Ace and Emilia returned to the waiting chairs as the staff member began transferring all the information from the magical test onto the ornate application form. Only moments passed before she called them to follow her for the combat test. The three exited through a side door, descended the outer staircase, and circled behind the guild building to reach a backyard—a wide training arena covered in fine white sand, surrounded by an aura of organized chaos.
Order was not the dominant trait here. The ground bore the marks of past battles and training sessions. Scattered around were old, broken weapons, some rusted, others shattered, as if the arena preserved the memory of countless trials.
The staff member stopped at the edge of the field, her feet firm on the sandy surface. She turned and glanced at Ace with a look that combined solemnity and anticipation before speaking in a neutral, stern tone:
"The next test is simple in concept, but it will demand effort. Your combat skills will be evaluated. Winning or losing is not important, but the observations I gather will be crucial in assessing your qualification."
Despite his exhaustion, Ace replied with a firm, unwavering voice:
"I'm ready."
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded as if convinced. She turned and walked toward a corner of the arena, where a pile of old wooden barrels had been stacked carelessly, seemingly abandoned for years. Atop them lay a man, probably middle-aged, one leg dangling lazily while the other rested on the edge of a barrel. He looked completely indifferent to the world.
In his hand, he held a brass flask, from which he took deep sips now and then, as if trying to extinguish flames burning in his chest. He didn't look wise—his features were rough, carved by battles. His brown hair fell disorderly over his shoulders, streaked with scattered strands of gray that added a strange dignity to his otherwise disheveled state.
His clothes were offensively simple—an old, stained shirt and trousers that looked like they hadn't been washed in years. In his hand, he held a wooden sword, which he waved rhythmically up and down, as if playing invisible notes. Each swing let out a soft sound, slicing the air like a sharp whisper.
The staff member approached him heavily, stopping nearby and glaring at him with frustration before saying, her voice tinged with irritation:
"There's a new applicant for the test."
The man didn't look up. Her voice seemed to take a moment to pierce through his haze. Eventually, he turned his face toward her, then, wordlessly, jumped off the barrels. His body swayed for a moment, but he regained balance quickly, as if it knew how to reset itself. His previously dull eyes lit up faintly, like a sword unsheathed after a long slumber. His lips tightened and his brows drew together, giving him a stern expression tinged with annoyance.
He narrowed his eyes at the distant young man, silently evaluating him—as if reading unwritten lines on his face. Then he slowly lifted a finger and pointed at Ace:
"That kid? No way he's the one applying for the test, right?"
His words carried open disdain, as if the idea of that young man taking the test was laughable. The staff member confirmed he was indeed the applicant. The man turned again to scrutinize Ace for any trace of strength or determination, but instead found only a serene, unreadable calm—and even a hint of silent fatigue.
After a moment, he exhaled a heavy breath laced with the scent of alcohol and turned to climb back onto the barrels—his usual place to drink his preferred brew, the one thing that gave him peace in a life that never stopped piling burdens on his shoulders. But just as he began to lift himself, a sharp, familiar voice rang out from afar, triggering a headache in his mind.
"Stop right there!"
He turned to see a small girl glaring at him with fierce eyes. He raised his eyebrows in annoyance and sighed slowly before muttering:
"Damn… it's that brat. Why did she have to show up at the guild now of all times?"
Emilia didn't need to say more. The man already knew that if he didn't do his job, he would never get a peaceful nap again. Worse, she might report him to the guild master, dragging him into matters he had no desire to deal with. He glanced at Ace once more in search of something—anything—remarkable. But again, he found nothing. With a deep sigh, he waved a hand for the young man to step into the arena.
The two stood in the center, the air heavy with the scent of sand. The man approached Ace until his foul breath nearly touched his face. His eyes, shadowed by fatigue and disappointment, locked onto Ace's, and he said in a gruff, low voice:
"Listen, kid. If you really want to do this, I won't stop you. But I advise you to go home. The adventurer's path isn't for the weak."
There was no mockery in his tone, only echoes of past regrets, formed by countless tests with unqualified applicants. After saying this, and before he could preserve his stern image, he let out a loud belch, shattering the seriousness he'd tried to convey.
An awkward silence followed. The staff member's expression turned to clear disapproval, while Emilia's face showed pity at the man's pitiful state. Ace, however, stood firm, his face unreadable, eyes locked on the man with unwavering resolve.
It was then the man noticed something odd—perhaps the boy wasn't as he seemed. His stance, his features—there was no hesitation in him. Even his eyes glowed with quiet determination. Finally, Ace spoke, his voice calm and resolute:
"Thank you for your concern, sir. But I have no intention of backing down."
Hearing this, the man's eyes gleamed with a strange mix of admiration and sorrow. He had seen many who stood before him with determination, but he also knew how those stories often ended. Tilting his head slightly, he replied with a softer tone, but one that still carried a warning:
"Alright, as you wish. But don't blame me if you get hurt."
He turned and walked to one of the worn barrels, rummaged inside, and pulled out two wooden swords—scarred, cracked, and stained with dark spots that looked like dried blood—evidence of past trials that didn't end cleanly. With a swift motion, he threw one sword toward Ace. It sliced through the air and landed precisely at his feet. Turning, he gave a faint, unreadable smile and said in a quietly challenging voice:
"Listen, kid. You're not required to use that sword. You can use any real weapon you find around you—even your magical power, if you have any. In this test, anything goes. If you can land a clean hit on me, you'll pass."
After stepping forward a few paces, he raised his hand dramatically and assumed a battle stance. In that instant, the man transformed completely—his features, his posture, everything screamed of a seasoned warrior who would not go easy, not even on a beginner.
Ace bowed and picked up the wooden sword, gripping it tightly. He felt its rough texture against his fingers. Outside the arena, the staff member and Emilia watched intently.
Emilia clasped her hands to her chest, trying to stifle her anxiety. Hope flickered in her eyes, though it was wrapped in uncertainty. Meanwhile, the staff member raised her slender hand. A moment of silence fell, as if she were holding time itself, and when her hand dropped, her voice rang out to declare the start of the duel.
In the blink of an eye, the man charged at Ace. His movement wasn't just an attack—it was a blend of precision and agility that hinted at his true skills. He aimed straight for Ace's waist. His wooden sword sliced the air with a sharp hiss, like a real blade craving flesh.
The strike was blisteringly fast, giving no time to think. But in that critical moment, Ace raised his sword and blocked it with unexpected finesse. The crack of wood clashing against wood echoed through the air as their eyes met—Ace's calm gaze facing the man's astonished one. He hadn't expected the boy to parry his blow so swiftly and accurately.
Still, he wasn't one to underestimate an opponent. He launched into a flurry of rapid, forceful strikes—each faster and stronger than the last. But Ace matched him with equal speed, anticipating each move, reacting as if he already knew the path of every attack. His eyes held only icy focus—no fear, no hesitation—just patience, melting the weight of each blow.
Meanwhile, the staff member watched with a stunned expression. How could a boy who had exhausted his magical energy move so quickly? Nearby, Emilia watched in breathless silence, her fists clenched, her eyes wide with disbelief.
As the barrage continued, signs of fatigue crept into the man's face. His once-confident eyes now held questions. His movements slowed, his muscles strained, sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath grew uneven.
Ace, by contrast, remained composed. His eyes showed no weariness. Then, the man realized: he wouldn't break through the boy's defense using ordinary methods. He leapt back, drew a sarcastic smile tinged with disbelief, and said:
"You're really skilled... kid." He turned to the staff member and asked, curiosity in his voice:
"Is this the same one who unleashed that magic surge earlier?"
She nodded, unable to speak. The man's excitement grew. He seemed to have found something truly intriguing—something worthy of a real test. He raised his sword toward Ace and said, voice brimming with challenge:
"What do you say we take this to the next level? Let's settle it with one blow. You use your magic, and I'll use mine. If you can withstand my strike, I'll consider you passed."
Silence followed. Then Ace replied calmly:
"Sorry, but I don't know how to use magic. And it seems I used up all I had in the previous test."
His words struck like an unexpected slap—not because the man didn't believe him, but because it felt like an insult to the very principles of combat. How could someone claim to be fully drained, yet stand so firm, as if untouched by fatigue?
Disappointment spread across the man's face. He had thought he'd finally met someone who could awaken his real strength—only to find a liar mocking him. He exhaled slowly, restraining his anger, then assumed a serious stance and said in a low, threatening tone:
"So, you don't want to fight me seriously, huh? Fine. Have it your way."
At that moment, a dark aura formed around his body, flowing with his breath like deep water. It wasn't massive or glowing, but it carried something familiar—something that made Ace's eyes widen and his breath catch.
That energy… it wasn't new. He had seen it before. It was the same power that had once seemed like a dream. Now, it confirmed it was real. A powerful gust of wind burst out, as if an invisible storm swept through the arena, sending sand flying in spirals. Ace raised his arm to shield his eyes.
He knew the next attack would be unlike anything before. No time to think—he assumed a defensive stance. In a flash, the man moved like lightning, his steps roaring across the field. The very air seemed to part for him, and in a heartbeat, he was in front of Ace.
This time, Ace was too slow. He couldn't dodge or block. The man struck his waist with the flat of his sword—at the same spot as before. The blow didn't allow for the slow burn of pain; it launched Ace into the air before he crashed onto the sand.
The man stood panting, chest heaving as though dragging air from the dusty atmosphere. He wiped sweat off his brow, eyes fixed on the motionless body. He scowled and muttered hoarsely, trying to reassure himself:
"Damn… maybe I overdid it a little. But he deserved it. That's what happens when you underestimate a retired gold-rank adventurer."
Then a trembling voice screamed Ace's name. He turned to see Emilia trying to rush into the field, while the staff member held her back, insisting the duel wasn't over. He rolled his eyes and walked toward the barrels, waving a hand dismissively and saying commandingly:
"Get him out of here. Have a healer take a look at him."
As he said this, the staff member loosened her grip, ready to let the girl rush to the seemingly unconscious boy—ready to admit the duel was over. But then her hand tightened again. Emilia turned to ask why, and the staff member replied, her voice trembling, her eyes wide with disbelief:
"The duel… isn't over yet!"
At that moment, a mix of confusion and discomfort appeared on Emilia's face. She turned her gaze toward Ace, and the same expression settled on her features. The man, who had been walking away, suddenly halted, tightened his grip on his sword, and slowly turned around to look back through the fading dust — where Ace was beginning to rise, brushing the dirt off his clothes as if, just moments ago, he hadn't been a lifeless body sprawled on the ground.
His expression still held the same calmness, yet something about it had changed. There was no sign of pain or even fatigue — only a chilling indifference. A shiver crept down the man's spine. And how could it not? The scene was anything but normal. He muttered under his breath:
"This... is impossible."
His voice trembled in his throat as he clutched his sword tighter. He was certain he had used enough force in that strike — enough to break a rib or two. He was equally sure he hadn't seen any aura surrounding the young man's body, nor the faintest indication of a concealed barrier beneath his clothes. When the blade struck, he had felt it sink into flesh and hit bone.
As he sank into silent thought, Ace briefly held his side and spoke sarcastically:
"It happened again..."
Then, he began walking toward the man, still holding his wooden sword — he hadn't let go of it even after taking a direct hit. The man found himself wondering just how tightly the young man had gripped his weapon to hold onto it through that kind of impact. In that moment, silence reigned. No sound, no movement — even the air seemed to stand still.
The man noticed something new in Ace's eyes — a kind of smoldering intensity. It wasn't anger, nor was it hatred. It was something else, something that made the air feel heavier, as if the gravity of the space had shifted, centering entirely around the person walking toward him.
He felt smaller, weaker, in the presence of those eyes. Yet he still tried to collect himself, swallowing hard as he realized — a bit too late — that he was in trouble.
Sweat began to bead slowly on his forehead. His eyes flicked toward the two girls standing at a distance. He didn't want to show weakness in front of them. He couldn't allow himself to be seen as vulnerable under watchful eyes that noticed every detail.
He thought quickly. From years of battle experience, he knew that some moments called for swift, difficult decisions. Sometimes, retreating was wiser than fighting — especially when one's body had grown weaker from being away from combat for too long. Though he didn't show it, pain was coursing through his limbs.
So, he made his decision. He forced a confident smile and called out in a voice that wavered slightly despite his effort to keep it steady:
"Y-You've passed the test, boy!"
As soon as he said it, Ace's expression softened, even showing signs of surprise. The man watched as Ace relaxed his grip on the wooden sword, seemingly accepting the words without suspicion or hesitation. Still, there was no sign of triumph on his face, no joy — just calm composure, as if the outcome didn't mean much to him at all.
On the other hand, the female staff member stood speechless, her mind struggling to process how the test had ended in such an unexpected way. She had no time to dwell on it, however, as she was interrupted by Emilia's cheerful voice, giggling and bouncing in place as if the only thing she saw in the entire scene was her friend's success.
The man remained standing where he was, staring at Ace in silent astonishment, wondering how he had managed to stay on his feet after that blow. The question echoed in his head, relentless. He exhaled slowly, then asked, his tone laced with curiosity:
"Tell me, boy... Did you use some special skill to block my strike?"
"I don't know what you mean. I didn't do anything. Your strike was too fast for me to block."
Ace replied in an even, unassuming voice, then placed his hand over his side, where a dull tingling had begun to set in — as if his body had finally decided to register the pain. He drifted into thought for a moment before adding,
"It was a strong hit. It caused me a bit of pain."
Those words struck the man and the staff member like a bolt of lightning, shaking the very foundation of their understanding. How could a strike of such magnitude — one that would flatten any silver-ranked adventurer — be described as "a bit painful"? It was closer to madness than logic.
In response, the man laughed — but it was a forced laugh, more like a feeble attempt to convince himself that what he heard wasn't real. Shaking his head slightly, he muttered:
"Looks like I've been drinking too much this time."
Then, with sluggish movements, he returned to the wooden barrels, lay back atop them, and raised his copper flask for one last swig — trying to wash away the bitterness of the moment — before surrendering to drowsiness.
Meanwhile, the staff member struggled to regain her composure after the shock. She glanced at Ace and Emilia and said in a voice that lacked its usual firmness:
"P-Please, follow me."
The formality of her words couldn't mask the uncertainty in her eyes. Still, her steps were steady as she led the way back to the administrative floor. Behind her, Ace walked with a calm stride, while Emilia eyed his side with concern, asking anxious questions. He responded with reassuring smiles, thanking her for her care.