The Grand Trial had become a meat grinder. Of the initial 104 entrants who had stepped into the Arena Trials, only thirteen remained. The rest—ninety-one souls—had been relegated to the Losers' Bracket, their dreams of the championship extinguished.
As the fourth round loomed, the traditional seeding rules were tossed aside in favor of a fresh draw. With thirteen players, one lucky bastard would receive a Bye Draw, advancing automatically without throwing a single punch.
When the name was announced, a heavy silence fell over the arena, followed by a collective, visceral sigh of relief.
Ethan Lyle.
In any other year, the crowd would have hissed at such a blatant stroke of luck. But today? The other twelve contestants looked like death-row inmates who had just received a one-day stay of execution. To draw Ethan Lyle was to book a one-way ticket to the Losers' Bracket. His absence from the fourth round wasn't a stroke of luck for him—it was a mercy for everyone else.
With the "monster" sidelined, the remaining match-ups were finalized. Most were unremarkable, but one pairing sent a jolt of electricity through the stands.
Dorian Cross versus Garrett Holt.
Two SSS-rank titans. Two apex predators finally forced into the same cage.
The atmosphere turned suffocating as two proctors took their places on the platform—a silent acknowledgment that this fight would likely exceed the safety limits of a single official.
"Candidates, center circle," the lead proctor commanded. "No movement until the signal. Display your status."
Two holographic interfaces flared to life, casting a neon glow over the stone.
[Dorian Cross | Shadow Dragon Lancer | Level 14]
[Garrett Holt | Prismatic Edge | Level 13]
The crowd breathed in sharply. Levels 14 and 13. In any other era of Verdant City’s history, these two would be the undisputed suns around which the trial orbited. Only the shadow of Ethan Lyle made them look like mere mortals.
Garrett's hands blurred, twin daggers appearing in a reverse grip. The steel hummed with a sickly, frost-blue light. "Looks like your run ends here, Cross. Enjoy the Losers' Bracket."
Dorian didn't waste breath on a retort. He slammed the butt of his black lance into the floor. The impact wasn't just loud; a physical shockwave rippled through the reinforced stone, vibrating up the legs of everyone in the front row. It was a terrifying display of raw, kinetic strength.
"You’re not enough to stop me," Dorian said, his gaze dismissive.
Garrett’s eyes narrowed into slits. An Assassin-type facing a frontline Juggernaut was a nightmare match-up, but there was no backing down now.
"Begin!"
Garrett vanished.
He didn’t just move fast; he became a ghost of refracted light. As a Prismatic Edge, his speed was a blur of lethal geometry. But Dorian’s eyes turned predatory. He spun his lance in a blinding whirlwind, the black shaft whistling through the air.
Clang! Ting! Sparks flew.
To the spectators, it looked like Dorian was performing a solo kata against the air. In reality, he was parrying a dozen killing blows a second.
"Is this even real?" a student whispered, eyes wide. "I can’t even see Holt. If I were up there, I’d be dead before I could blink."
Up in the VIP box, Chief Examiner Roland Marsh turned to Serena Sutton. "Any thoughts, Sutton? Holt’s got him pinned down. Cross can’t even find an opening to breathe."
Serena didn't blink. her gaze was fixed on the rhythmic, almost bored movement of Dorian’s lance. "Holt has already lost."
Marsh raised an eyebrow. "Lost? He’s dominating the tempo."
"He’s burning his candle at both ends," Serena countered. "Dorian isn't 'pinned down.' He's conserving. He’s using the superior reach and durability of his weapon to let Holt tire himself out. The moment Holt’s stamina dips, Cross will end it in one move."
As if on cue, Garrett’s flickering movements slowed—a micro-stutter, barely a fraction of a second.
It was all Dorian needed.
The Shadow Dragon Lancer erupted. His lance transformed into a flurry of black stabs, a cage of steel that hemmed Garrett in. The Assassin tried to pivot, but the reach of the polearm was absolute.
"Shadow Pile Driver!"
Dorian didn't thrust. He gripped the very end of his lance and swung it like a celestial hammer. The heavy weapon descended with the weight of a falling mountain. Garrett raised his daggers in a desperate X-block.
CRACK.
The sound of shattering bone echoed through the silent arena. Garrett was driven into the dirt, his knees hitting the stone with sickening force.
"AGH!"
A scream of pure agony ripped from Garrett's throat as he curled into a ball, clutching his shattered leg. The medics were on the stage before Dorian had even shouldered his weapon. He walked off the platform without a backward glance.
The fourth round was over. Seven remained.
Ethan Lyle stood before the drawing box for the fifth round, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"No way," he muttered, reaching in. His fingers brushed a sphere. His gut told him exactly what it was. He pulled it out anyway.
Roland Marsh looked at the ball, then at Ethan, then back at the ball. He cleared his throat, sounding slightly bewildered. "Candidate Ethan Lyle... Fifth Round: Bye Draw."
The stadium went silent. Then, the internet exploded.
The "God of the Draw" had arrived. Ethan had reached the Final Four without having to unsheathe his weapon once in the last two rounds.
"Man, that luck is disgusting," Kieran Ji laughed, slapping Ethan on the shoulder.
"If you want it so bad, take it," Ethan joked, though his eyes remained sharp. "But remember, a Bye Draw means zero points. I'm stuck at 130. If I want that Perfect Score of 150, I have to win the semi-finals and the championship. No more free rides."
"Who’d you get?" Ethan asked, nodding toward the bracket.
Kieran’s grin turned mischievous. "Take a guess."
Ethan sighed. "Nira Ashford?"
"Bingo. Time to see if the Fire Queen can handle the shade."
Ethan’s expression darkened slightly. "She’s dangerous, Kieran. Don't let your ego get you killed. If it gets too hairy, forfeit. You've already secured enough points for a top-tier academy."
"Forfeit? And let that arrogant girl keep talking trash about you?" Kieran tightened his grip on his sword hilt. "Not a chance. I’m giving her a taste of reality."
As the proctors called the fifth round, the crowd shifted their focus to the most lopsided—yet intriguing—match of the day.
[Nira Ashford | Pyromage | Level 14]
[Kieran Ji | Shadowblade Duelist | Level 15]
The level gap caused a murmur of confusion. An A-rank Shadowblade Duelist at Level 15? It shouldn't have been possible.
"He’s a coattail rider," someone hissed in the stands. "I saw them in the Rift. Ethan Lyle would beat monsters into a pulp and let this kid take the final hit. His level is a total sham."
On the stage, Nira Ashford stared at Kieran with pure, unadulterated coldness. She clutched The Infernal Codex, her knuckles white.
"I don't get it, Kieran," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "What kind of spell did Ethan cast on you? You follow him around like a stray dog. Have you no shame?"
Kieran drew his blade, the steel shimmering with a dark, oily luster. "You wouldn't understand. He’s my captain. Period."
"You’ll regret tying your fate to a fraud," Nira replied, opening her book.
"Begin!"
Nira didn't hesitate. "Phoenix Burst!"
The Codex flared. A dozen spheres of roaring white-hot flame erupted around her, hurtling toward Kieran. The temperature in the arena spiked instantly, the air shimmering with heat haze.
Kieran moved. He wasn't a phantom like Garrett, but he was fluid. He danced through the gaps in the fire, the soles of his boots smoldering as he skimmed the edges of the explosions.
"How long can you run?" Nira asked calmly. She flipped a page. The stray flames coalesced into a massive, solid wall of fire that swept across the entire stage.
There was nowhere to dodge.
Kieran gritted his teeth. He felt the singe on his skin. "Sword Art: Cleave!"
He poured every ounce of his Level 15 stats into a single vertical arc. The sword-light collided with the fire, momentarily tearing a seam in the inferno. Kieran lunged through the gap, his clothes smoking, his eyes locked on the mage.
He was a Shadowblade. His only chance was to close the distance.
Nira watched him approach, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips. She didn't retreat. She didn't panic. As Kieran got within striking distance, her hair began to lift, caught in an upward draft of pure mana.
The Infernal Codex flipped its pages at terminal velocity.
"Crimson Inferno."