Night had settled fully over the training ground.
Torches burned in tall iron brackets, their flames bending and straightening in the restless wind. Shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floor, overlapping like blades laid side by side.
The one hundred who had entered Phase Three were no longer one hundred.
They were ten.
Ten who had returned first.
Ten who had placed proof upon the long wooden table beneath the instructor's cold gaze.
Gavrilo Russell stood among them, coat still faintly damp at the hem, water marks drying slowly against black fabric. His cap cast a shadow over his eyes, and the mask covering his lower face hid any trace of breath or fatigue.
He did not look at the others.
But he felt them.
Nine distinct presences.
Nine ambitions sharpened by success.
The instructor stepped forward, boots echoing against stone. Behind him stood two officers holding a ledger and a metal chest containing the returned mission tokens.
The instructor unfolded a parchment.
His voice carried clearly.
"Cyran Valeth."
A tall figure stepped forward, robe moving in a smooth arc as he inclined his head.
"Elira Dawnfell."
The archer girl from earlier, shoulders squared, eyes steady.
"Kael Draven."
"Mira Solenne."
"Darius Holt."
"Riven Ash."
"Torin Veld."
"Seren Vale."
"Garrick Thorne."
And finally—
"Gavrilo Russell."
Ten names.
Ten shadows stepping forward into torchlight.
Behind them, the remaining ninety stood in rigid silence.
Some with admiration.
Some with envy.
Some with resentment already budding in their eyes.
The instructor let the silence stretch before speaking again.
"Congratulations."
His tone did not soften.
"You have not only passed Phase Three as top performers…"
"…you have skipped years of struggle."
A faint murmur rippled across the field.
"You ten are qualified to be captains of any unit."
This time, the reaction was louder.
Captain.
The word carried weight.
Within the Mercenary Alliance there were fifty mercenary guilds formally registered under its northern branch alone. Beyond those were administrative guilds—logistics, transport, information, artifact processing—but those did not count in combat hierarchy.
A normal guild under the Alliance housed between two hundred and three hundred mercenaries.
And in a guild of three hundred—
There were roughly six captains.
Six.
Each commanding a unit of approximately fifty.
Fifty lives under a single voice.
Six units forming a guild.
Fifty guilds forming the Alliance.
The structure rose like a military lattice woven into the northern territories.
To become captain immediately—
Was to bypass the grind of years.
The endless escort missions.
The hazardous border patrols.
The slow accumulation of merit.
It was not promotion.
It was acceleration.
The instructor continued.
"You will receive proposals from guilds under the Mercenary Alliance."
"Each guild will seek to recruit you."
"Your rank will begin at captain-level authority."
Several among the ten shifted subtly.
Garrick's jaw tightened.
Torin's fingers flexed unconsciously.
Elira's eyes flickered once toward the remaining ninety.
Ambition was no longer abstract.
It had shape.
Form.
Authority.
Gavrilo remained still.
Inside, calculation moved quietly.
Captain meant manpower.
Information flow.
Operational access.
And proximity to power.
It was more than rank.
It was infrastructure.
The instructor opened his mouth to conclude—
But an officer approached quickly from the side platform.
He leaned in close and whispered something into the instructor's ear.
The instructor's expression did not change visibly.
But something in the air shifted.
He straightened slowly.
"Well," he said evenly, voice cutting across the murmurs, "it appears the ten of you are lucky."
He paused.
"Or perhaps very lucky."
The wind picked up slightly, torch flames flickering higher.
"I have received word from higher command."
The field grew silent again.
"They wish to know…"
"…which among you is strongest."
A pulse of tension rolled outward like a silent shockwave.
The instructor continued calmly.
"For this purpose, we will hold a hunt."
Several brows furrowed.
"A hunt of monsters."
Some among the ten exchanged glances.
A hunt.
Simple.
Direct.
The instructor's gaze hardened.
"You will be given a single mission."
"All ten of you."
"You will travel to the jungle outskirts north of Cetadel."
"A beast has attacked one of our outposts."
He let the words hang.
"It depends on how you fight."
"But whoever kills the most…"
"…will be top performer."
The murmurs returned instantly.
"Isn't that easy?"
"It's like Phase Three."
"Just kill and return."
Someone laughed quietly.
Confidence.
Misjudgment.
The instructor raised his hand.
Silence returned immediately.
"Do not assume it will be the same as Phase Three."
His voice dropped lower.
"And do not assume it will be easy."
The torchlight reflected sharply in his eyes.
"This is a monster hunt."
He stepped closer to the ten.
"In contrast…"
"When you truly begin this mission…"
"…you will wish to drop it."
The words were not dramatic.
They were factual.
And that made them heavier.
A chill passed through several among the ten.
Seren's lips parted slightly.
Torin swallowed once.
Even Garrick's posture shifted.
Gavrilo's gaze did not move.
But inside—
His mind sharpened.
A beast that attacked an outpost.
Not a singular wolf.
Not a minor infestation.
An outpost implied stationed personnel.
Defensive measures.
Trained mercenaries.
If a single beast overwhelmed them—
It was not ordinary.
And the objective was not to slay it first.
But to slay the most.
Which meant—
There were likely multiple creatures.
A nest.
A swarm.
Or something worse.
The instructor stepped back.
"You leave at dawn."
"No interference from the remaining ninety."
"This hunt will determine the highest among you."
The wind carried faint scents from beyond city walls—earth, wet leaves, distant forest.
The jungle north of Cetadel was not cultivated land.
It was thick.
Ancient.
Untamed.
Where fog lingered between trees even at noon.
Where predators moved without sound.
And now—
Something within it had attacked an outpost.
The instructor dismissed the assembly.
The remaining ninety were escorted away in structured lines.
The ten remained briefly.
Under torchlight.
Under expectation.
Under the weight of imminent violence.
Cyran's voice broke the silence softly.
"A hunt to test individual lethality."
Garrick snorted lightly.
"Then I suppose we see who bleeds last."
Elira's gaze turned toward the northern horizon.
"We should assume ambush."
Torin rolled his shoulders.
"Or worse."
Gavrilo spoke for the first time.
"It is not a duel."
Nine pairs of eyes shifted toward him.
"It is a battlefield."
He adjusted his gloves slightly.
"If it were a simple beast…"
"…they would not escalate this."
No one disagreed.
The torches hissed as wind rose again.
Night deepened.
Above them, the moon climbed higher—silver and indifferent.
The title of captain had already been granted.
But supremacy among captains—
Was still contested.
And supremacy within the Mercenary Alliance—
Was not decided by parchment.
It was decided by blood.
The ten dispersed slowly into the night.
Some toward inns.
Some toward training grounds.
Some alone.
Some silent.
Each mind calculating.
Each ego sharpening.
The jungle awaited.
The outpost stood wounded somewhere beyond the northern walls.
And whatever had attacked it—
Was strong enough to earn the instructor's warning.
"When you truly begin…"
"…you will wish to drop it."
Those words echoed faintly within Gavrilo's thoughts as he walked beneath lantern-lit streets.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
But recognition.
This would not be a contest of speed.
Nor a contest of clever routing.
It would be raw.
Unfiltered.
Monstrous.
He lifted his eyes briefly toward the dark silhouette of forest beyond the distant walls.
Green irises reflecting faint moonlight.
"Good," he murmured under his breath.
Because the higher the risk—
The clearer the hierarchy.
And if supremacy must be carved—
It would be carved in the jungle at dawn.
Ten captains.
One apex.
And something waiting in the trees—
Ready to make them regret stepping forward.