The Imperial Academy's observation chamber loomed above the cold stone arena like a throne over a battlefield.
Its enchanted crystal windows reflected unmoving shadows—eyes of the Empire's power watching the ground below, where the future would soon bleed itself into shape.
Today, twenty students stood still at the arena's center.
They were what remained from hundreds—eliminated through examinations in theory, magic, combat, and mental resilience.
The survivors were not the brightest. Only the most unyielding.
But above them sat those whose hunger was far greater than any student below.
Duke Armand Vaelric, The Lion of the North, stood tall behind the glass, his aged body stiff like a phantom armor still clinging to an old war.
"Nobles sending their children to the altar like lambs," he said coldly.
Opposite him, Marchioness Selene Arceval, The Silver Fox of the East, smiled faintly, rotating her wine glass between her fingers.
"An altar, Armand? This is where children are forged into blades.
The rest? Ash we choose to forget."
Count Riven Destrois, The Hound of the Empire, chuckled from behind them.
"As long as it's not my son who turns to ash, I enjoy the show."
Selene raised an eyebrow. "But you sent Leonhart, didn't you?"
"Naturally. He's stubborn. Strong. If he loses, then he wasn't worthy."
Baroness Elira Vaunt stood alone, her gaze focused sharply on a single figure—Darian Duval.
She spoke quietly.
"He's too still," she said.
"Even the air refuses to linger around him."
Selene asked with amusement, "Are you fond of him?"
"No. But I know how to recognize a threat that hasn't yet spoken."
Vaelric growled.
"Soren should not have passed on his destruction. One Duval was already too much."
Selene replied without warmth.
"Then make sure you don't stand in the way of the second."
At the center seat, Emperor Gaius Octavianus Magnus sat upright, his golden robes flowing like a curtain of judgment.
His face was still, but behind his eyes, every word spoken was counted, weighed, and remembered.
Selene approached carefully, like a shadow that knew when to speak.
"Your Majesty… This year feels different.
Quieter. Yet full of heavy names."
"And one old name that has made everyone fall silent."
The Emperor didn't turn. His voice cut through the air like a cold decree.
"Duval."
"Some of us wonder… whether it was a succession—or a delay of destruction."
"Power is not inherited. It is forged," said the Emperor.
"And only those who can carry fear without trembling are worthy to wield it."
Selene lowered her gaze. The Emperor finally turned to her."If your children tremble before Duval… that is not his failure.
That is yours."
At the rear, Severan Malrec, The Crown's Shadow, shrugged slightly.
"Duval does not pass torches. He continues himself.
The Emperor, of course, permits it."
Beside him, General Cassian Dreilhart showed no change in expression.
"If that boy fails, Duval won't be disappointed.
He'll simply find another."
Malrec gave a short, cold laugh.
"If he succeeds… we will all have to redraw the map."
Below, the twenty students stood with subtle spacing.
They didn't need orders. They didn't need announcements.
They understood:
This was no longer a test.
This was survival.
Leonhart Destrois looked around, confident and upright, speaking just loud enough to provoke.
"If you're slow, you're not my rival. You're just the first stepping stone."
Freya Halbrecht exhaled quietly. She didn't respond. She didn't look.
"Big names? Expensive robes?
They won't save you when blood hits the floor."
Kael Ruvin, son of a southern farmer, stood alert.
His uniform was plain. His presence was sharp.
"They look at me like I don't belong."
"But I'm standing here—same as them."
He eyed Darian.
"If I take down Duval…
will the sky shake, even a little?"
Mirren and Eroth, two other students, whispered to each other.
"The one from the North's a hothead. But the dangerous one… is the quiet one."
"Duval?"
"Him… and the other one. The Prince."
At the far side of the arena stood Lucius Octavianus Magnus, firstborn of the Emperor.
His posture perfect. Silver hair catching the light.
He didn't greet. He didn't speak.
But inside him, layered thoughts rotated like clockwork.
"They're all watching me… but none of them understand what it means to be shaped just to be watched."
"They think I stand here because of blood.
But blood is not honor. Blood is pressure."
He looked briefly at Darian Duval.
"He doesn't belong. But he doesn't submit."
"He's not noble. He's something worse. He's purpose given form."
Lucius took a deep breath.
"I don't have to be the strongest."
But I am not allowed to be ordinary."
"If I fall… it won't just be failure.
It'll be a message to the world—that Imperial blood can be broken."
He closed his eyes for a brief second.
"That cannot happen."
As for the others...
They were strong—strong enough to survive.
They had defeated hundreds.
But here, between Duval and Lucius, they began to feel it:
They were strong… but only strong enough to be numbered.
"To be strong is enough to survive."
"But not enough to be remembered."
No announcements. No signal.
But the air had changed.
And they all knew:
"Those who hesitate will be crushed.
Those who doubt will be forgotten."