In the arena, the nightmare wasn't over.
Revived by blood and rage, the Twisted surged forward like a storm.
Its body, once sluggish, now moved with terrifying speed.
It rushed toward the frozen candidates—
their minds still reeling from James's death.
One boy didn't even see it coming.
A grotesquely stretched arm lunged forward, aimed straight for Eligant's chest.
But before it could land—
WHAM!
He was pushed aside, the Twisted's arm missing its mark and crashing into the stone wall.
It was Hank.
"I won't afford another life to be lost, ah!" Hank shouted, his voice gruff, before coughing up blood.
Bloody, pale, and barely standing, he had forced his broken body to move.One last act of courage—saving a comrade.
Eira's eyes flared as she saw the Twisted pinned.
She screamed:
"EVERYONE—ATTACK THE TWISTED NOW!"
Her voice cracked like thunder—
snapping the others from their fear.
Swords flashed. Spears struck.
Terror turned into fury.
The nearest candidates charged—
their blades hacking, their hearts pounding.
The Twisted writhed, trying to free its trapped arm—
—but it was stuck, impaled deep in the stone.
Eligant sprang forward, letting out a fierce battle cry.
"HIYAAAH!"
He swung his blade with all his strength, aiming for the creature's feet.
The blade cut deep—but not deep enough.
"Tch!" Eligant hissed, frustration bubbling up. "He's regained his strength from just one body he consumed…"
Another sword followed—then another.
Slice. Crack.
The legs snapped, and the beast buckled.
"JUST DIE!" a boy roared, swinging at its other arm—
—but too slow.
The Twisted caught him by the throat, lifted him—
"Not again!" Hunter shouted.
His Halberd swung in a wide arc—
and the creature's hand dropped to the ground, severed.
FWIP!
Eira's spear flew, a blur of silver—
It pierced the Twisted's remaining leg, pinning it to the earth.
The monster howled. Blood gushed.
It writhed in pain, struggling to rise.
Eira staggered, coughing blood. Her knees buckled.
"He's all yours now, Gravier…" she said, voice hoarse.
Gravier's eyes glowed with fury.
He sprinted.
One mighty leap—
His broadsword raised high—
The air trembled around him.
And then—
CRASH!
The blade came down like divine judgment—
cleaving through the Twisted's skull, through its torso—
splitting the creature in two.
A geyser of blood erupted.
The body convulsed, then stilled.
Silence.
Then the crowd roared—
Cheers, screams, applause.
The second trial was over.
The Twisted was dead.
But the cost… was life.
The DRAGONRITE — THE TRIAL OF COMBAT had finally come to an end.
Injured candidates were quickly tended to as the dust of the battlefield settled. At Head Councilor Arté's command, the remaining candidates gathered in the center of the arena, their bodies aching, their minds still trapped in the horrors they had just survived.
For many, it was the first time they'd truly felt fear. A grim reminder that their land was far from peace—that monsters, larger and more terrifying than they had ever imagined, waited for them beyond the borders.
Head Councilor Arté raised his voice, addressing the crowd:
"Those you have witnessed... the monsters these candidates have slain—know this: more, thousands more, infest the edges of our motherland. The land our ancestors once called home. A thousand years ago, we fled from it to this foreign land. But these candidates… they are our future. They may be the ones to reclaim what we have lost."
The crowd stirred. Whispers turned to murmurs. Some bowed their heads in prayer.
"This concludes the Trial of Combat. But understand—this was more than just slaying a Twisted. It was a test of heart, of spirit, of strength. Each of them has faced that test in their own way.
"Only those worthy of the dragon's blood may proceed. One candidate has fallen—James of House Silverspine. He was not worthy."
At that, Jack and Kai stood hollow-eyed. No tears, no screams—just silence, depleted and numb.
Arté continued:
"In six months, these candidates will train endlessly. They will fight together, eat together, bleed together. May they all survive the training before the Dragonrite."
The crowd erupted in applause, a thunder of hope and expectation.
Among the candidates—Johnquis, Gravier, Eira, and others—eyes met, bearing deep emotion. Compassion. Will. Determination.
Some of the less impressive candidates stood, clenched their jaws in shame, stung by their poor performance and the gaze of nobles who now viewed them as unworthy. Others, who had performed exceptionally, basked in the praise, their confidence swelling. New stars in the eyes of the people.
They bowed to the spectators—especially the royal family—as the day drew to a close and night took over.
That Night.
The grand dining hall was filled with the clatter of plates and the hum of voices, but it felt different tonight. A feast had been prepared for them: roasted meats, baked fruits, buttered bread, and rich wines. But it didn't feel like a reward. Not tonight.
The candidates sat in silence, the brutality of the Trial of Combat still fresh in their minds. The food, a lavish spread, only reminded them of the blood, bone, and flesh they had seen torn apart. They couldn't escape the vivid images of the monsters they had killed—and the ones they had nearly become.
Many stared blankly, unable to lift a hand.
Until one finally did.
Johnquis.
He reached for the meat without hesitation. He tore into it, teeth sinking deep, juices dripping down his chin and staining his hands. He ate like he hadn't eaten in weeks—like he'd fought not a monster, but hunger itself.
Gravier followed, picking up a cut of meat and devouring it the same way. They ate like the very Twisted they had just fought—like they hadn't eaten in a century.
Kai stared at them, pale and shaken. His hands stayed in his lap, eyes wide. The sight of food felt wrong now—too normal after what they'd endured.
"Look at them eating like men!" Hank bellowed. "I won't lose when it comes to food! Nom nom!"
He shoveled food into his mouth, then suddenly choked.
Eira handed him a cup.
"Easy there. Here—water."
A loud burp echoed across the room.
"BUUUURP! This is good!" Hank grinned, patting his chest. "My muscles feel better already!"
Eira laughed. "Glad you survived, Hank."
"If we hadn't pulled him back after he rushed to save that girl—'Help me!'" Eligant mocked the cry in a falsetto.
"Hey!" Hank barked, but laughter filled the hall.
"We deserve this feast!" Hunter shouted. "It tastes better after nearly dying!"
His older brother, Hunter, sneered beside him, eating with perfect posture.
"Act like a noble, Hunter. This is food blessed by gods, not a pig trough."
"You should eat too, Lord Jack," Kai whispered to his brother.
But Jack remained frozen. His face was pale, his mind trapped in the aftermath of the Trial. He muttered to himself, haunted by James's final screams, the sound of his death echoing in his ears.
Across the table, Eira ate with the poise of a princess. Her movements were calm, deliberate. There was no fear in her face, no hesitation in her hands. She ate like someone untouched by violence.
Eligant stared a moment too long.He watched the smooth motion of her throat as she swallowed—lost in the simple elegance of it.For a heartbeat, he forgot how to chew, the sudden nervousness in his chest more intense than he'd expected.
And slowly, the others began to eat—quietly, cautiously.
It wasn't a feast. It was an endurance trial. Every bite reminded them of torn bodies. Not just monsters', but their own. Their wounds still ached. Scars still bled beneath their clothes.
They chewed through the memory of violence.
Beneath the same pale moon, starless and cold. The king's private room was quiet and still.
Until the door creaked open.
Head Councilor Arté stepped in, his robes whispering against the stone floor. He found the King standing at the balcony, staring into the endless dark.
Without turning, King Krisbolo spoke:
"This year's candidates… they're promising. Stronger than we expected. The kingdom's future may yet be bright."
Arté replied his eyes gleaming with a strange excitement.
"Yes, Your Majesty. This group shows real promise. Johnquis is clearly ahead of the others—his speed, precision, and instinct are unmatched. Even his elven magic proved effective against the Twisted."
He paused, then added, "Princess Eira carries a natural authority. She's inherited your raw strength—perhaps more than anyone expected."
Then, a slight shift in his tone. "And Gravier… his strength caught me off guard."
"They all carry Sestet blood," he said, his voice low. "That blood runs deeper than pride—it forges weapons."
Then, darker:
"The Twisted are changing—growing faster, smarter. Their training must match that pace. Harder. Harsher."
Arté bowed.
"It will be done."
The King looked past the mountains, where darkness festered beyond sight.
That was where the real nightmare waited...
After the feast, the candidates were escorted to their quarters. The weight of the evening hung heavy in the air, the silence pressing in on them as they entered their rooms. Within moments, most of them fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, exhaustion pulling them into oblivion. But not everyone found rest so easily.
Johnquis stood by the window, eyes fixed on the starless sky. That emptiness... it reminded him of that night.
A blurry memory—A bloodied hand pressing against a chest.
"Please… please, PLEASE!"
A cry swallowed by the dark.The memory faded, but the emotion lingered.
The glow of the moon revealed his face—twisted in fury.
A face consumed by vengeance.