The two young men recoiled, unable to meet Damon's gaze. The smile vanished from his face as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the impassive calm of someone who had seen—and done—things worse than they could imagine.

A metallic sound echoed through the courtyard. The commander in charge of the test had arrived.

His presence was enough to silence the entire space.

"Formation!" one of the instructors shouted. The ranks immediately organized themselves.

Damon positioned himself at the end of the line, keeping his body erect, his hands clasped behind his back. The man walking in front of the candidates was tall, of firm build, with a scar that ran from his jaw to his neck. His armor was more ornate than the others, marked by the emblem of the Leviathan Order engraved on his chest.

"I am Commander Roderic Varn," he announced. "And I will be the chief evaluator of this round. If you are here, it is because you believe you have what it takes to serve under the banner of the Order. But let me make one thing clear—Arven doesn't need dreamers. It needs warriors."

His gaze swept across the line, evaluating each face as if he could measure their weaknesses with a single glance.

"Half of you will be eliminated before noon," he continued. "Those who remain will have the privilege of bleeding for Arven."

A heavy silence fell over the courtyard.

Then, Roderic extended his hand and signaled to the instructor beside him.

"The first test: endurance. Run along the outer walls. Ten laps. If any of you stop, don't come back here."

The sound of the bell echoed, and the group set off.

Damon maintained a steady pace from the start. Many began strongly, trying to impress; others were already gasping for breath before the third lap. The stone ground punished their feet, and the biting cold of dawn seemed to steal the air from their lungs. But Damon ran as if he felt nothing. His steps were steady, controlled—each movement reminiscent of the endless days of training in the mountains, when Caerth made him run for miles with weights on his ankles and ice on his body.

On the eighth lap, the first ones began to fall. One of the boys who had insulted him stumbled, supporting himself on his hands. Damon passed him without slowing down, without even looking.

When the bell rang at the end of the tenth lap, only seven of the nearly twenty candidates were still running. Damon was among them—the only one whose breathing still sounded steady.

Roderic watched, impassive. "Not bad," he said. "But endurance isn't everything. Bring the weapons."

The instructors lined up a series of training swords—heavy, wooden swords reinforced with iron.

"Direct combat. You will fight in pairs. Only stop when your opponent can no longer get up."

The first pair entered. The sound of the weapons echoed loudly, dryly, until one of them fell. Then another, and another. Each fight ended in less than a minute.

When it was Damon's turn, the instructor called out a large, muscular opponent in light armor. "Candidate number twenty-one, against thirty-seven."

Damon walked to the center. The opponent looked at him with a confident smile. "I hope you know how to fall without breaking something."

"You'll find out first," Damon replied calmly.

The sound of the bell marked the beginning. The man advanced with a heavy blow, trying to knock Damon down with brute force. But the blond man dodged with a short, sharp movement, twisting his wrist and hitting the opponent's arm before the blade completed its arc. The sound was hollow, precise.

The man staggered. Damon spun the sword, and the second blow struck the side of his leg—enough to unbalance him and force him to the ground. A third, controlled blow stopped a few centimeters from his face.

Silence.

The instructor raised his hand. "Winner: Damon of Mirath."

The murmuring among the candidates grew. Even Roderic seemed interested. "Control, precision, and economy of movement," he murmured. "No wasted force."

The commander approached. "Tell me, Damon of Mirath... who taught you to fight like that?"

"Caerth," he replied, simply.

The name seemed to cut through the air like lightning.

Roderic was silent for a moment, his eyes assessing him more carefully than before. "So it's true... the Black Moonlight still trains disciples."

Damon didn't answer. He simply maintained his steady gaze.

"We'll see," the commander said. "The next test will begin at noon. This will be group combat. And this time, real swords."

The aspirants exchanged apprehensive glances, but Damon remained motionless.

He knew what this meant—the real test would begin now.

The break between tests was short. The sun had barely reached the middle of the sky, and the aspirants were already being called back to the courtyard. Some were still wiping away sweat; others sat with empty, exhausted looks. Damon remained standing in the shadow of one of the columns, taking a sip of water.

The sound of armor clanking on the ground echoed, and the murmuring of those whispering about him became increasingly audible.

"It's him… the one who defeated number thirty-seven with three blows."

"They say he trained with a wanderer from the Order…"

"Caerth… I've heard that name before…"

Damon ignored them. Caerth's voice still echoed in his mind, clear, as if he were standing beside him: "It doesn't matter if they watch you or judge you. What matters is what your body does when the blade comes towards you."

The bell rang.

Roderic walked to the center of the courtyard. This time, his expression was more serious, and there was an air of expectation in the air. Beside him, one of the officers brought a box covered with a cloth. When he opened it, real swords gleamed in the sun. Not training swords—pure steel, sharp edges.

"This is the final exam," the commander said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Arven doesn't train ordinary soldiers. We train knights—and a knight must know how to fight alongside others, not just survive alone."

He gestured.

"The exercise is simple: team combat. Each group will face another until only one team remains standing. Remember: stop before killing. Don't make me repeat this." The formations were quickly assembled. Damon ended up in the same group as two of the candidates who had completed the race with him—a dark-haired archer named Renn and a woman with a cold expression, a short sword strapped to her waist, named Lyra.

Renn seemed tense but determined; Lyra, on the other hand, only glanced at him once and looked away, as if she already knew he didn't need help.

The first confrontation was scheduled against the group of number thirty-seven—the man Damon had defeated earlier. He smiled when he saw the blond man again.

"This time, I won't go easy."

Damon didn't answer. He simply unsheathed his sword. The blade reflected a cold gleam—almost imperceptible, but real.

The bell rang.

The opponent advanced first, accompanied by two more companions. Damon moved before they completed their step—quick, his body flowing like water. His sword intercepted the enemy blade with a dry crack, and, in the same movement, he twisted his wrist, pushing the man back.

Lyra took advantage of the opening. She advanced and struck the flank of one of the attackers with precision. Renn, in the rear, fired a short arrow that passed a few centimeters from Damon's shoulder and embedded itself in the ground next to the last opponent, forcing him to retreat.

The combat lasted less than a minute.

Damon's group won, and the audience of recruits, who had been watching in silence, began to murmur again.

Roderic watched attentively. He didn't intervene, only wrote something down on a parchment.

More groups faced each other. The ground was marked with footprints and scratches, the air saturated with the metallic smell of sweat and steel.

When only two teams remained, Roderic raised his hand.

"Last confrontation," he announced. "Damon of Mirath's group against Lyon Hart's group." Lyon was the most prominent aspirant so far—the son of a veteran knight, arrogant gaze, refined technique. He twirled his sword in the air before pointing it at Damon.

"You're good," he said. "But you're not a knight."

Damon adjusted his grip. "Not yet."

The sound of the bell echoed.

The two groups advanced. Lyon and Damon met in the center of the courtyard. The clash of swords sent sparks flying. The force of the impact reverberated to their heels.

Lyon was fast—very fast—and each blow came with surgical precision. Damon blocked them all, his body moving with the naturalness of someone who had fought for survival, not just for glory.

Renn retreated, trying to contain an enemy archer, while Lyra dueled with a woman wielding a spear. The sound of clashing blades filled the air.

Damon took a step back, his gaze fixed on Lyon. That kind of movement, the rhythm… it was almost the same as Caerth used to test his defense.

And then, Damon remembered the old man's words: "The most dangerous opponent is the one who believes he fights with elegance. Because he forgets about fear."

The blond man let his body relax. Lyon's next blow came from above—fast, powerful. Damon blocked it, twisted his wrist, and pushed it aside. The sound changed. The temperature around them dropped.

A thin trail of ice formed on the blade.

The next clash made Lyon's sword tremble. The air shimmered, and a thin layer of crystals spread across the ground between them. The audience held their breath.

Lyon tried to retreat, but Damon advanced, striking in quick succession—precise, cold movements, each faster than the last. The final blow stopped a few centimeters from his opponent's neck, freezing the air between them.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Roderic raised his hand. "Enough."

Damon slowly lowered his sword. The ice shattered and dissipated into mist.

Lyon was breathing heavily, but nodded, acknowledging defeat.

Roderic walked towards them. His gaze was different now—heavier, more attentive. "This is not common magic," he said, crossing his arms. "Elemental control mixed with combat technique. An unusual hybrid."

"Field training," Damon replied simply.

"Field training, is it?" The commander stared at him for a long time before giving a slight nod. "Be that as it may... the test is over. Damon of Mirath—approved with distinction. The others, prepare for the oath of entry tomorrow at dawn."

The courtyard erupted in murmurs. Renn lowered his bow, relieved. Lyra simply crossed her arms, watching Damon in silence.

He cleaned the blade and sheathed it. He didn't smile. He just looked at the horizon, where the towers of Arven rose under the afternoon sun.

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