6 days into the trial.

---Thalor---

Now, unlike the early days, the instructors were utterly swamped. Beast corpses kept materializing in various compartments, and no one dared complain about coming early anymore. Even a moment of delay meant their quotas piled up with countless bodies, leaving them suffering in silence while they rushed to keep up.

The professors, however, merely acted as overseers. The two spatial magicians took turns seated inside the intricate floating magic sphere drifting above, a faint hum filling the air each time the metal plates flashed and transported another carcass upward.

"Look, the super rookie's score still hasn't budged since it spiked on the first day," one instructor muttered as he slumped down on a crate, rubbing his sore shoulders.

Both of them turned toward the board.

KEo311 – 305600

"Hmm, maybe he got hurt and is resting? Just look at the death count—almost twenty percent gone already. Same with the other two regions." His companion exhaled, shaking his head. "Anyway, whether he increases or not doesn't matter now, right? His first place is already locked in."

The other nodded, and their conversation drifted into idle chatter.

"I mean, the second place is rising—even if it's at a snail's pace, it's rising. And both already crossed last year's first-place score, and it's only the sixth day. I wonder what it'll look like by the end." Even as he spoke, the numbers flickered.

GHi001 – 20560 → 20610

A change followed as third place shifted too.

KEo312 – 7090 → 7110

"These first and third are from the same place, yeah? The outskirts. What kind of town produces geniuses like this?"

"Yeah, haven't you heard? There's another one from another region. They say he reached nearly a hundred thousand points."

The instructor blinked. "You serious? Another one? What are we even supposed to teach them when they join our classes? This first place alone feels stronger than me already…" His voice cracked with nervous laughter.

His partner clicked his tongue sharply.

"Don't be stupid. Professors will snatch them up instantly—make them disciples, pamper them. We won't even get to see their shadows."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"And you really think someone under thirty can score that high alone? He probably trailed a high-ranked beast while using some top-tier concealment artifact. You saw the corpses, right? Half of them were torn apart like a physical-type heavy-hitter rampaged through them. If it was a low-intelligence brute, it'd never detect a concealment tool. That way, he just collects trial points whenever they leave bodies behind."

He sounded almost proud to recite the rumour that had spread like wildfire.

"Still… that would take courage and skill, wouldn't it?"

"Skill my ass. Courage, sure, but now that his score stopped rising, he must be hiding somewhere, thinking he's already set." The instructor smirked, tapping his foot.

"Exactly for people like him, we have a second round. Let's see how long before his wings get clipped."

"But how'd he even find something like that in the outskirts?"

"Are you dumb? The outskirts are mostly a treasure trove. The only reason towns survive there is because the beast density is lower—not because the treasures are. He probably stumbled onto something rare."

"Ohhh… so that's why big families send their branches there."

"Exactly. It's an ecosystem. The outskirts thrive from the influx of goods and people from the inner and core cities, and those cities flourish because new treasures keep getting found out there."

---

20 days into the trial.

"Something's… terribly wrong." An instructor whispered, face ashen, eyes locked on the vast stretch of compartments where beast carcasses should have been appearing in a relentless torrent by now.

Instead, the compartments looked abandoned. And the most horrifying sight wasn't the emptiness, but the colourless number symbols hovering above them. Over seventy per cent. Grey. Lifeless.

"H-Hey… what do you think happened? It must be a malfunction, right? Some problem with the magic plates—has to be!" A middle-aged professor with a stubby blond beard stammered. His face had gone the colour of old parchment.

"It's been more than four days! Why hasn't anyone fixed it yet?!"

His panic spiked, and he grabbed the shoulder of the instructor beside him, shaking him hard.

"Say something! Why are all the numbers grey?! Did… did all of them really die?" His knees buckled, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"M-My son… he was in one of the trial regions, he was supposed to go through one…" His eyes were wide and glassy, pupils trembling as dread swallowed him whole.

He wasn't the only one. All around, instructors and assistants wore the same fractured expression. At first, the death rates—though far higher than last year—were brushed aside.

Ten times the participants this year, people reassured themselves.

Of course the deaths will be higher. It's expected.

But by Day 10, those excuses stopped coming.

Day 8 – 23% dead

Day 9 – 27% dead

Day 10 – 33% dead

Day 11 – 39% dead

Day 12 – 46% dead

Day 13 – 50% dead

Half the candidates—over a hundred thousand—gone by the thirteenth day.

By Day 20, the number had climbed past seventy per cent.

The instructors sensed something was terribly wrong far earlier. But when the professors remained immovable, saying nothing, acting as if nothing unusual was happening, they forced themselves into silence and waited.

During those days, several instructors noticed subtle changes in the professors—tightened jaws, cold eyes, an unfamiliar pressure in their aura. Serious and grimly watching every fluctuation in the numbers.

But still, none lifted a finger. They simply watched as the death rate climbed, their gazes disturbingly calm… as if this had all been decided long ago.

It wasn't until one instructor broke down completely—his daughter's number turning grey before his eyes—that anything finally happened.

Brant descended from the sky where the floating spatial sphere floated. He had been stationed there throughout, monitoring the transfers. His expression remained calm, as though the deaths meant nothing.

And truthfully, for many professors and instructors, too, heck, even common people, death itself wasn't the issue. Two hundred thousand deaths were insignificant compared to the empire's scale. But this trial was the first to include other talents. Many from instructors' own families had entered—sons, daughters, nephews—and now their death counts were staring back at them.

It didn't sit well. Yet they were forced to remain. The professors had barred everyone from leaving, claiming every instructor was needed on-site due to an impending attack.

For the first time, even those who trusted the system felt a cold shiver crawl down their spine. Something far bigger was happening behind those rising grey numbers.

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