I waited the majority of the day in line.

  People were turned away constantly—some arguing, some leaving without a word. The sheer number of rejections made it clear: this school wasn’t just for Earth’s competition. It was something bigger. A place where the best fought for a seat, where only those worth training were allowed through.

  When I finally reached the front, I found an orc handling admissions. He was massive, built like a walking wall of muscle, his arms thicker than my torso. His expression was one of pure disinterest.

  A good choice. No one would dare start anything with him standing here.

  "Name." He barely spared me a glance.

  "Sylas Orread."

  He grunted and started flipping through the documents in front of him. A few quick scans, a page turn, another grunt—then, without even looking up, he dismissed me.

  "You're not on the list. Next!"

  "Wait!" I shot forward, thrusting my contract with Alyssa toward him. "I have this document!"

  That made him pause. His thick fingers plucked it from my grip, and as his eyes scanned the page, his eyebrows rose slightly. He read with an intensity that made it seem like there was more to the paper than what I could see.

  "I've never seen an acceptance letter like this before." He scratched his head, frowning. Then he barked, "Gorvod! Hey, Gorvod! Get over here and take a look at this!"

  Silence. No one moved.

  My pulse quickened. I had assumed this would be easy—a simple verification, then entrance. But now? Now I was clearly a special case. Maybe no one else from Earth had made it here. Maybe no one else had gotten in this way.

  The orc snorted, still reading, but now he was showing the document off to... something.

  I couldn’t see who—or what—he was speaking to, but it was clear he was having a conversation. Either that, or he was insane.

  Another minute passed before he finally addressed me again. "You're accepted." Just like that.

  He handed my document back and placed a ring in my hand—a simple band, unmarked, but humming with something I couldn’t quite place.

  I stared at it, then hesitated before holding my palm up, just like Alyssa had done before with her own ring.

  The orc’s brow twitched.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" He gave me a flat, unimpressed look. "Put the damned ring on and get out of my face. You're holding up the line."

  I didn't waste another second. I shoved the ring onto my right hand and hurried through the door before he could change his mind.

  When I stepped through the door, I barely had a moment to take in my surroundings before something small and fast collided with me.

  Or rather, someone.

  She bounced off my chest with a soft oof, stumbling back a step. A girl—young, twenty at most, with sharp, curious eyes and an energy that felt just a little too deliberate.

  "Oh! Excuse me, mister!"

  Her voice was light, airy, but there was something off about it—like she was playing a role rather than actually feeling anything.

  She blinked up at me, tilting her head just a bit too dramatically. "Wow, you're so strong! I almost got knocked over just by touching you."

  She smoothed out the fabric of her uniform—tight enough to accentuate certain things, but clearly not designed for actual combat. Then she took a step closer, batting her lashes in a way that was practiced, not natural.

  "You must be new. Someone as... impressive as you couldn't have been here long without me noticing."

  Her hand brushed against my arm, but there was no warmth in it—no real hesitation or curiosity. Her smile widened, but her eyes didn’t change. "What's your name, handsome?"

  Something about her made my instincts twitch—not in danger, but in recognition. She wasn’t flirting with me. She was performing.

  So I walked right past her without saying a word.

  She didn’t seem surprised.

  Instead, she laughed—or rather, she made the sound of laughter. It was hollow, perfectly timed, but there was nothing behind it. No amusement. No genuine reaction. Just a sound meant to mimic the real thing.

  "Mister, you dropped your ring!"

  Her voice was all sweet innocence, but my instincts flared.

  I stopped, glancing over my shoulder just in time to see her bend down with an exaggerated motion, plucking something off the ground. A ring.

  My ring.

  The same one that should have been tightly secured to my finger. The one the orc had just given me.

  Yet, there it was, in her hand.

  She glided over to me with an effortless grace, her movements precise, intentional—like someone following an unseen rhythm. Before I could react, she took my hand, holding it gently, almost intimately.

  With slow, deliberate care, she slid the ring back onto my finger, her touch as light as a whisper.

  “You shouldn’t lose this, by the way,” she said, her tone lilting, playful—but empty. “It’s how you get around the school.”

  Her smile was flawless, perfectly shaped, the kind that should have been charming. But it wasn’t. Then, just as smoothly, she twirled away, her steps light, dancing out the door as if she had never been there at all.

  I shook my head, trying to push the strange interaction from my mind, and focused on my next task—finding the new students' section.

  It wasn’t hard. The sheer density of people made it obvious.

  The space was packed, buzzing with nervous energy and posturing. Some students tested their strength, throwing experimental punches or stretching like they were preparing for a fight. Others huddled in small groups, sizing each other up, already forming early alliances.

  I found a spot near the edge of the crowd and took in the scene, arms crossed. Nothing interesting.

  Until I heard him.

  A voice that cut through the noise—loud, confident, and carrying the distinct tone of someone who expected to be listened to.

  A young man, level 22, stood at the center of a loose crowd, tall, well-groomed, and clearly aware of his own presence. His uniform was immaculate, not a speck of dirt or a sign of wear, like he had never actually trained in it. His stance was casual but practiced—every movement precise, just controlled enough to give the illusion of effortlessness.

  He wasn’t just talking—he was holding court. I watched for a few seconds, half-listening. It didn’t take long to get the picture.

  “—because talent alone isn’t enough. You need pedigree.”

  He shifted his weight, gesturing lazily at the nervous-looking student he had cornered against a pillar.

  “Some people just aren’t built for this, and that’s fine. No shame in it. But you? You should know when to walk away.”

  The smaller student—wiry, clearly uncomfortable—held himself rigid, not fighting back but not backing down either. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw set tight. He wanted to say something. But he wouldn’t.

  And I knew why. The guy in front of him was trying to start a fight. He was pushing just enough to make his cornered prey be the first to attack. For the crowd to see.

  A few students were already nodding along, buying into the act. Others looked away, avoiding getting involved. The guy he was cornering? He was trying to decide if standing his ground was worth what came next.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It wasn’t my problem.

  I could’ve ignored it.

  Should’ve.

  Instead, I started walking toward them.

  Not because I cared. Not because I wanted to teach a lesson or be some kind of hero. But because I was bored. And this?

  This looked like it might be fun.

  I stopped a few paces away, waiting until the loudmouth noticed me. He did. And, just as I expected, he smiled like he had caught another rat in a trap.

  "Something you want?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

  I held his gaze. One second. Two. Then I shattered his nose.

  A straight right jab—direct, brutal, undeniable. His face snapped back with a wet, sickening crunch, blood spraying across his perfect, tailored uniform. He staggered, eyes wide, body struggling to process the pain he had never expected to feel.

  A siren wailed through the air.

  A ripple of energy shook the ground beneath us, and before I could even react, a figure appeared between us, materializing like they had stepped out of thin air.

  A man—tall, dressed in dark robes, an insignia glowing on his chest. His presence snuffed out the noise of the crowd, his movements precise, measured. He looked at me first, then at my opponent, and then back at me, as if evaluating something unseen.

  "Combat initiated at the expense of Party A," he announced, his voice cold, clipped, and practiced. He gestured toward me. "Please spend points to continue."

  I blinked. Spend points? I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I glanced around seeking a clue then and just said the first number that came to mind.

  "A thousand."

  A ripple of shock passed through the students. I could feel it more than see it—an unspoken reaction, a shift in weight, a sudden tension.

  The moderator barely reacted, but there was a pause—brief, but there. Then he spoke again.

  "A thousand points. Weapons allowed. Maiming allowed. Killing restricted."

  Then, with a fluid motion, he brought his hands together and then thrust them outward.

  A magical cage exploded into existence around us.

  Glowing energy snapped into place, forming a shimmering dome of reinforced magic that locked the two of us inside. The symbols along its surface pulsed with raw power, and the air itself felt denser, charged with something heavy and unmistakably real.

  The guy whose nose I had just shattered started to glow.

  Faint at first, then stronger—a pulsing aura of raw energy, seeping into him from the very air itself. The magic from the moderator’s cage wasn’t just containing us—it was fueling him.

  I could see it in the way he straightened, in how the blood dripping from his ruined nose stopped, then reversed, the wound closing right before my eyes. His body hummed with the influx of power, his bruised confidence snapping back into place.

  Then he laughed.

  A short, breathy chuckle at first—then it turned into full-blown amusement.

  "Oh, this is rich." He wiped the last traces of blood from his face, flexing his fingers as if testing his newfound power. "I can't believe this. You really think you're above me? Do you know who—"

  I didn’t care. Whatever he was about to say didn’t matter. We weren’t here to talk.

  I surged forward, Quickstepping into his guard before he had the chance to react. Woundreaver materialized in my grip as I brought it down, its serrated edge biting into his shoulder and tearing through flesh with a vicious pull. He screamed, stumbling back as blood sprayed across his once-pristine uniform. Shock and pain twisted his face, but it lasted only a moment before the magic of the cage pulsed. The wound I had just opened sealed itself shut, skin knitting back together like I had never touched him at all.

  He staggered away and snapped his fingers. The air around him shimmered, and suddenly, there were six of him.

  I didn’t hesitate. I Quickstepped forward, Woundreaver carving a vicious arc toward his throat—and struck nothing.

  My blade passed through empty air as his form dissolved into smoke.

  A flicker of motion at my side. I twisted, bringing my scimitar across in a brutal slash—more smoke.

  A laugh echoed around me. "What's wrong? You were so confident before."

  He hadn’t moved. Not really. His copies were shifting, positioning themselves just as naturally as he did, their footwork identical. But when I struck, they weren’t there. He wasn’t there.

  I lunged again, faster, my blade whistling through empty space.

  Another dodge? No. A swap.

  I barely caught the flicker, the subtle pull of movement in the air, as one of the copies suddenly turned real. He hadn’t dodged—he had traded places with an illusion.

  I attacked again, this time not watching my blade but watching him.

  The shift came again—a moment before impact, a slight tremor in his posture. Another clone became him, the real him, while his old position faded into nothing.

  A trick. A good one. But he was using it too much. I slowed my breathing. Watched. Waited.

  He smirked, rolling his shoulders, pacing between his copies like a man completely in control. "This isn’t a brawl, idiot. You can’t just brute force your way through it."

  I let him talk. I struck again, but this time, I wasn’t aiming to hit.

  My blade whiffed through an illusion, and I Quickstepped mid-motion, urging just an ounce of Torment into my follow-up swing. Woundreaver caught flesh.

  He jerked back, hissing as my blade tore across his ribs. Blood sprayed, joining the stains already splattered across his uniform—the ripped fabric, the dried streaks from his previous wounds that the cage had healed but couldn’t erase. Before fresh blood could soak in, the cage pulsed again, knitting the wound closed instantly.

  His breath hitched, but the smirk was still there—tighter now, forced at the edges.

  I didn’t give him a moment to collect himself. My blade was already moving again. He swapped—a flicker, a displacement of air, a blur of motion—but I had seen it enough times now.

  I Quickstepped again, intercepting him the moment he reappeared. Woundreaver slashed across his side, another sharp intake of breath from his lips. The cage pulsed. Healed.

  He snapped his fingers, summoning more illusions, trying to reset the fight.

  But I was already moving.

  I knew which one was real. The others were clean, untouched, still wearing their pristine uniforms as if none of this had ever happened. But him? His uniform was ruined—ripped at the shoulder, stained with old blood from his healed wounds, a visible reminder of every time I had cut him down.

  He flickered back into existence half a step slower than before.

  I struck again. Another cut. Another pulse of healing. Another flinch.

  His movements lost their grace, the once-effortless swaps turning frantic. Not because of wounds—the cage ensured that didn’t matter. But from panic.

  He couldn’t escape me. I was faster. I was stronger. And unlike him, I wasn’t trying to survive. I was trying to hurt him. It was only a matter of time.

  The wounds built up and then vanished. Again. Again. Again. Every time he reappeared, I was already there, forcing him back, giving him no room to think, to breathe, to fight. We continued.

  "Cant you see that you are going to lose?" His voice cracked, desperate. "I am just going to continue to heal and tire you out. Then I will strike. It’s over. Give up."

  Every word grated on me. He was a pampered buffoon, scrambling for control he had already lost, his voice the only thing he had left.

  But it wouldn’t save him.

  The cage healed his body, but it couldn’t erase pain. The suffering was still there, accumulating beneath the surface, layer upon layer, waiting for a final push.

  I activated Woundreaver’s unique skill. His body jerked violently.

  For a brief moment, nothing changed. His wounds were still gone. His posture still intact. But then he screamed.

  His back arched, fingers clawing at his own body as if he could rip the phantom wounds away. The cage hadn't reversed this. He wasn’t just remembering the pain—he was reliving it all at once.

  The slash across his ribs. The tear in his shoulder. The countless cuts, the burning sensation of flesh being torn open over and over again.

  His body thought it was happening now. His mind couldn’t tell the difference.

  He staggered, hands shaking, feet fumbling to stay beneath him. His illusions flickered, half-formed, unstable, useless. His control had snapped, and with it, his only means of escape.

  I Quickstepped forward and drove my pommel into his chest.

  The curved spike at its base punched through fabric and flesh, driving deep into his lung. His breath left him in a wet, choked wheeze, his body convulsing as he collapsed against the strike. His hands weakly grasped at my arm, not in resistance, but in shock.

  I pressed it in deeper, leaning close enough that he couldn’t look away.

  My voice was calm, steady, unshaken.

  "You still think you’re going to win?"

  Before he could choke out an answer, the cage exploded around us, its shimmering walls shattering into golden light that drifted down in slow, weightless spirals.

  Then something invisible wrapped around me.

  A force—gentle but unrelenting—lifted me off the ground, dragging me backward, away from my opponent. He was being pulled too, his limbs limp, his breath ragged, his uniform a shredded, bloodstained ruin. It felt exactly like when Alyssa had used that skill to move us before.

  The moderator stepped forward, his presence as unmoving and unreadable as ever and let go of us.

  "Party A wins." His voice was clipped, indifferent, a simple statement of fact.

  He turned his gaze to me, then gave a slight nod. "You will keep your points."

  The moment those words left his mouth, the crowd erupted into chatter. Not applause. There was no admiration in their voices, no recognition of skill. Just disbelief. I had done something unthinkable. Not only had I attacked a noble, but I had risked a thousand points just to prove a point, just to demonstrate my strength. It wasn’t a gamble anyone sane would make. Some whispered that I was reckless. Others, that I had been planning this from the start. No one could decide which was worse.

  One clap rang out.

  It struck through the noise like a hammer against iron, sharp and deliberate. The air itself seemed to twist, the space around me pulling inward, dense and suffocating. The crowd fell silent, as if the sound had stolen the breath from their lungs.

  Another clap followed. Slow. Measured. And with it, a presence descended.

  A figure emerged from the crowd, not stepping forward but becoming visible, as if he had always been there and only now allowed himself to be seen.

  Everything about him spoke of power earned, not gifted. His body was a testament to work, to hardship, to battles fought and won. He was neither young nor old, but something timeless, carved from endurance and experience. He did not radiate magic, yet his presence pressed into the world, turning the air heavy with unspoken force.

  The crowd buckled. Not just one or two—all of them. Knees hit the stone with dull thuds, heads bowed, bodies caving under a force that was not magic, not skill, but simply him.

  Everyone collapsed.

  Everyone except the moderator.

  And me.

  Not because I was strong enough to resist. But because he had chosen not to let me fall.

  His gaze settled on me, unreadable, weighing something I couldn’t see. He didn’t ask my name, didn’t comment on my fight, didn’t acknowledge the noble gasping on the ground behind me.

  His voice was calm, carrying no arrogance, no expectation, just certainty.

  "Join my class."