A tense silence followed the middle-aged man’s announcement.
No one moved at first.
But then—one boy stumbled forward. He was missing most of his sleeve.
The middle aged man had casted healing magic on all the participants showing his occupation as an healer.
But either he was unable to rejoin limbs or couldn’t be bothered, those who lost it remained that way.
The boy’s lips trembled, and though he tried to hold back, the words slipped out.
“I… I can’t do this.”
No one stopped him as he limped toward the exit.
That opened the floodgates.
Three more followed.
One by one, more participants left the arena, their faces a mixture of fear, shame, and bitter acceptance.
Some had even passed the trial—technically. But passing meant little if your spirit was broken.
Even those who had successfully slain their wolves weren’t immune to the atmosphere. Blood had been spilled. Bones had snapped.
They’d all signed up for a competition, but now it felt more like a war.
Half of them had come here to test their luck. A chance at glory, riches, or even the duke’s daughter.
But witnessing firsthand that failure didn’t just mean losing—it meant potentially dying—changed everything.
Michael watched with quiet detachment as more figures disappeared.
Each one thinned the crowd further. Soon, the arena felt too large for those who remained.
Eventually, the exodus slowed. Then stopped.
Renn sat beside Michael.
He muttered, barely loud enough for Michael to hear, “I wonder… how many of us are even left now.”
Michael didn’t answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the arena.
Renn didn’t press further.
Silence hung between them.
As before, the middle-aged man and the youth in red robes stepped into the arena once again, their expressions calm, professional—detached.
The youth held a scroll and a quill, while the older man began moving from participant to participant, asking for their number tags and recording them.
Each time a number was read aloud, the youth scribbled it down.
Soon, another total came out.
432.
The middle aged man in blue robes spoke again, his voice carrying over the arena. “Assuming no one else runs away, you all will be divided into four groups in the next four rounds.”
He paused. “One hundred from each group will participate. And the last people standing, together with the remaining thirty-two, will advance to the next round.”
“Also don’t think that only the trail will be difficult as the other ones will not be any easier. Passing this is a rough way to determine your strength and the method is very loose as some of you might not even have the required strength.”
“If you know you’re not up for it, you’re free to leave.”
Yet another attempt to reduce numbers.
Michael turned to observe his surroundings but unlike the previous times, though some people’s faces were pale, it didn’t look like there would be anybody leaving from the man’s words.
This should indeed be the final round.
“Next batch. Number 117…”
Another hundred.
Michael didn’t feel anything.
Renn looked at his own tag and grinned.
“Not us again,” Renn muttered, leaning back with a smug sigh. “Luck’s still on our side.”
Michael nodded slightly, his gaze drifting back to the fresh group assembling below.
Among the newly called, one figure immediately stood out.
He was massive—easily two heads taller than the others. His shoulders were broad enough to make a doorframe nervous, and every inch of him bulged with tightly packed muscle.
But the oddest thing was his face: round, soft, and almost childlike, with wide brown eyes and a nose that looked like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of his body.
It was a jarring contrast.
“Look at that guy,” Renn whispered, letting out a low whistle. “He looks like a bear… with a baby’s face. But I’d bet he hits like a cart full of bricks.”
Michael didn’t reply, though he agreed.
The youth radiated power—but Michael didn’t believe in judging strength by appearance.
Still… that one might be worth watching.
The arena grew quiet again as the middle-aged man signaled the start.
The gates in the arena creaked open once more.
This time, it was another batch of wolves.
“Did they capture a whole pack or something?” Renn muttered beside Michael.
Michael didn’t respond, though he had the same thought.
Perhaps because of the earlier experience with the first hundred participants, ten teams had already formed among the strongest-looking individuals even before the wolves appeared.
However, numbers meant little in the face of true strength.
Those lacking power were quickly exposed—but surprisingly, no blood was spilled this time.
Whenever someone was on the verge of injury, they immediately screamed their intent to be disqualified, forcing the middle-aged man in blue to rush in and remove them.
But none of that truly held Michael’s attention.
And it seemed the same for most of the arena.
Their focus was drawn elsewhere—to a bear-like youth standing alone.
He was currently facing five intermediate-rank wolves on his own.
It appeared the wolves had identified him as the biggest threat, and a significant number had zeroed in on him.
Normally, monsters at the same rank were stronger than humans.
Yet now, the five wolves couldn’t even touch him.
They lunged and snapped, but the youth moved with uncanny strength and ease, almost playfully swatting them aside.
He didn’t even seem to be trying to hurt them—just enduring.
And from the looks of it, he intended to last the full ten minutes required to advance to the next trial.
The youth stood still and didn’t dodge.
He let the wolves come, their fangs bared and claws flashing, and he simply took it.
One lunged for his neck.
He caught it mid-air by the scruff and slammed it into the ground.
Another clamped its jaws around his forearm, and though blood welled up, he didn’t flinch.
He lifted his arm—wolf still hanging—and swung it into another oncoming attacker like a living flail.
A gasp rippled through the watching crowd. Even the officials paused.
