The morning sun rose over the capital, casting a harsh, crimson glare upon the towering obsidian walls of the Grand Colosseum.
Built centuries ago to commemorate the unification of the human realms, the Colosseum was an enormous, multi-tiered amphitheater capable of holding over fifty thousand spectators.
Today, every tier was packed to capacity.
Banners representing the major ducal houses, foreign royal families, and high-tier merchant guilds fluttered in the dry morning wind.
Down below, on the vast floor of sandy red earth, three hundred candidates stood in silent, tense clusters.
The transition from the grand marble atrium to the open arena felt like stepping directly into a slaughterhouse.
The sand beneath Wralq’s worn boots was stained with dark, concentric circles—the dried remnants of blood spilled by generations of gladiators, beasts, and desperate examinees.
Near the center of the arena floor, Princess Lehih stood flanked by her personal retainers.
Her dark blue hair was bound neatly behind her head, and her posture remained as immaculate as ever.
Not far from her, First Princess Eleanor of the Norden Kingdom adjusted the leather straps of her broadsword, her cold grey eyes scanning the crowd with hungry, predatory intensity.
Wralq maintained his position near the shadow of the eastern perimeter wall.
His dark coat was pulled tight around his shoulders, his hands resting casually inside his pockets.
Beneath his dark fringe, his violet eyes silently observed the terrain.
Deep within his consciousness, Mammon sighed with heavy, ancient amusement.
“Fifty thousand cattle shouting for blood,” Mammon purred, his voice coiling around Wralq’s spiritual core like a serpent.
“Look at them in the stands, clutching their wine cups and betting on children.
Human nature never changes, whether in a palace or a pigsty.” “Let them watch,” Wralq thought back, his inner voice level and cold.
“Crowds are easily blinded by flash and noise.
The more spectacle they demand, the easier it is to hide what matters.” A deafening horn sounded from the high imperial box.
Senior Archmage Vane stepped to the stone edge, his dark crimson robes catching the wind.
Beside him, four high-ranking army generals sat in armored silence, their sharp eyes locked onto the three hundred survivors below.
“Candidates of the Royal Academy,” Vane’s voice thundered, amplified by massive sonic runes embedded into the Colosseum’s structural pillars.
“You have cleared the wilderness.
You have survived the tribunal.
Now, you stand upon the sands of execution.
This is the Final Stage: The Survival Harvest.” Vane raised his silver staff, pointing it down toward the center of the arena.
“There are no one-on-one duels today.
There are no orderly rings.
The three hundred of you will be confined within this arena for three hours.
Upon your chests, you each carry a iron core badge—the proof of your status as an examinee.” A collective murmur ripple through the candidates as several youths reached up to touch the heavy, circular iron badges pinned over their left breasts.
“To secure a passing rank and gain entry into the Royal Academy, you must present at least five badges when the final horn sounds,” Vane announced coldly.
“That means only fifty candidates out of three hundred will survive this stage.
You may use any spell, any blade, and any tactic.
The magic barriers surrounding the perimeter will prevent lethal strikes to vital organs, but pain, crippling injury, and total defeat are entirely up to you.
Begin.” Before the echo of the horn had fully faded, the quiet tension in the arena shattered into absolute chaos.
In the central clearing, small cliques of noble candidates immediately pulled their weapons, forming defensive circles around their house heirs.
Commoners and independent mages who had cleared the forest alone scrambled backward toward the walls, desperately searching for cover in an arena with nowhere to hide.
“Five badges,” Mammon noted smoothly.
“Four targets for you to strip.
A simple arithmetic problem.” “Not simple,” Wralq corrected internally as he shifted his weight subtly onto the balls of his feet.
“Everyone is looking for weak targets right now.
The noble groups will sweep the perimeter first to clear out the commoners before turning on each other.” As if validating his analysis, a group of four young mages in matching silver-trimmed tunics detached themselves from the central crowd.
They were lower-tier noble heirs belonging to House Vance—the retainers of Lord Reginald, who had been publicly humiliated during the Academic Tribunal.
Their eyes swept across the eastern wall, instantly locking onto Wralq’s isolated figure.
“Look at that,” the lead youth sneered, unsheathing a long steel rapier infused with wind mana.
“It is the bookworm from the tribunal.
The one who liked quoting logistics manuals.” “He has no family house backing him, no guard squad, and no high-tier mana aura,” another youth added, drawing two curved daggers.
“Take his badge first.
It will be easier than fighting the Norden northern vanguard.” Wralq did not move.
He did not draw his weapon, nor did he assume a martial stance.
He simply stood against the sun-baked stone wall, his dark eyes watching the four youths advance in a loose, arrogant semicircle.
“They think you are a clerk who read too many books, Wralq,” Mammon laughed, his dark presence purring with anticipation.
“Will you allow them to keep their teeth?” “Only enough to answer my questions,” Wralq replied, his expression remaining entirely blank as the four noble mages closed the distance.