The arena did not announce the start.
There was not a single countdown, no dramatic surge of sound or light. The dungeon simply *expected* action, the way a predator expects prey to move eventually. The silence itself was the provocation.
Arios stood still.
Across from him, the other gold-marked examinee rolled his shoulders once, loosening up. He was older—late teens, maybe early twenties. Scarred. The kind of scars that didn't come from training accidents but from situations where survival had been optional. His uniform bore the marks of multiple prior phases: torn fabric, dried blood, hastily repaired seams.
A veteran of this exam.
Arios catalogued everything without consciously trying. Stance: balanced, slightly forward-leaning. Center of gravity low. Hands relaxed, not clenched—confidence without arrogance. Weapon: a long, single-edged blade resting against his back, hilt angled for an over-the-shoulder draw.
The man noticed Arios's silence and smirked faintly.
