The elite students from the east performed exceptionally well, with sang heok and min-seok scoring exceptionally high.
Trial of Agility
Sang Heok Clear: Near-Flawless (Duration: 5 minutes)
Min-Seok Clear: Excellent (Duration: 5 minutes)
Alexey Reshetnikov Excellent (Duration: 4 min 34s)
Danil Ichetovkin Excellent (Duration: 4 min 01s)
Zi Hao Excellent (Duration: 3 min 35s)
--
Sang Heok's performance was nothing short of uncanny, a display of kinetic mastery that bordered on the grotesque. He didn't just dodge; his body seemed to liquefy, bending at unnatural, bone-stretching angles to allow wind blades and fireballs to pass through the space his torso had occupied only a millisecond prior.
He maintained this high-tension Ghost-Step for nearly the entire duration, only faltering in the final ten seconds when a high-velocity earth bullet threatened his center of mass, forcing him to deflect the projectile with a desperate, snapping roundhouse kick.
The fact that Sang-Heok had managed to match Rosalind's score without the aid of a specialized perception attribute sent a ripple of silent shock through the hall.
It was a testament to the raw, honed instincts of the Eastern Continent—a reminder that while the Valerian Empire relied on high-tier metaphysical gifts, the Union had cultivated hidden gems through brutal, repetitive conditioning and sheer martial grit.
Markus watched Sang-Heok exit the chamber, lingering on the boy's trembling hands—the physical cost of operating at such a high frequency without a stabilizing mental attribute.
"Your next generation is as promising as our own, if not more so," Markus remarked, offering Ambassador Lee a rare, measured nod of approval.
"To achieve that level of kinetic synchronization without the crutch of a perception attribute is a feat of pure, disciplined evolution. It seems the Eastern Continent is no longer just maintaining the standard—it is redefining it."
Ambassador Lee let out a hearty laugh, his chest swelling with an unmistakable surge of pride. For a figure of Markus Blackwell's stature—the Architect of Space and the only man to hold a perfect record—to offer such high-level validation was a monumental diplomatic victory.
To the Ambassador, this wasn't just casual praise; it was an admission that the exchange students from the Eastern Coalition were no longer mere spectators in the Valerian Empire, but true peers to its elite.
**
Proctor Holmes led the surviving candidates deeper into the heart of the Royal Academy, their footsteps echoing through a transition from polished obsidian to the cold, reinforced grit of the central hub.
There, the Combat Arena stood—a massive, sunken amphitheater of ancient stone and modern mana-conductors, waiting in predatory silence for a fresh offering of blood to prove their mettle within its jagged perimeter.
The viewing stands surged with a palpable, anxious energy as the families and friends of the participants claimed their seats. For many, this was more than a mere academic evaluation; it was the culmination of years of private tutoring and significant household investment.
Eager eyes scanned the cold grit of the arena floor, searching for a familiar silhouette, each spectator silently praying that their child would not only endure the coming violence but emerge with the prestige required to elevate their family's standing in a world defined by its tiered power hierarchy.
Markus took his seat beside Headmistress Elena. With a flick of his fingers, a porcelain plate containing a perfectly seared, medium-rare steak manifested in the air before him, held aloft by a localized distortion in the Law of Space.
He ignored the rigid formality of the faculty row, his silver knife gliding through the tender, crimson center of the meat with clinical precision, the plate bobbing with the weight of each cut as it drifted in the gravity-defying void.
Emperor Valerian let out a low, gravelly grumble, his eyes shifting from the floating plate of steak to the man who treated a high-stakes exam like a private gala. "And what about us, Markus?" he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of resentment and begrudging curiosity.
Markus set his silver knife against the porcelain with a sharp, resonant clack. Without looking up, he gave his wrist a languid, dismissive flick. In response, three additional plates of flawlessly seared steak materialized from a spatial rift, drifting through the air to settle into a perfect, gravity-defying orbit before Elena, Valerian, and Ambassador Lee.
Ignoring their startled expressions, he returned to his meal, his focus narrowing back to the crimson center of his own cut as if the miraculous manipulation of reality were nothing more than a mundane courtesy.
The rest of the academy professors and spectators in the royal booth collectively gulped, their composure momentarily fractured by the display of effortless power and the intoxicating aroma of the seared meat.
The clinical grace with which Markus ate had triggered a hunger within them, transforming the tension of the arena into a sudden, gnawing appetite. Within seconds, a flurry of discrete signals was sent to the academy's kitchens, demanding an immediate delivery of their finest fare to satisfy a hunger that was as much about status as it was about sustenance.
**
Rosalind's path through the opening rounds of the combat trial was marked not by the clash of steel or mana, but by a series of abrupt, humiliating surrenders.
As she stepped into the pit, her opponents—students who had trained for years to reach this stage—simply lowered their fists and bowed out before a single blow could be struck.
They cursed their misfortune, blaming a cruel draw for pitting them against the Imperial Princess so early in the brackets, and chose the ignominy of the lower-tier losers' bracket over the certain, public annihilation of raising their fists against her.
Markus shook his head, a faint shadow of disappointment darkening his features.
To him, the act of raising one's fists against an overwhelming force like Rosalind was the true metric of a student's worth; it was a demonstration of the weight behind their convictions and a testament to their resolve to enter the Academy at all costs.
He would have afforded more respect to a crushed opponent who dared to swing than to a coward who preserved their rank through submission.
"We should have barred the option of surrender when facing Rosalind," Markus said, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the royal booth as he turned to Emperor Valerian.
"By allowing them to yield without a single exchange of mana, we have robbed them of the very friction required to temper their resolve and denied Rosalind the chance to refine her sensory precision against a living will."
Valerian nodded, his eyes betraying a heavy, simmering disappointment as he drove his blade down against the tender meat. The gesture was sharp, the silver clenching against the porcelain with a jarring finality that mirrored his frustration with the display in the pit.
"I agree," the Emperor rumbled, the rich juices of the steak pooling on his plate like a silent, crimson admission of the Academy's current weakness.
Markus tracked the Emperor's mounting fury, noting how the silver utensils strained under the weight of suppressed mana.
Yet, despite the visible tension, Valerian remained paralyzed by the logistical reality of the event.
To intervene now and dismantle the surrender loophole would require a full systemic reset—an action that would invalidate hours of recorded data and delay the evaluation.
The stagnant rhythm of the trial finally broke as Rosalind faced her first genuine obstacle. Stepping into the pit was Danil Ichetovkin, a Russian youth whose presence lacked the practiced elegance of the Valerian nobility, replaced instead by the coiled tension of a street-bred predator.
Unlike the previous cowards, Danil didn't bow; he favored an unconventional, high-velocity combat style designed to negate magical superiority through suffocating proximity. His strategy was clear: leverage explosive speed to bypass Rosalind's mid-range defenses and drag her into a brutal, close-quarters grappling match where her lineage and titles would be crushed under the weight of raw, kinetic submission.