Two days later.

"WELCOME TO THE MOST ANTICIPATED PART OF THE WHOLE ACADEMY ENTRANCE EXAMINATION!"

The booming voice echoed through the massive stone coliseum, bouncing off every wall like a wave.

The moment it spoke, the entire arena fell into complete darkness. For a few seconds, the world vanished—no light, no color, only the faint, collective breath of thousands waiting.

Then, all at once—

A surge of brilliance exploded across the space.

The darkness shattered into an overwhelming flood of white light, flooding every corner of the coliseum until not a single shadow survived. The light wasn't steady—it pulsed, bending and morphing into ribbons of color that danced through the air, twisting and converging high above the arena.

There, suspended midair, a massive rectangular platform shimmered—the source of the light itself. It floated with mechanical precision, its underside lined with golden runes that rotated slowly, casting rotating halos onto the crowd below.

As the crowd gasped, the radiance dimmed slightly, and the platform began to descend, smooth and steady, until the figure standing atop it became clear.

They wore clothes so colorful they almost hurt to look at—fabric that shimmered and fractured light into dozens of hues at once. The outfit seemed both woven and alive, threads of mana pulsing faintly through the material like veins of liquid glass. Every movement they made caused the colors to ripple and refract.

Dozens of floating screens now materialized around the arena—thin, transparent panes of light projecting from mana crystals embedded in the coliseum's walls. They displayed the same figure in magnified view for those seated higher up.

At the center of the arena floor, the ground began to rumble. With a heavy, grinding sound, a square platform rose from beneath, stone shifting against stone until it locked into place. It was wide—fifty meters in both length and width—made of sleek black concrete with faint mana veins glowing beneath its surface. Its edges shimmered faintly, outlining the boundaries of the combat zone.

Even though the sun blazed overhead, the artificial light still dominated. The entire coliseum looked unreal, almost futuristic—like a stage that didn't belong to this world.

Avin squinted, a hand half-covering his face. "Are they trying to blind us?"

He sat in the lower seating area, alongside the other entrance candidates. The sunlight glared off the arena floor, bouncing up into his eyes.

"The academy likes to put on a show," Henry muttered from the seat on Avin's left.

Sylas sat on the other side, Eira to his right, her eyes wide in fascination.

"This looks like a concert," Avin said.

"Concert?" Henry turned to him.

"Nevermind."

Henry frowned. "That's twice now. You keep doing that."

Avin didn't respond—his attention snapped back to the figure above as the voice rang out again, amplified and almost deafening.

"I KNOW YOU ARE ALL ITCHING TO START THE FIGHTS ALREADY! BUT APPARENTLY, I HAVE TO TELL YOU THE RULES FIRST… SUCH A BORING SCHOOL, AM I RIGHT?"

The entire crowd fell silent.

Avin blinked. "Was that meant to be a joke?" he whispered.

Eira stifled a giggle behind her hand.

The figure threw his head back and laughed—loud, manic, the kind that bordered on theatrical. The laughter distorted midway, warping into a high-pitched shriek that stabbed through the air.

It wasn't a normal sound.

Right in front of his mouth floated a small, translucent magic circle—the amplification array. It pulsed erratically, flashing red as the sound twisted, the resonance of the spell spiraling out of control. The screech tore through the air, sharp as feedback from a faulty microphone.

Avin winced, clapping both hands over his ears. "What the fuck was that?"

Henry leaned forward slightly, grimacing. "Voice amplification magic. The circle overloaded."

"Of course," Avin muttered, lowering his hands. "These people have magic for everything."

The circle stabilized again, glowing a steady blue. The announcer grinned, unbothered.

"EACH FIGHT WILL HAVE FOUR GROUPS—FIVE PEOPLE IN EACH!"

His voice rolled through the air, smooth again now that the resonance had fixed itself.

"THE RULES ARE SIMPLE! THE LAST PERSON—OR PEOPLE—STANDING MUST ALL BE FROM THE SAME TEAM! THAT TEAM WINS!"

Murmurs spread through the candidates. The air carried that tense excitement that always came before violence.

"WINNING TEAMS WILL BE PROMOTED IMMEDIATELY! THE REST OF YOU… WELL, THAT'LL BE DECIDED LATER!"

Avin leaned back, crossing his arms. "Seems simple enough. Like sumo."

"Sumo?" Henry asked again.

"Nevermind."

Henry groaned. "That's three times now."

The announcer clapped his hands together, and the floating platform above him flashed, producing bursts of light that resembled fireworks.

"SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO—TEAM ONE, TWO, THREE, AND FOUR!"

A heavy grinding sound echoed across the coliseum as four massive doors began to open at each corner of the arena. The mechanical roar of gears and pulleys mixed with the rhythmic clanking of metal boots on stone.

The crowd hushed.

Footsteps followed—synchronized, deliberate, echoing like thunder in the silence.

The first group emerged.

They marched in perfect formation, their armor glinting beneath the multi-colored lights. Each step rang sharp, echoing across the stage until they reached the raised platform in the center. When they climbed the stairs, the arena's surface shimmered, runes activating briefly under their feet before dimming again.

They stopped in place, five figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

Team One.

At their front stood a towering swordsman, broad-shouldered and heavily armored—plates of dull silver trimmed with muted gold. His armor design was reminiscent of royal guard attire, though rougher and far less ornate than a prince's. The greatsword he dragged left sparks as its tip scraped along the ground, the harsh screech deliberate—a sound meant to intimidate.

Beside him, a second swordsman in lighter gear adjusted his gauntlets. His armor was a flexible mix of leather and steel, painted dark grey with faint runic patterns near the joints. His blade was shorter and slimmer, built for speed, the handle wrapped in black cloth.

Behind them stood an archer. His attire was simple yet precise—black reinforced vest, rune-threaded fingerless gloves, and a compact quiver attached to his thigh instead of his back. The bow he carried glowed faintly blue along its edges, mana strings thrumming softly, waiting.

Next was the magician—a man draped in layered robes of midnight blue stitched with silver thread that pulsed faintly with stored mana. His staff was tall, almost as long as his height, crowned with a levitating crystal that spun slowly, projecting thin arcs of light.

The last of Team One stood unarmed but clearly didn't need a weapon. He was built like stone carved into flesh—muscles corded and defined, faint mana patterns crawling across his arms and neck like tattoos.

The second team followed, stepping onto the platform from the opposite gate.

Two magicians led them, their robes a striking contrast—one in crimson trimmed with gold, the other in pale white lined with turquoise. Each bore a staff with floating sigils orbiting the core crystal, faint energy circles spinning around their wrists like bracelets.

Behind them walked a spearman whose weapon gleamed with etched runes down its entire length, the spearheads twin-edged and metallic black, faintly smoking with residual mana discharge. His armor was lighter, sleeveless, reinforced only at the chest and shoulders for mobility.

The two archers that completed their formation looked like siblings—same sleek leather gear, short cloaks trailing, their bows shaped more like curved blades than traditional wood. The metal glinted faintly with enchantment marks that allowed the arrows to materialize from pure mana when drawn.

Then came Team Three, emerging with quiet confidence. Four swordsmen moved in near-perfect sync, blades sheathed but posture sharp. Their armor designs varied slightly—one carried dual swords at his hips, another had a curved sabre across his back, the third a long rapier, and the last a broadsword with runic engraving near its hilt. Each wore muted tones—grays, blacks, and deep blues—making them look uniform without being identical. The magician walking behind them wore no robes but a dark coat with belts running across his chest, his staff small and clipped to his side like a folded weapon.

Finally, Team Four stepped forward from the last gate.

Three magicians, one swordsman, one archer.

The magicians were younger—robes designed with asymmetrical hems and translucent shoulder veils that shimmered under light. Their magic staffs varied in design—one with twin prongs holding a glowing orb, another curved like a shepherd's crook, and one entirely metallic, shaped like a lance.

The swordsman accompanying them was slim, wearing a partial chestplate over flexible black fabric, his blade long and narrow, with a red stripe carved down its center. The archer had a hunter's build—light armor, short bow, and a confident stance that screamed practiced precision.

The announcer raised both arms, his multi-colored garments shimmering wildly.

"FOUR TEAMS. ONE ARENA. FIVE MINUTES TO GLORY OR HUMILIATION!"

The crowd erupted—thousands of cheers merging into a deafening storm that made the air tremble.

Avin exhaled slowly, watching the spectacle unfold. "Yeah," he muttered, "definitely not from this world."

Henry grinned. "You ready for our turn?"

Avin's lips twitched into a half-smirk. "Born ready."

The announcer's circle flared again, and his voice boomed one last time—

"BEGIN!"

The coliseum's runes ignited, and the first battle of the academy entrance trials began.

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