The golden bell rang once more.
Its deep echo rolled across Aerith's Spine, waking the land for Day 2 of P.R.I.M.E. The air was different now — not vibrant, not tense, but quiet, as though something was about to arrive that even the wind dared not greet.
The judges took their seats again.
King Farhan looked unusually alert, his chain-hand resting tightly on the armrest. Julious held a scroll half-unrolled in his lap, eyes flicking to the entry gate every few seconds. Even the spectators, rowdier on Day 1, were hushed today — expectant.
And then… he came.
Among the next wave of contestants, one figure moved with quiet purpose. No fanfare. No banners. No chants.
Arslan — a slim-framed young man in a dark hooded tunic — stepped forward when his name was called. His face was calm, his eyes unreadable.
Just another participant.
> "Arslan, step forward," the announcer said plainly.
He did.
The crowd gave a mild response — a few scattered murmurs. Nothing unusual. No one knew what to expect. He seemed unremarkable at first glance. No house sigil. No base emblem. Just another candidate among dozens.
He entered the Ring of Control.
The moment his foot touched the trial sector, the floor shimmered— unnaturally.
Instead of the standard glowing gold of the sector's feedback circle, the arena lines shifted… to deep violet.
Even the floating rune-sensors stuttered momentarily, flickering between color readings.
Then, in a breath, Arslan raised his hand.
A slow coil of dark energy slipped from his palm — thick, smooth, moving like shadowed ink in water. It twisted once, then hardened into a floating dark shield, rotating slowly around him.
The judges stirred.
> "What is that…?" Julious murmured, eyes narrowing.
Arslan moved calmly, lifting his other hand. A secondary wave of darkness circled above him, forming a gentle arc, orbiting in precise formation.
He lowered both arms. The energy folded neatly, compact, and vanished into him like smoke pulled into lungs.
No tremors. No loss of control. Perfect command.
Rivers spoke first.
> "Not volatile. Not chaotic. That darkness obeys him."
> "It's not shadow magic," Camero added quietly. "It's something older."
The orb blinked once. Then glowed green.
Alpha — Passed.
The judges whispered.
> "Unusual manifestation. No elemental trace."
But the participant said nothing. He lowered his hands and walked off the platform. Another line crossed. Another barrier broken.
The second stage, where raw awakening wasn't enough. Here, power had to obey. Participants were tasked with shaping their abilities, aiming them, and demonstrating creative control in a controlled trial.
Targets rose from the stone floor — six hovering crystalline discs, floating in an arc around Arslan.
He stepped forward and conjured his dark aura again — but this time, it condensed faster. The spinning ring behind him split into six shadow blades, connected to his hands by thin tendrils of black.
Without any gesture, the blades flew — sharp, precise, and soundless.
Each target was struck perfectly in the center — not shattered, but tapped. Measured. Controlled.
The judges exchanged glances.
> "Minimal exertion. Maximum precision."
The platform pulsed blue.
Omega — Passed.
Arslan dismissed the energy with a blink. The blades vanished like ink drawn into air. He moved forward without hesitation.
Third Trial: Hall of Resistance
This trial was brutal — and personal. In the Hall of Resistance, participants faced invisible magical weight. The further one walked, the stronger the pressure. Powers were stifled, minds shaken. Only those who could hold their ability under suppression moved forward.
Arslan stepped in.
Immediately, the pressure dropped — like gravity folded in on itself.
He raised his hand — slow, deliberate — and again summoned his dark shield. But now it pulsed thicker, stronger. It wrapped around him like a living thing, rotating steadily, absorbing the pressure instead of cracking under it.
Then, he did something none before him had dared:
He summoned a bow, made entirely of that same dark energy. Tense. Refined. Elegant and menacing at once.
He drew an arrow of blacklight, no louder than a whisper.
He fired it directly into the heart of the invisible force field.
The explosion came instantly.
Dark energy met the core enchantment of the resistance — a violent collision of polar forces. The air trembled. The sector cracked. The impact threw Arslan off his feet.
He was flung backward — his shield collapsed, the bow disintegrated mid-air.
The crowd gasped as his body rolled against the arena wall.
After the Blast
Medical teams rushed into the sector as the magical pressure died out.
A golden rune hovered above Arslan's body, scanning for damage.
> "Pulse strong. Minor magical exhaustion. No fractures," a healer confirmed.
Arslan stirred. He blinked up at the ceiling, then turned slowly onto his side, pushed himself up — and stood.
> "You alright?" a judge called out.
He Said "Yes, I'm alright"
Later, Julious stood before the arena to announce the updated ranks.
The crowd was eager — especially now that whispers of "the dark energy boy" had spread.
Julious unrolled a shimmering scroll.
> "Arslan. Passed Omega Sector. Passed Alpha Sector. In the Resistance Hall, displayed an energy type not yet categorized — formed a shield, formed a bow, and attacked directly. However…"
He paused.
> "…loss of balance after the power collided with the pressure field showed incomplete response to reactive force. Therefore, participant Arslan is awarded the rank of…"
> "Mythic."
No cheers.
Just widened eyes.
The crowd didn't know what to make of him.
Some leaned to whisper:
> "He got Mythic? From nowhere?"
"Did you see that blast though?"
"Was it a fluke… or something worse?"
But Arslan said nothing. He took his place with the others, arms folded, face calm — just another figure now standing among the Mythic.