Chapter 50: The Second Trial

Chapter 50: Chapter 50: The Second Trial

Eric headed straight back to Elm Street, his mind humming with quiet focus.

The house was calm and empty, with Emily still working her afternoon shift at the neighborhood diner. Dropping his shoulder pack onto the entryway bench, he summoned Coal into the living room, and the two headed directly through the back door into the yard.

The practical trial loomed tomorrow morning, and one critical threshold sat tantalizingly within reach: *Advanced Swordsmanship*.

He had spent weeks drilling the forms, parrying in the jagged limestone passes of the Parva Mountains, and feeling the precise weight distribution of the Wavecaller. His comprehension had been hovering at the absolute edge of the Entry tier for days, begging for the final breakthrough.

*I’m right on the boundary,* Eric thought, drawing a blunt iron practice blade from the wooden equipment shed. *One clean breakthrough before tomorrow will make all the difference when trading blows with elite examinees.*

He settled into a grounded, low-center stance, the packed soil firm beneath his boots, and began.

Thrust. Pivot. Horizontal cleave. Fluid recovery into an ascending diagonal slash.

For five unbroken hours under the blazing afternoon sun, Eric drilled relentlessly. Sweat soaked his cotton training shirt, but his eyes never wavered from the trajectory of the iron blade. He repeated the forms hundreds of times, honing the transition between his footwork and edge alignment, cutting away every wasted microsecond of kinetic momentum.

Then, halfway through an evasive backstep into an ascending counter-cut, something clicked.

The edge of the practice blade sliced the air without the slightest turbulence, producing a crisp, clean hum that resonated deep into his wrist bone. The movement was no longer a calculated series of memorized motions, it was pure, instinctive muscle memory.

Eric froze in his finishing stance, breathing steadily through his nose.

He called up his interface:

│ STATUS PANEL

│

│ Name: Eric

│ Race: Human

│ Cultivation Stage: Soldier

│ Level: 1 (1%)

│ Talent: Appraisal (Rank D), Skill Comprehension (Rank C)

│ Skills:

│ - Shadow Steps (Rank D) [Mastery: Minor]

│ - Advanced Swordsmanship (Rank D) [Mastery: Minor]

│ Contracted Beast: 1/2

"Minor mastery," Eric breathed, a wide, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Finally."

He tossed the blunt iron blade onto the training rack and rolled his shoulders. A cold shower washed away the grime and salt of five grueling hours, leaving him completely refreshed just as the front latch clicked open downstairs.

"Eric? You’re back early," Emily called out, hanging her coat by the door. "How was the written paper?"

"It went well, Sis," Eric smiled, leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of water. "Today was purely theoretical. The practical trials start tomorrow morning."

"I knew you’d do great," Emily said, her expression softening with genuine warmth. "Just stay safe out there tomorrow, okay? Win or lose, all of us back here are already proud of you."

"Thanks, Sis. I’ll make it count."

***

The next morning, the sky hung pale and crisp over Riverdale.

Eric stood before his attic mirror, securing the midnight-black clasps of his enchanted shadow-drake leather armor. He strapped the sleek boots tight, pulled the fitted gloves over his knuckles, and locked the scabbard of the Wavecaller firmly against his left hip. With the dark hood pulled back over his shoulders, he looked sharp, composed, and lethal.

"Time to work, Coal," Eric muttered, stepping out into the brisk morning air.

When he arrived at the District Testing Grounds, the atmosphere was thick with suffocating tension.

Over five hundred young tamers packed the staging plaza, an ocean of drawn steel, polished plate, leather armaments, and anxious murmurs. Contracted beasts of all shapes, sizes, and elements, from armored fire hounds to venomous wind serpents, prowled nervously alongside their masters.

A piercing brass horn blasted across the plaza, instantly drowning out the chatter.

A senior proctor clad in heavy military battle-dress stepped onto the raised iron dais, his voice amplified across the courtyard by a booming mana array.

"Attention, examinees! The practical selection trial commences in exactly thirty minutes."

The proctor’s stern gaze swept across the crowd like cold iron.

"You will be teleported into a massive, closed artificial rift zone. This rift is synchronized and shared across every testing pavilion in the entire country of Auremont. Every regional entrance in every city opens directly into this single, continuous combat expanse. Inside, you will hunt to earn your standing."

He raised a thick black band wrapped in runic circuits.

"This zone contains exclusively Soldier-rank demonic beasts, spanning from Level 1 all the way to Level 10. A Level 1 kill awards 1 point. A Level 10 kill awards 10 points. The specialized trial smartband distributed to you now will track your personal mana signatures and record your kills in real time."

A murmur of nervous dread rippled through the gathering, but the proctor wasn’t finished.

"Be warned: this is an open competitive arena. Defeating another examinee will siphon fifty percent of their accumulated points directly to your tally. Plundering is fully authorized."

A cold shudder ran through the crowd, but the proctor raised a gauntleted hand, cutting off the panic.

"However, lethal strikes against fellow candidates are strictly prohibited. The emergency displacement wards woven into your trial bands will forcefully eject anyone who sustains fatal trauma, disqualifying the victim and permanently revoking the offender’s testing license for life."

The officer bared his teeth in a cold, humorless grin.

"You have twenty minutes to sync your bands and check your weapons. Prepare yourselves, examinees. You are about to step straight into the crucible."