CHAPTER 27: THE TRAIL RESULT (2)

Chapter 27: The Trial Result (2)

The ranking board burns in the sky. Gasps ripple across the Colosseum. Michael feels every gaze digging into him.

Michael didn’t return their gazes.

He stood still, his clothes still damp, crusted with blood, his body a map of bruises. The golden glow of the board painted across his weary face.

’Twenty-six thousand. They’re all staring like I just turned into a god. If only they knew the truth. That I almost drowned in my own blood. That if I’d slipped even once, I’d be a corpse at the bottom of that river.’

His jaw tightened, though not in pride. To him, the numbers were no triumph—they were a reminder.

He clenched his fists, breathing slow, steady, deliberate. Every muscle screamed with fatigue, every wound throbbed. What he needed wasn’t glory. It was silence.

His jaw tightens, lips dry.

They see numbers. I see how close I came to losing everything.

A whisper from the crowd cuts through— "He must’ve cheated." Another, "He’s not human." Michael exhales slowly, refusing to meet their eyes.

Michael (murmurs under his breath):

"Cheated? If only it were that easy..."

(His hands curl slightly, not in anger, but from the phantom ache of swinging his blade one time too many.

’Leon’s not far behind. Edric’s pride will push him harder. Selena’s watching me too closely. Lyra... she’ll chase anyone ahead of her just for the thrill. They’ll all come. One way or another, they’ll all come for me.’

The board flickers again. The glow reflects in Michael’s tired eyes. His lips press into a thin line, his breath fogging faintly in the cold Colosseum air.

Michael (murmurs):

"This isn’t a victory. It’s a countdown."

He turns, ignoring the stares, shoulders heavy but unbowed. Each step feels like dragging lead, but he forces them steady, measured. No one can see him stumble. Not here.

Michael turned his back on the board and walked toward the exits of the Colosseum.

---

The golden board burns above, casting light across hundreds of exhausted cadets. Gasps and whispers ripple like a storm. Sophia watches silently, eyes scanning every flicker of pride, envy, fear.

’There it is. The first fracture. Some stand taller, some shrink into themselves. The board does more damage than the monsters ever could. Because here, they see their worth written in numbers.’

Her gaze lingers on Michael Willson, the boy standing apart, his clothes bloodstained, his eyes not lifting in pride.

And him. The anomaly. A commoner with no banner, no bloodline... yet he carries himself like someone who’s already lived through wars. No celebration, no arrogance. Just exhaustion. Dangerous. The Academy will devour him, or he will devour it.

Her eyes shift to Leon Lionheart. His pride is cracked but not shattered. He glares at the board as if it insulted his birthright.

Leon... your bloodline’s arrogance burns hotter than your flame. But fire is either tempered into steel—or it consumes itself. Which will you choose?

Then to Edric William, sneering, venom twisting his words as he leans toward his lackey.

Edric. A snake hissing at shadows. Your pride is brittle. You see Michael as filth because it’s easier than admitting he surpassed you. Such minds break early... or they become dangerous in ways that can’t be measured.

Selena Veylan catches her attention—her violet eyes fixed, trembling faintly.

And Selena... even royalty quivers. I see it in your gaze. Not fear, not hatred. Something softer. That softness will either be your downfall... or his.

Her sharp gaze flicks across Lyra, Aiden, Aurelia, Maria—each fire, each flaw. A sea of futures standing before her, all fragile, all burning to prove themselves.

Arcadia is a crucible. They think today’s trial was survival? No. This is survival—the crushing weight of comparison, of bloodlines, of being seen. Most will break here, in their own minds, long before their bodies fail.

Her lips curl into the faintest, private smirk—gone before anyone notices.

And those who don’t break... those who learn to walk through envy, pride, and despair without flinching—those are the ones worth shaping. Worth forging.

She raises her hand, her voice about to thunder again, but inside her flame burns quieter, almost grim.

Twenty-six thousand. They’re all staring like I just turned into a god. If only they knew the truth. That I almost drowned in my own blood. That if I’d slipped even once, I’d be a corpse at the bottom of that river.

’ Let’s see which of you survives being seen.’

Sophia Emberheart’s voice thundered once more, halting the restless crowd.

"Remember this well. Surviving the trial is only the beginning. Even those who fell have passed—their effort will not be discarded. But your rankings..." Her gaze cut like a blade across the cadets. "...will decide your placement."

Golden fire blazed in her eyes.

"Tomorrow evening, you will learn your final marks. Only the Top Twenty will enter Class A. The rest of you—earn your place, or be left behind."

The glowing board dissolved into golden dust. Sophia’s cloak swirled as she turned, vanishing into the sky in a flare of crimson light.

The arena was silent, the weight of her words sinking deep.

---

Michael pushes through the doors of the common hall. Lantern light spills over rows of cots

where cadets collapse,

some laughing,

some whispering,

some too dazed to speak.

The air reeks of sweat, blood, and iron.

The academy’s common hall stretched long and warm, lanterns burning in even rows across polished stone.

Cadets collapsed onto the rows of cots, some snoring the moment their heads touched the pillows, others whispering frantically about the rankings.

Envy, disbelief, and excitement buzzed in the air like static.

’ It smells like a battlefield hospital. No one here is celebrating. They’re just... alive. And that’s enough.:

A younger cadet stares at him as he passes, eyes wide, lips parting to whisper:

"That’s him..." Michael doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

’Let them talk. Let them stare. Tomorrow, the same mouths will curse me. Or cheer. It doesn’t matter. None of it helps me survive.’

Finally, he lowers himself onto a cot. His body gives out like a snapped bowstring. His sword rests against the bedframe. His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythm.

Michael (murmurs to himself, almost too soft to hear):

"Not number one. Just... alive."

Sleep takes him instantly. For once, there are no strategies, no numbers, no plans. Just the silence of exhaustion.

---

The Colosseum has emptied. Golden embers of her magic still flicker faintly where the ranking board dissolved. Sophia stands alone on a high balcony, overlooking the academy grounds. The night air is sharp, carrying silence where earlier there had been a storm of voices.

’Twenty-six thousand points. Nearly ten thousand above Leon Lionheart. That gap should be impossible... and yet he carved it as if fate itself bent to his will.’

Her hand lingers on the balcony’s stone rail. Flames dance faintly along her fingertips, restless, mirroring her thoughts.

Michael Willson. A boy with no family crest, no legacy, no resources... and yet he moved through the trial like a veteran soldier. Not with arrogance, not with desperation. With certainty. As if he knew.

She exhales, the fire curling into smoke.

’The others I can read. Leon—pride and rivalry. Edric fragile ego hiding venom. Selena royal grace quivering at the edges. Lyra reckless joy in the fight. Even Aiden wolfish hunger. All predictable. All normal for their kind.’

Her gaze sharpens, remembering Michael’s face under the board’s glow—tired, quiet, unreadable.

’ But him? No pride, no boasting. Only silence. Only restraint. That is not how sixteen-year-old boys react to triumph. That is how survivors of war react to survival. ’

Her hand tightens on the railing, fire sizzling against cold marble.

’What are you, Michael Willson? A prodigy? A liar? Or something the Academy has never seen before?’

She lets the flames die, her expression cooling into steel.

’The Headmaster will want a report. And I will give it. But this one... this one I’ll watch myself. Closely.’

Her cloak swirls as she turns away from the balcony, crimson light trailing in her wake. For all her authority, a single thought lingers, sharp and quiet as a blade.

"If Michael Willson is not what he seems... then Arcadia’s future may burn brighter—or darker—than even I can control."