Julian half-carried, half-dragged me through the arched corridors until the space opened—
And the Grand Arena of Emberheaven unfolded before us.
The structure was colossal. Tiered marble stands circled a vast central platform engraved with blazing sigils that pulsed faintly like a living heartbeat. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered high above, bearing the crest of the Fire Kingdom.
The public had been allowed inside.
Merchants, nobles, families, aspiring knights who had failed previous years—everyone filled the stands. Their chatter rolled like distant thunder.
Near the lower stands, I spotted the academy receptionist speaking with Lady Evelyn. The receptionist seemed animated; Evelyn remained composed, hands folded behind her back.
Julian adjusted his grip on me. "You still alive?"
"Unfortunately," I muttered.
He grinned.
On the eastern side of the arena stood a small group dressed in immaculate, high-born attire—deep fabrics, silver embroidery, subtle jewelry that screamed old money without shouting.
Ceilian stood among them.
Rose too.
Greg slightly behind but clearly within their circle.
They looked as though they already belonged to that world.
On another side stood a second cluster—well dressed, elegant, but less ostentatious. Refined without arrogance.
Sylvia was there.
She stood straight, composed, speaking quietly to an older couple who must have been her parents.
Then there was… our section.
Louder.
Less polished.
Students shifting nervously. Families waving wildly from the stands. A few friends arguing loudly over who would get chosen first.
Julian and I stood slightly apart.
Maybe because of the bandage around my torso.
Maybe because of the dried blood at the corner of my lip.
Or maybe because we simply did not quite fit anywhere.
"You know," Julian said, glancing at the noble section, "we could pretend we belong there."
"With what?" I replied. "Your ice sculpture talent?"
He gasped. "It was art."
Before I could respond, a strange stillness prickled across my skin.
At the far corner of the arena stood someone else.
Not merely well dressed.
Extraordinary.
His attire was unlike the others—layers of dark fabric threaded with faint golden lines that seemed to shimmer subtly even without light touching them. The air around him felt… heavier.
Attendants stood at a respectful distance behind him.
No one approached him casually.
Even nobles gave him space.
He did not cheer.
He did not speak.
He simply watched.
And something about him told me—
Do not interfere.
Do not approach.
Do not exist too loudly near him.
I looked away first.
I knew I would never cross paths with someone like that.
We lived in different worlds.
The crowd suddenly erupted.
Cheers surged through the arena like wildfire.
Our attention snapped toward the main platform.
Eight figures entered from the grand stairway above.
And with them—
The crooked old man from before.
The Academy Head.
The Eight took their seats in a semi-circle of elevated thrones carved from enchanted stone, each engraved with a unique emblem. Their presence alone altered the atmosphere of the arena.
It felt smaller.
Denser.
More serious.
Lady Evelyn ascended the steps and joined them briefly. The old man leaned slightly toward her, whispering something.
She nodded once.
Then stepped forward to the edge of the platform.
Her voice, amplified by magic, echoed across the entire arena.
"With the approval of the Academy Head…"
The crowd quieted almost instantly.
"The final selection will begin."
A ripple of anticipation swept through the stands.
"The Eight Legendary Magic Knights of our great Kingdom will, one by one, select students."
The Eight remained seated, silent, unreadable.
"There is no limit to how many they may choose."
A pause.
"But understand this…"
Her eyes swept across all of us.
"It does not mean all of you will become their pupils."
The weight of those words settled heavily in my chest.
This was it.
Not the mana test.
Not the control trial.
Not even the battle.
This moment would decide everything.
Beside me, Julian rolled his shoulders.
"Well," he whispered, "time to see whose life changes today."
I clenched my fist quietly.
In the distance, the extraordinary man in the corner remained still.
Watching.
Waiting.
The first of the Eight rose slowly from his throne.
A brooding, middle aged man with hollow, deadened eyes.
He did not walk down the steps.
He descended riding a massive sheep-like beast—its wool thick and dark, its curved horns jagged, and its hooves ending not in soft splits… but in sharp black claws that scraped against the stone with a grating sound.
The arena fell into uneasy silence.
The creature's breath misted cold into the air.
He nodded once to Lady Evelyn before dismounting fluidly.
When his boots touched the stage, the temperature around him seemed to drop slightly.
His voice was deep. Dry.
"I am Broody Bloodhand."
A faint murmur rippled through the crowd at the name.
"I specialize in Blood Magic… and Ice Magic."
Thin frost crawled subtly across the edge of the stage beneath his feet before fading.
His dead eyes scanned the applicants one by one.
They paused.
On Julian.
"Julian Dave."
Julian straightened instinctively.
"Your skills in Ice Magic are commendable."
A brief silence.
"I choose you as my first disciple."
The arena stirred.
This was quick.
Direct.
An honor.
Julian blinked.
Then his face slowly twisted.
The color drained from it as if someone had siphoned the warmth from his blood.
He shook his head dramatically.
"Nooo."
The single word echoed far louder than it should have.
A collective gasp swept the arena.
Broody Bloodhand stared at him.
Expression unchanged.
Julian continued shaking his head left and right like a child refusing medicine.
"With respect, Ser… I prefer not to freeze my emotions and my future at the same time."
The sheep snorted loudly.
Somewhere in the stands, someone choked on laughter.
Broody closed his eyes briefly.
A long, tired sigh escaped him.
"Fine."
He did not argue.
Did not threaten.
Did not insist.
His gaze shifted.
It landed on a pale boy near the third row of applicants. The air around him pulsed faintly crimson, a thin vein of light tracing along his wrist.
"You."
The boy stiffened.
"Your affinity for Blood Magic is stable. Step forward."
The boy nearly stumbled rushing ahead.
Next, Broody's gaze turned toward another student—one whose aura shimmered faintly green and violet, the scent of something sharp and metallic drifting subtly through the air.
"Venom Magic," Broody murmured. "Precise. Controlled."
He pointed.
"You as well."
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
A girl stood quietly near the edge of the formation. Frost dusted lightly across her fingertips while a faint red glow pulsed beneath the skin of her forearm.
Ice and blood.
Intertwined.
Rare.
Broody regarded her for a long moment.
"You will come."
She bowed silently and stepped forward.
He turned without another word.
The three chosen students followed him toward the base of the platform.
The massive clawed sheep lowered its head as if acknowledging them.
Broody mounted again.
And without ceremony—
He returned to his throne.
The first selections had been made.
Julian exhaled loudly beside me.
"Well," he muttered, "that was close."
I stared at him.
"You just rejected a Legendary Magic Knight."
He grinned.
"I prefer my blood inside my body."
The arena buzzed with renewed tension.
Seven remained.
And one by one…
They would rise.
A soft crack echoed across the arena.
Not loud.
But sharp enough to draw every gaze toward the center of the stage.
The air shimmered—
And a tall mirror materialized where nothing had stood before.
Its frame was silver, carved with intricate symbols that glowed faintly. The glass surface rippled like disturbed water.
Then—
A hand pressed against it from the inside.
The crowd gasped.
The surface parted without shattering.
And an old lady stepped through.
She did not look frail.
She did not look bent by age.
Her silver hair was arranged neatly, her long robes flowing behind her like liquid light. Jewels glimmered subtly at her wrists and neck, but none were excessive.
Her gaze swept the arena.
Graceful.
Measured.
Almost gentle.
She did not bow.
She did not seek approval.
She simply walked forward as if the world had always been hers to cross.
The mirror remained standing behind her.
She examined the students quietly.
No dramatic speech.
No introduction.
Her eyes lingered on one boy—his aura faintly glowing gold. When he shifted nervously, particles of light flickered around his fingers like dust caught in sunlight.
She lifted a single finger.
"You."
Her voice was soft.
But it carried effortlessly.
The boy stepped forward, stunned.
Her gaze moved again.
Another student whose body emitted brief flashes of radiant white when he inhaled sharply.
"You."
Then a third.
This one steadier. Light pooled in his palm like a miniature dawn before fading again.
She nodded once.
All three were boys.
All three light magic users.
Without another word—
She turned.
Walked back toward the mirror.
And stepped through.
The surface sealed instantly.
The mirror dissolved into thin air.
Gone.
The arena buzzed with confusion.
No name given.
No explanation.
Nothing.
I leaned slightly toward Julian.
"She's cool," I muttered. "Not like others who choose just girls as students."
Julian's grin widened slowly.
"Oh, that's not the reason."
I blinked. "What?"
He leaned closer conspiratorially.
"Well… it's mostly a theory."
He paused for effect.
"But if I am correct, that was Richarda of the Light."
My stomach tightened slightly.
"Richarda?"
"It's said," he continued in a lower voice, "that her intentions are very much… dark for guys."
My eyes widened.
"What?"
He nodded gravely, though amusement danced in his eyes.
"Most of her students leave after one month."
He leaned back slightly.
"Broken."
I stared at him.
"Broken?"
He shrugged lightly.
"So the streets say. And you know…"
He tapped the side of his head.
"Streets have ears."
I looked back toward where the mirror had vanished.
The elegance.
The grace.
The silence.
Suddenly it felt a little more unsettling.
Two of the Eight had chosen.
Six remained.
And with every selection…
The air grew heavier.
A heavy thud echoed as the next of the Eight dropped from above rather than descending the stairs.
He landed squarely in the center of the stage.
A stern-looking man with a sharp jawline and thick arms crossed over his chest. A magnificent peacock perched proudly on his shoulders, its feathers shimmering with iridescent blues and greens under the arena light.
A toothpick hung lazily from the corner of his mouth.
He scanned the crowd with exaggerated seriousness.
Then—
He pulled the toothpick out.
Held it between two fingers.
And shook it once.
The wood elongated.
Thickened.
Darkened.
In the blink of an eye, it transformed into a full-length spear, its blade gleaming under the sun.
Gasps erupted from the students.
Even I felt my jaw drop slightly.
He twirled the spear once and flexed his biceps dramatically, veins bulging.
The crowd murmured in awe—
Until—
The peacock on his shoulders smacked him across the face with a loud flap of its wings.
The sound echoed.
The flex froze mid-pose.
And then—
The peacock spoke.
Clear.
Refined.
Slightly irritated.
"Apologies for my servant flexing."
The arena fell into stunned silence.
The stern man lowered his arms slowly.
The peacock adjusted its feathers regally.
"My name is Olivia, The Stranger Knight."
My brain stalled.
'That is such a long name,' I thought.
The peacock—Olivia—tilted her head slightly.
"I am aware my title sounds… unfortunate."
A few awkward coughs echoed from the stands.
"My parents believed it would inspire uniqueness."
She sighed faintly.
"It inspired confusion."
A pause.
"So please. Just call me Olivia."
The stern man nodded obediently behind her, still holding the spear like a ceremonial guard.
Olivia's sharp eyes scanned the students.
They lingered briefly on Sylvia.
The timid girl stiffened.
A faint swirl of green shimmered around her fingertips, barely noticeable unless one looked closely. The air near her feet carried the subtle scent of leaves after rain.
Olivia's eyes softened slightly.
"You."
Sylvia blinked.
"Your nature-based magic is fragile… but sincere."
Sylvia stepped forward hesitantly, eyes wide.
Next, Olivia turned her gaze toward two boys standing several rows apart. The air around them stirred subtly, invisible currents brushing against robes and hair even in stillness.
Wind.
Untamed but promising.
"You two."
Both straightened immediately.
"Your affinity with the wind has rhythm," Olivia continued. "With discipline, it may soar."
She tapped the stern man lightly on the head with her beak.
He crouched instantly.
She hopped down from his shoulders, wings spreading wide.
Feathers shimmered.
Wind gathered beneath her.
Without another word—
She lifted into the air, the stern man leaping up after her as though pulled by unseen force.
They ascended together, wind spiraling in their wake.
And just like that—
They were gone.
Sylvia stood frozen for a second before realization dawned across her face.
She had been chosen.
Three of the Eight had made their selections.
Five remained.
The arena buzzed louder now.
Tension rising.
Hope flickering.
Fear creeping.
Beside me, Julian muttered quietly, "I am starting to question whether this kingdom runs on logic."
I didn't answer.
I was too busy wondering…
If anyone would call my name at all.
The sky darkened without warning.
It was not gradual.
One moment the arena shimmered beneath the afternoon sun—
The next, shadows swallowed it whole.
A deep rumble rolled across the heavens.
Purple lightning split the sky.
It did not flash and vanish.
It struck the center of the stage and remained.
For an entire minute.
Crackling.
Roaring.
Energy spiraling upward like a pillar connecting earth to sky.
The crowd could not even cheer.
They could only stare.
Then—
The lightning collapsed inward.
And from within the fading storm…
He stepped out.
In his famous mask.
In his knightly suit of black and crimson, etched with faint golden lines that pulsed like embers beneath metal.
A single golden feather rested neatly in his breast pocket.
His posture was effortless.
Commanding.
The air itself seemed to bow away from him.
The Legend.
"I am Pheonix."
His voice was calm.
Deep.
Carried without magic yet heard by all.
"I congratulate each of you who stand here today."
Silence gripped the arena.
He walked slowly across the stage, boots echoing.
He paused.
His masked gaze shifted.
Toward me.
"I saw bravery."
My breath caught.
It was brief.
Just a sentence.
But it felt heavier than any insult I had endured.
Then his eyes moved.
To Rose.
"I saw talent."
Rose did not smile.
But her shoulders straightened slightly.
"You all are promising," Pheonix continued. "But I have chosen who I will take as my students."
The crowd leaned forward collectively.
"Rose O'Neil."
A soft ripple moved through the noble section.
"You possess the power of noble fire. Join me, and I shall teach you to wield it as it was meant to be wielded."
Rose stepped forward.
No hesitation.
After a brief pause, he continued.
"Greg Frostmoon."
Greg's jaw tightened slightly.
"Your control over ice is commendable. If you wish to refine it beyond discipline… come."
Greg bowed his head once and stepped forward.
The tension grew.
My heart pounded.
Even after what he had said—
I knew.
It was not enough.
"Liam," he called next. "Your water magic flows with instinct."
A boy from the second row stiffened and walked forward.
"Giselle. Your earth answers you faithfully."
A girl with steady eyes stepped ahead.
"Ruth. Your thunder does not fear you. That is rare."
A tall boy with faint arcs of electricity dancing across his knuckles joined the chosen.
Five.
He had chosen five.
He turned.
No dramatic flourish.
No lingering glance.
And then—
He vanished in a bolt of lightning.
A single crack split the air as he reappeared upon the main platform, already seated in his throne as if he had never moved.
The sky cleared.
Sunlight returned.
The crowd erupted.
Cheers.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Rose stood among legends now.
Greg too.
I remained where I was.
Unchosen.
Yet.
And the weight of that word pressed against my ribs.