“What the hell is he doing?” Renn whispered, leaning forward.
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
The situation on the stage was odd to say the least.
The five wolves were starting to hesitate.
Despite their numbers and speed, they couldn’t bring him down.
Worse, their instincts—finely honed from hunting weaker prey—were failing them. The boy didn’t move like prey. He didn’t even flinch.
Then came the strangest part.
He sat down.
Right there, in the middle of the arena, he sat cross-legged with his arms.
The arena was deathly quiet. The beasts growled, pacing around him, their ears flattened and fangs bared—but none lunged.
One stepped forward, snarled, and snapped its teeth—but the boy didn’t move.
Like this everyone waited as more people were disqualified from the stage and more wolves were killed.
Now all the attention fully shifted to the bear like youth and the five wolves.
Without a sound, the middle aged man appeared in the stage.
Following his appearance were five dead wolves.
The crowd grasp at the show of power.
The bear like youth however had a frown on his face but didn’t speak.
The middle aged man however didn’t seem like he was done.
“Why didn’t you kill the wolves when you easily could?”
The boy paused for a moment with a contemplative look on his face before responding.
“Village chief, don’t kill it you won’t eat.”
The sentence was broken.
“Excuse me?”
“Uga, not hungry, won’t eat.”
The conversation gave the middle aged man and headache but he couldn’t be bothered again.
“Whatever,” be dismissed with a wave of his hand as he addressed the youths, “if you’re still standing here, it means you passed, now let’s get ready for the next round.”
Everyone waited as more contestants were disqualified and more wolves were killed.
Gradually, all attention shifted to the bear-like youth and the five wolves surrounding him.
Without a sound, a middle-aged man appeared on the stage.
At the same time, the five wolves dropped dead.
The crowd gasped at the display of power.
The bear-like youth, however, frowned but said nothing.
The middle-aged man didn’t seem finished.
“Why didn’t you kill the wolves when you clearly could?”
The boy paused, a contemplative look on his face, before replying,
“Village chief… don’t kill, if not eating.”
The sentence was fragmented.
“Excuse me?”
“Uga not hungry. Won’t eat.”
The response gave the middle-aged man a headache, but he decided not to push it.
“Whatever,” he said, waving a hand dismissively before turning to the rest of the youths.
“If you’re still standing here, it means you passed. Now get ready for the next round.”
The next set of numbers were called.
“Number 204… 206… 207…”
Michael barely registered the voices—until he heard the last number.
Renn froze. His hand slowly drifted to the tag pinned to his chest. The color drained from his face.
“That’s… that’s me,” he whispered, barely audible over the quiet murmurs spreading through the crowd.
Then he turned to Michael, eyes wide and pitiful, like a man walking to the gallows. “If I don’t make it back, tell my mother I died bravely. And that I regret not kissing that baker’s daughter when I had the chance.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
Renn clutched his shoulder. “Also, if I die, and you survive, take care of my sword. But don’t give it to just anyone, alright? Make sure they have a cool name or at least nice hair.”
Michael’s expression didn’t shift.
“Not even a smirk? Nothing? Gods, you’re cold,” Renn sighed dramatically and made his way toward the arena with slumped shoulders like a man attending his own funeral.
Michael watched him go with cold eyes. He didn’t believe a word of the act.
It wasn’t just intuition—it was what he’d seen earlier when he’d activated Detect on Renn out of idle curiosity.
[Sword Cultivator – Level 25]
The moment he saw it, Michael’s wariness had been locked in.
The question wasn’t whether Renn would survive.
It was what he was doing here.
And why he’d chosen to befriend Michael specifically.
Was it a coincidence? Or on purpose?
Still, he said nothing.
Down below, the arena gates creaked open. The familiar low growls of wolves echoed across the open space.
The middle-aged man and the youth in red stepped back. Another trial was beginning.
Renn stood at the edge of the group, his shoulders still hunched, his wooden sword awkwardly dangling from his side like it didn’t belong to him.
A few others stepped forward to form teams, but Renn merely shuffled to the side, looking around nervously as though trying to find someone to hide behind.
The wolves pounced.
The first blood spilled within seconds as a youth was tackled and dragged. He screamed for disqualification. The blue-robed man appeared and whisked him away, but not before the wolf’s claws left four deep gashes across his leg.
The others scrambled to respond.
Renn, on the other hand, stood completely still.
A wolf noticed him.
It lunged—fast and low, teeth bared.
Renn flinched—then moved.
His sword was a blur. The wolf’s body hit the ground a moment later, cleaved cleanly through.
The entire arena froze.
Renn looked down at the corpse, blinked, and then rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Oh no,” he muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Beginner’s luck.”
Michael snorted.
That wasn’t luck.
The moment Renn felled the wolf, everything changed.
Several youths, panicked and desperate, turned their gazes toward him. Protection. That was what they needed—and Renn looked like the best bet.
At first, Renn looked like he might run too—his body tensed, his feet half-turning toward an escape route.
A girl stumbled into place beside him, her arms bleeding. Two others followed, dragging their injured friend. The wolves weren’t far behind. In fact, they led the beasts straight to him.
With a “determined” expression, Renn raised his wooden sword again.
The wolves snarled and charged, and Renn met them head-on.
One clean stroke. Two. Three.
Each wolf fell in a single, fluid motion.
The arena was dead silent.