insane. Sylvan's strikes were blurs, coming faster than most people could even track. I was matching him step for step now with my copied aura technique, but just barely. Each dodge was by centimeters, each block arriving just in time to deflect his attacks.

The watching crowd had gone quiet, trying to follow the lightning-fast exchange.

Then I saw my opening. He was getting into a rhythm, trusting his superior speed to keep him safe. But speed could be a trap if you relied on it too much.

Time to change the game entirely.

Mid-combination, I suddenly abandoned all pretense of striking and dove for a grapple, arms outstretched as if I was going to try to take him down directly. After the blistering speed we'd been maintaining, the sudden shift to a slow, obvious grapple attempt caught him completely off-guard.

Sylvan's training kicked in immediately. His hands shot out and grabbed my shirt, using my own momentum to pull me down and off-balance, a classic counter to an amateur grappling attempt.

Perfect.

Instead of resisting the pull, I went with it completely. As he yanked me downward, I grabbed both his wrists and used the momentum he'd given me to flip over his shoulders in a controlled roll, dragging him down with me. We hit the mat, but I came out on top, pinning him with his own arms trapped beneath my grip.

For a moment, the circle was silent.

Then I started laughing, partly from the rush of actually landing the hit, partly from the sheer absurdity of slowing down to win a speed match.

Sylvan blinked up at me, then broke into laughter as well. "You switched gears completely. After all that speed, you went slow and caught me thinking fast. That was... beautifully played."

The other instructors erupted in cheers and laughter.

"Oh, that's rich!" Marcus called out. "Sylvan got out-speed by going slow!"

The dwarf was practically howling with laughter. "You matched him strike for strike, then won by doing the opposite! That's tactical thinking!"

Even the usually stoic dryad was smiling. "Clever adaptation. Speed isn't everything when you can change the entire nature of the fight."

I rolled off Sylvan and helped him to his feet, both of us still grinning and breathing hard from the intense exchange.

"Two down," I said, looking at the remaining instructors. "This is getting interesting."

The dwarf woman stepped forward, cracking her knuckles with audible pops. Her braided beard swayed as she moved, and I could see the anticipation in her eyes.

"Alright, lad," she said, her voice carrying the gruff accent typical of her people. "Name's Thora. You've been clever with the first two, but let's see how you handle some real power."

She walked into the circle with confident, heavy steps that seemed to make the floor vibrate slightly. As she settled into a wide, grounded stance, I could already tell this would be a completely different kind of challenge.

I approached the edge of the circle and pressed my fist into my open palm.

"Proelium," I said, bowing. "Let this contest sharpen us both."

Thora grinned, showing teeth, and returned the bow with a fist-to-palm gesture that looked like it could crack stone.

"Proelium," she rumbled. "Let's see what you're made of, boy."

Gerald raised his hand. "Begin!"

I started with my usual aggressive opening, but the moment my first punch connected with Thora's guard, I knew I was in trouble.

It was like hitting a stone wall.

My strike, which had surprised Marcus and pressured Sylvan, barely moved her arms. She absorbed the impact without even shifting her stance, then immediately countered with a straight punch that I barely managed to slip.

The wind from her missed strike ruffled my hair.

Okay, new plan.

I tried a different angle, throwing a combination at her side. She had just enough speed to bring her arm down and block, but when her counter came, a short, brutal hook, I had to throw both arms up to stop it.

The impact sent shockwaves up my arms and nearly knocked me off my feet.

"Too light, lad!" Thora called out, pressing forward with another heavy swing.

I backpedaled, blocking desperately. Each of her strikes felt like getting hit by a sledgehammer. Even when I managed to deflect them properly, the force behind each blow staggered me. My feet slid backward across the mat with every blocked punch.

She threw a devastating uppercut that I barely leaned away from, then followed up with a body shot that I caught on my forearms. The impact lifted me off my feet for a split second and sent me stumbling sideways.

"Whoa!" I heard Marcus laugh. "Now that's what I call power!"

"She's ragdolling him!" Sylvan added with amusement.

Thora grinned, her braided beard bouncing as she stalked forward. "What's wrong, boy? Not used to someone who hits back this hard?"

I caught my balance, breathing hard and grinning despite myself. My arms were already aching from the blocked strikes, and we'd barely been fighting for thirty seconds.

This is insane. She's not even that much faster than me, but every single hit feels like it could break bones.

Wait. That's it.

She wasn't faster than me. She was just strong enough that she didn't need to be.

But I had stolen speed techniques from Sylvan. More than that, I'd learned how to flow aura dynamically, to redistribute it instantly.

Instead of trying to match her power, I needed to be where her power wasn't.

I shifted my aura flow, mimicking Sylvan's technique but amplifying it. My legs became lighter, my movements more fluid. When Thora threw her next heavy cross, I wasn't there to block it, I flowed around it like water.

She blinked in surprise as I appeared at her side, but her guard was still up. I didn't try to overpower it. Instead, I used the speed differential to throw three quick strikes to different points, ribs, shoulder, then back to ribs, each one faster than she could fully respond to.

The third one slipped through.

My fist connected with her side, and even though it wasn't a devastating blow, it was clean contact.

Thora paused, then broke into a huge grin. "Now that's more like it! Speed over strength, I can respect that."

The other instructors cheered.

"Beautiful adaptation!" Marcus called out.

"He's learning from each fight!" the dryad observed with approval.

I stepped back, flexing my sore arms. "Three down," I said, looking toward the remaining two instructors. "Who's brave enough to be next?"

The dryad instructor stepped forward with movements that seemed to flow like branches in a gentle breeze. Her bark-like skin caught the light, and the leaves in her auburn hair rustled despite the still air in the chamber.

"I suppose it's my turn," she said, her voice carrying the patient wisdom of ancient forests. "I'm Vera. Let's see how you handle something... different."

She moved into the circle with an otherworldly grace that was completely unlike the others. Where Thora had stomped and Sylvan had flowed, Vera seemed to drift, as if the ground beneath her feet was optional.

I approached the edge of the circle and pressed my fist into my open palm.

"Proelium," I said, bowing. "Let this contest sharpen us both."

Vera's response was unlike the others. She placed both hands together and bowed deeply, like a tree bending in reverence to the wind.

"Proelium," she replied. "May we both grow from this exchange."

Gerald raised his hand. "Begin!"

I started forward with my usual aggressive approach, but immediately realized I was in completely unfamiliar territory.

Vera didn't just dodge my first strike, she flowed away from it in a backbend that turned into a handspring, which somehow transitioned into a spinning cartwheel that brought her right back to where she started.

Was that an attack or just movement?

I tried to follow up, throwing a combination at where I thought she'd be, but she was already gone, flowing through what looked like a complex series of flips and rolls that made absolutely no tactical sense.

Then, in the middle of what appeared to be purely acrobatic flair, her foot shot out and nearly caught me in the ribs. I jerked backward, barely avoiding it.

Okay, so it IS an attack. Sometimes.

I pressed forward again, trying to pin her down, but she responded with what looked like an elaborate dance routine. Spins, leaps, hand-walks, all flowing together in a sequence that was beautiful to watch but impossible to predict.

And then, mid-spin, her elbow came around in a strike that would have caught me in the temple if I hadn't ducked.

"What the hell?" I muttered, backing away.

The other instructors were laughing.

"She's got him completely confused!" Marcus called out.

"Can't tell the dance from the fight!" Sylvan added with amusement.

I circled her carefully, trying to read her movements. Every flow could be harmless flair or a deadly strike. Every spin might end with a kick, or it might just be showing off.

Vera smiled serenely as she performed another series of acrobatic movements that looked more like art than combat.

"Having trouble, young one?" she asked, her voice calm even as she moved through what looked like a complex floor routine.

I was. Every instinct I had for reading opponents was useless here. I couldn't tell what was an attack until it was already coming at me, and by then it was almost too late to react.

This is insane. How do you fight someone when you can't tell the difference between their combat and their warm-up routine?

I took a step back, forcing myself to calm down and actually observe instead of just reacting.

Focus. Analyze. You've been watching her fight other examinees all day.

I let my mind drift back to the earlier matches. When Vera had fought the other students, what had she done? I replayed the sequences in my head, frame by frame.

The tall kid with the staff, she'd done that same spinning sequence, but when she came out of it, her foot was positioned to sweep his legs. The girl with the twin daggers, Vera had performed what looked like a graceful pirouette, but it ended with her shoulder checking the girl off balance.

I watched her current movements more carefully, comparing them to what I'd seen before.

There. That backbend flowing into the handspring, I've seen that exact sequence before. And when she did it against the beastkin kid, the handspring put her hands in perfect position to launch into an upper strike.

My eyes tracked her movements with newfound precision. Every flowing transition, every seemingly random acrobatic flourish, I was cataloging them, cross-referencing them with the fights I'd witnessed.

The spinning cartwheel always ends with her right leg extended. The floor routine always puts her in position for either an elbow strike or a leg sweep. The hand-walk sequence is just repositioning to get behind her opponent.

Then I saw it. The pattern.

She has maybe twelve different acrobatic sequences, but each one has only two or three possible endings. The flair isn't random, it's a setup. She's not mixing combat with dance, she's using dance to disguise the setup for her real attacks.

"I understand it now," I said aloud, and a maniacal grin began spreading across my face.

Vera paused mid-movement, something in my tone making her wary.

She launched into another sequence, the same spinning routine I'd seen her use on three different opponents. But now I knew. This one ended with either a spinning backfist or a low kick, depending on where her opponent was positioned.

She was mid-spin, and I was standing right where the backfist would land.

Instead of backing away, I ducked under the incoming strike and stepped forward, catching her off-guard for the first time since the match began.

My counter-punch connected cleanly with her shoulder.

Vera's eyes widened in surprise, then she smiled, a genuine expression of approval.

"Very good," she said, straightening up. "Most never figure out the pattern within a minute."

The other instructors erupted in cheers.

"He cracked the code!" Marcus laughed.

"Analyzed her entire fighting style mid-battle!" Thora called out with approval.

I grinned, feeling that familiar rush of satisfaction. "Four down," I said, looking toward the last instructor. "That leaves you, doesn't it?"

The wolfman instructor stepped forward with predatory grace, his tail swishing with barely contained excitement. His canine ears were perked forward, and when he grinned, his sharp teeth caught the light.

"Finally," he said, his voice carrying a growl of anticipation. "I've been waiting all day for this. Name's Fenris, and you, kid, have just given me the best entertainment I've had in months."

Unlike the others, Fenris didn't just walk into the circle, he prowled. Every step was calculated, his muscles coiled like springs ready to explode into action. His wolf ears twitched as he settled into a combat stance that looked more natural than breathing.

"You know," he continued, his grin widening to show more of those predatory teeth, "in wolfkin culture, we have a saying: 'The hunt is only as good as the prey.' And you..." He pointed at me with one clawed finger. "You've just proven you're the best prey I've encountered in years."

I felt my own excitement spike to match his. This was it. The real challenge. The one I'd been building up to.

I approached the edge of the circle and pressed my fist into my open palm.

"Proelium," I said, bowing. "Let this contest sharpen us both."

Fenris's response was immediate and intense. He dropped into a bow that was more like a predator's crouch, his claws extending slightly as he pressed his fist to his palm.

"Proelium," he rumbled, his voice full of anticipation. "Let's see if you can keep up with a real hunt."

When he straightened, his eyes were bright with the kind of excitement that matched my own. This wasn't just a test anymore, this was two fighters who genuinely wanted to see what the other could do.

Gerald raised his hand, but he was grinning too. Even he could feel the energy radiating from both of us.

"Begin!"

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