Ferir Hakken jolted awake, his shirt soaked through with sweat. He had just had a dream that was equal parts strange and terrifying.

  In the dream, his opponent in the Trial of Combat round suddenly transformed into Prince-Kevin-something-Alaskark. One moment, Ferir had been a candidate standing on the arena floor. The next, he somehow had become a dragon, wings beating as he rose into the sky.

  The prince’s refined sword techniques turned into a raging tempest. A single strike pierced straight through Ferir’s chest, and blood poured from the wound like a rushing spring.

  Even after waking, a dull ache lingered where the blade had struck in the dream.

  Ferir sat up on his rickety wooden bed, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and muttered to himself in an attempt at reassurance.

  “Come on… it can’t be that bad.”

  The sun had not fully risen yet, but the world was slowly taking shape beneath the first light of dawn. Before long, Hanarn would wake up and start questioning why her only son had been leaving early and returning late for so many days in a row. Ferir needed to slip out before that happened.

  Today was the third day of the Trial of Combat round of the Pre-Selection for the Ruler in the Realm of Light, and also its final day.

  Ferir splashed his face with water, changed into a more presentable set of clothes, tied his boots, and slipped out the door. The old wooden door let out a long, protesting creak, as if it were determined to wake the entire neighborhood.

  Ferir froze for three seconds, listening. Nothing happened. He then closed it anyway, producing another noise just as loud.

  The Main Road looked unusually spacious before merchants flooded it for the day.

  Ferir walked slowly, deliberately drawing in the crisp morning air to steady his nerves. But after a few deep breaths, he suddenly broke into a full sprint toward the Training Ground.

  Arvil was already standing before the arena’s massive red gates. In one hand he held Flame, in the other a bag containing Ferir’s armor.

  The moment Ferir appeared in front of him, panting like he had just outrun his own shadow, Arvil shook his head in open exasperation.

  “Are you planning to exhaust yourself before the match even starts?”

  Ferir shook his head while still wheezing for breath. Arvil gave his errand boy a few firm pats on the shoulder.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It will be fine. You’re the first disciple of Sword God Arvil, you know. Don’t you dare embarrass me out there.”

  Ferir shrugged, looking as though he had resigned himself to fate. Arvil clicked his tongue, shoved the sword and armor into his arms, and pushed his reluctant student toward the candidates’ tunnel.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  A table had been set at the foot of the stairs leading down, serving as the check-in point for all participants. This was where candidates presented their number tags.

  The tags were thin plates of a special metal distributed during the first round. They had been clearly warned that the metal would change color upon contact with a second person, which meant each candidate had to keep their own tag and hold it directly with bare hands at all times.

  Ferir’s number was 3271.

  The candidates had their entire belongings inspected before being allowed into the cellar.

  “Any equipment involving magical interference is strictly forbidden.” The inspector explained to Ferir. “Otherwise, you will not be able to escape the invisible wall erected by our mages and will be disqualified immediately,”

  Because of that, even though Ferir believed the powder he had concocted was essentially just herbal medicine, he still left it outside. He did not want to risk violating the rules.

  Contrary to what Ferir had imagined, the underground hall was surprisingly spacious and well lit.

  Rows of long benches were arranged with just enough distance between them to give each candidate room to prepare. Weapons of all kinds hung along three of the walls, provided for those who had been unable to bring their own.

  Around seventy candidates had been scheduled for this final day of trials, which meant nearly seventy walking bombs waiting to go off at any moment. Everyone was using the last scraps of time to tend to their weapons.

  Ferir did his best to move through the hall without brushing against anyone, as if he were carefully picking his way through a field buried with explosives.

  A short while later, a woman from the Grand Palace entered the underground hall and announced herself as the one responsible for explaining the rules.

  Her flat, measured voice echoed throughout the chamber, but very little of it reached Ferir’s ears. His mind kept replaying the images from the nightmare he had that morning, over and over again.

  When the woman finished outlining the regulations, she unfurled another parchment and began to read aloud.

  “The following are the first seven candidates to enter the arena: 2981, 3001, … Number 2981, please ready to go outside.”

  Not being on the first list, Ferir knew only this much.

  After completing the procedure, the woman signaled toward the outside. A few seconds later, the blaring call of horns shook the air, announcing the official start of the final day of trials.

  The first candidate to enter the arena was a young woman. She was trembling so badly that she dropped her sword three separate times within the short five-meter walk from her seat to the exit.

  Time crawled by as the first seven candidates were sent into the arena one after another.

  Every sound from above echoed clearly down into the underground hall, each clang and roar forming an invisible weight that pressed heavily on other candidates’ nerves.

  If a candidate passed the trial, they would return to this very hall. If not, then naturally, they would either be carried to the infirmary or sent packing for good.

  None of the first ten candidates came back.

  Waiting like this was pure torment. Ferir began to wish he could end this suffering as soon as possible.

  His wish came true instantly.

  “The next group of candidates includes 3271, 3285,...”

  The moment his number was called out, Ferir's heart sank.

  “3271, it's your turn. Are you ready?”

  Not at all!

  But he still tried to keep his voice from trembling too much:

  “I'm ready.”