A man in a black robe stood up on the second floor. Without hesitation, he descended the stairs, his steps echoing through the hushed hall.

My fists clenched on instinct as I watched him walk toward the platform.

The Hollow weapon rested there, waiting.

Waiting to see if this man could even lift it.

The entire building seemed to hold its breath.

And just like that, the man stepped onto the stage.

The crowd erupted again, cheers and curses clashing, but my focus didn't waver.

I leaned forward slightly, my chest tight.

Because in just a few moments…we would see if the sword would recognize him.

Or reject him.

***

The man in the black robe didn't falter.

Not once.

Each step he took sounded heavier than it should've, like the very air had grown thick around him.

But despite all that, I knew what mattered wasn't physical strength but in actuality mental strength.

The stairs creaked under his weight, even though his frame didn't seem that large.

His hood stayed low, shadows covering his face, but the way his shoulders were squared, the way he carried himself, it wasn't the walk of some timid noble hoping for luck.

No, this was a man who believed he belonged up there.

The platform's surface shined faintly, runes carved into the stone glowing blue, like veins of lightning flowing outward from the sword. The Hollow weapon lay embedded at the center, half-buried in the slab, as though daring anyone foolish enough to touch it. Even from here, sitting behind layers of enchanted glass in the VIP lounge, I felt it. That pull. That suffocating pressure radiating from the blade, testing, watching.

The man's boots echoed louder as he finally reached the elevated platform.

He didn't acknowledge the crowd; not a single glance toward the nobles leaning forward in their seats, nor the common folk pressed against the rails of the higher floors, nor even Mr. Lapui, who stood to the side with his hands clasped tightly.

He walked straight to the coffin where the sword was placed.

My breath caught when he stopped in front of it.

The Hollow weapon's hilt shimmered faintly, its black surface etched with silver cracks like veins of molten starlight.

The aura surrounding it lashed out like smoke, curling around the man's legs, tugging at his robe as though it were alive. Some people gasped. Some hissed curses. And some, like me, just stared in silence.

"Do you think he'll manage?" Aurelia whispered beside me, her voice low, teasing, but this time even she sounded tense.

"I doubt it," Seraphina muttered, her dark blue hair shifting as she leaned forward, eyes sharp. "That sword doesn't just test strength. It looks at the soul."

"Then he's done for," Erza said bluntly, arms crossed. "He looks like a coward hiding under a hood."

But King Philip, seated at the far end of the lounge, spoke for the first time in a while. His deep voice rolled like thunder across the room.

"Don't judge too quickly. Some who hide themselves…do so for a reason."

Sia, who had been strangely quiet all this time, shifted in her seat. Her arms were folded, but her eyes glimmered with something close to excitement.

The annoyance she usually carried whenever she looked at Philip was gone, at least for now.

Her gaze stayed locked on the stage, her lips parted just slightly. I realized then—she was holding her breath. Just like me.

The man in black extended his hand.

The crowd roared instantly. Some shouted encouragement, others insults, and a few even begged him to step away.

From the third floor, I heard a noble laugh mockingly, "He'll burn before he even lays a finger on it!"

And down near the ground level, commoners leaned over the rails, whispering to one another, wagering their coins on whether he'd be thrown across the stage or simply collapse where he stood.

But none of that reached him.

He gripped the hilt as the air shifted.

It was like the temperature dropped in an instant, a cold wave rushing over everyone in the building.

Torches along the walls flickered. A faint ringing sound filled my ears, sharp and endless, like glass vibrating under pressure.

And then it hit.

A violent burst of energy exploded from the sword, surging across the stage in a ripple of black and silver light.

The man staggered, his robe whipping wildly around him. The runes beneath his feet blazed brighter, crawling upward toward his legs, binding him in that glow.

His hood almost slipped back, but he clenched his teeth, gripping tighter instead of letting go.

The audience erupted again.

"Idiot!" someone screamed.

"He's holding on!" another shouted.

"His soul will shatter!"

"No… look—he's still standing!"

I leaned so close to the glass I almost touched it. My fists clenched hard, knuckles white. I wanted to believe, for just a second, that he might succeed.

That maybe the Hollow weapon would acknowledge him. But deep inside…I doubted it.

After all...it couldn't be that easy–

Because I could feel the sword's resistance from here, it wasn't just rejecting him, I realised; it was pushing back with fury, as if mocking the man's attempt.

Sia suddenly whispered beside me, her voice barely audible.

"…The sword doesn't like him."

I glanced at her, startled, but her gaze didn't move from the stage.

She was trembling slightly, though whether from excitement or something else, I couldn't tell.

Venus D. Romero, sitting behind us with that eternal half-smile, leaned back in his chair and said quietly, "Ah…now this is where the fun begins."

***

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