The makeshift arena behind the Adventurer's Guild was alive with a raw, primal energy. Coin bets clinked between eager fingers, voices hollered for blood or glory, and hundreds of hopeful, hungry eyes turned toward the girl wielding a halberd nearly her own size. The chill of the morning air seemed to hum with anticipation, a stark contrast to the sweat already gathering on Lux's palms.
Lux stepped into the worn, dirt-packed ring, the wood of her halberd smooth and cool against her palms. Each step was deliberate, a conscious effort to steady her nerves.
Across from her stood Korin, a seasoned D-rankadventurer whose reputation preceded him, whispered in hushed tones through the Guildhall. He had a wolfish smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face, a cruel curve of his lips, and a long, jagged scar that ran from his temple down to his jawline, a testament to countless battles and brutal encounters. He leaned on his longsword as if it were nothing more than a fashionable decoration, his posture radiating an easy, almost arrogant confidence that bordered on disdain.
He scoffed, his voice carrying easily over the murmur of the crowd, laced with mocking disbelief. "Wow! What a rather little short thing you are. Who let this child in here? Is this some sort of jest?"
Laughter, sharp and derisive, erupted around them, rippling through the onlookers like a cold, biting wind. Lux felt a prickle of heat rise on her cheeks, a flush of indignation, but she held her stance, her grip tightening on her weapon until her knuckles whitened.
Then Korin smiled—a slow, cruel, taunting stretch of his lips that revealed a flash of white, predatory teeth. His eyes, devoid of warmth, challenged her. "Come on, then. Make me regret that."
Lux didn't wait. She moved.
She launched forward, a blur of motion, her halberd cutting the air with explosive force, a whistling arc. She aimed for his left side—his sword was sheathed on his right, and she gambled on that being his blind spot, a weakness she could exploit with her reach.
It was the wrong move. A profound miscalculation.
Korin twisted, elegant as a waltz, his movement fluid and deceptively fast, effortlessly stepping past her sweeping arc with barely a ripple of his coat. Before she could even begin to readjust her grip or her footing, a heavy, leather-clad boot slammed into her side, directly below her ribs, a jarring impact that radiated bone-deep.
She gasped, the air knocked from her lungs in a painful, desperate rush. She staggered backward, her halberd slipping in her numb fingers as her footing broke on the uneven ground. Her vision swam for a dizzying moment, spots dancing before her eyes. She instinctively turned to defend, her bruised body screaming in protest, every muscle tensing—but it was already too late. Korin was a ghost, a phantom, already behind her, sweeping her legs out from under her with a practiced, brutal precision that left no room for recovery.
She fell, hitting the dirt with a jarring thud, the impact rattling her teeth. A growl vibrated deep in her chest, a primal, frustrated sound of pure indignation. Me, a dragon, she seethed inside, her mind blazing with a furious, wounded pride.
Korin, ever the showman, stepped back, giving her space, allowing her the small dignity of standing on her own. He watched her with an analytical gaze, his smirk softened just a fraction. "Miss," he said, his voice carrying clearly over the fading murmurs, "you're too easy to read. Too many openings. You fight like someone who's strong—but raw. All power, no finesse. Like a wild beast."
The crowd howled, a mix of mocking laughter, jeers, and scattered, dispassionate applause. The sounds felt like physical blows, each one a fresh sting.
Lux's eyes stung with unshed tears, but she blinked them away fiercely, refusing to let them fall, refusing to show that weakness. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up, her muscles screaming in protest, bruised and trembling, but utterly defiant. She straightened her spine, her gaze locking onto Korin's, a silent promise of relentless effort.
She didn't quit. She couldn't.
Blow after agonizing blow, she lunged, her halberd a heavy extension of her will, each swing fueled by a desperate need to land a hit. With each failed attack, each parried strike, each evasive twist from Korin, she was learning, adjusting, her movements growing subtly sharper, less predictable. She still didn't land a clean hit, still couldn't breach his effortless defense. But she pressed on, fueled by a stubborn refusal to yield, by the burning shame and pride warring within her. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her limbs felt heavy as lead, yet she continued to move, to strike, to learn.
And finally, after what felt like an eternity of relentless, one-sided combat, Korin lowered his blade, its tip resting lightly on the ground, a silent acknowledgment.
"That's enough," he said, his voice devoid of mockery now, a hint of something akin to respect in his tone.
The Guildmaster, a stern, imposing figure who had watched the entire bout in silence from a raised platform, raised his hand. The murmuring crowd quieted instantly, sensing the conclusion.
"Lux. You pass."
Lux blinked, the words echoing in the ringing silence of the arena. Her mind, still reeling from the fight, from the pain and the sheer exhaustion, struggled to process them. "What?" she managed, her voice hoarse, disbelieving.
The Guildmaster offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a rare softening of his stern features. "You showed power, yes—that much was clear. But more importantly, you took a beating, a hard one, and you didn't break. You didn't give up. You faced a superior opponent and kept fighting. That's worth more than an easy win, more than any fancy technique." His gaze was sharp, assessing, and for the first time, truly approving. "Welcome to D-rank."
The applause wasn't overwhelming—no roaring ovation—but it was real, scattered at first, then growing into a steady patter of genuine appreciation. For many, it was enough.
Korin, his wolfish smirk replaced by a look of quiet acknowledgment, gave her a brief, respectful nod before turning and walking away, disappearing into the crowd. The onlookers murmured, their voices less mocking now. More curious. More impressed.
Lux stood in the center of the ring, clutching her halberd like a lifeline, its weight suddenly familiar and comforting. Her body ached, every muscle protesting, but a strange warmth bloomed in her chest.
She had lost the sparring match, yes. She had been utterly defeated in skill, outmaneuvered and outclassed. The F-rankexamination, she thought, had merely been an assessment of her current capabilities, a gentle gauge. But the D-rankexamination … this match had truly beaten the difference into her, showcasing the vast chasm between raw strength and refined mastery.
But she had earned everything. She had earned their respect.