NOVEL NEXT Chapter 10: The gathering storm
Chapter 10: The Gathering Storm
The trial continued to unfold like a grand spectacle, a battlefield where only the strongest would carve their names into history. Far above the chaos, within the enchanted observation hall, the nobility and scholars watched with calculating eyes. Their orbs displayed various combatants, each projection capturing moments of struggle, brilliance, and desperation.
The massive chamber hummed with subdued excitement. Arcane lanterns illuminated rows of plush seats, and hushed conversations mingled with the crackle of magical energy in the air. Some observers stood, leaning toward their orbs, while others lounged in ornate chairs, making quiet remarks to aides who scribbled down every noteworthy detail.
Below them, the battlefield stretched across shifting terrain. It was a realm forged by ancient sorcery, its landscapes constantly evolving—one moment a lush forest of towering trees, the next a barren desert of swirling sands. Jagged cliffs emerged where flat plains once lay, and rivers cut through land that had been dry minutes earlier. Each transformation posed new hazards, forcing participants to adapt or be consumed by the trial's relentless pace.
Several orbs displayed groups of recruits battling ravenous beasts or squaring off against each other. One scene showed a trio of combatants joining forces to fend off a giant arachnid whose venomous stinger glowed with arcane energy. Another orb revealed a lone fighter clashing with a swarm of smaller but cunning creatures, barely managing to hold them at bay with a rapidly depleting mana shield.
A middle-aged scholar with a neat beard tapped a quill against his notes. "It's fascinating to watch how they utilize mana. Some focus on long-range spells, others enhance their weapons or bodies, and a few try to blend both."
His companion, an elderly woman in flowing robes, nodded. "Yes, though many overestimate their abilities. The cost of overusing mana can be deadly."
At the far side of the observation hall, a group of nobles clustered around a particularly large orb. They observed a recruit attempting to navigate an area rife with illusions—phantasmal shapes flickered in and out of existence, disorienting him until he stumbled into a trap. A beast with glowing fangs pounced, ending his trial in a single, brutal strike.
"That region is merciless," muttered a nobleman, shaking his head. "Illusions, shifting ground, hidden predators… it's a wonder anyone makes it through."
A baroness beside him pursed her lips. "The academy outdid itself this year. They're pushing these recruits harder than ever."
On another orb, a lithe figure darted through a chaotic melee, weaving between two clashing warriors. A flash of steel, and both warriors dropped, their faces locked in stunned disbelief. The onlookers leaned closer, intrigued by this brief glimpse of a deadly combatant, but the orb flickered away, shifting its focus to another part of the battlefield.
Whispers spread among the watchers. Everyone was searching for signs of future champions, those who might become legends. Many believed they had already found one.
Toward the center of the hall, an older man in a crisp uniform cleared his throat. "Increase the feed on Projection Eleven. I want to see more of that silver-haired girl." An attendant hurried to comply, tapping arcane symbols floating in midair.
When the orb's view sharpened, hushed murmurs rippled through the crowd. The silver-haired girl stood on a rocky plateau, face devoid of emotion, eyes as cold as moonlight. Around her lay the bodies of several opponents—some still groaning, others entirely still. She stepped over them without a second glance.
She moved like a wraith, her blade an extension of her will. The moment an enemy crossed her path, they fell before they could react. Her presence was cold, distant, yet mesmerizing. The way she wielded her weapon was an art form—graceful, fluid, and terrifyingly efficient.
A scholar adjusted his monocle, eyes narrowing as he took notes. "She doesn't waste movements. Every strike is calculated. There's no hesitation."
A noblewoman tapped her fan against her lips. "More than just skill… she's ruthless. She doesn't fight for survival. She fights as if she's above them all."
A military commander leaned forward, his voice tinged with curiosity. "She's been trained for this. Her technique isn't natural—it's discipline. Who trained her?"
No one answered, but one thing was clear—she wasn't ordinary.