"George Sterlinguard!" an instructor called out, rallying the prospects gathered for admission.
Amidst the crowd of eager young talents, George stepped forward, joining others who had been singled out by different instructors. His heart raced, but he kept his expression steady.
The instructor glanced at the paper in his hands, carefully comparing George's face to the picture in front of him. After a brief pause, he nodded. "Head to the right lane," he instructed, gesturing toward a line of students waiting in the non-magic sect.
George, with a deep breath, made his way toward the right, taking his place among the many barbarians, humans, and a scattering of other races. The non-magic sector was a melting pot, with its students destined to rely on raw strength, skill, and discipline instead of magical abilities. In contrast, the left lane, filled with students of the magic sect, was an entirely different world—extravagantly dressed nobles, royalty, and the wealthy elite, all draped in the finest robes money could buy.
George's eyes wandered as he observed the magic sect students. The difference between the two groups was striking, and it reminded him of what he had learned about the privileged few who could tap into magic. For most, it was an unattainable skill, a result of their lack of innate mana reserves. The non-magical alternatives were their only path forward.
His thoughts were interrupted by a glint of gold behind him, forcing him to squint as he turned. A young man, bedecked in garish gold-embroidered clothes, stood among the crowd. George couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen him somewhere before, though the memory remained elusive. The boy stood out like a sore thumb—his wealth and power were evident from his attire alone.
And then, there were the others around him. Eight more individuals caught George's attention, each unique in their presence. There was a swordsman, wielding a blade of exquisite craftsmanship, and a group of barbarians—hulking figures whose sheer size and strength could have made anyone second-guess a confrontation. The elves, with their ethereal beauty and towering height, stood apart, their cold expressions hinting at an air of superiority.
Before George could ponder further, the instructor who had called his name approached. He pointed directly at him and the group surrounding the golden-clad young man. "You, you, and the rest of you, follow me!" His voice was firm, commanding immediate compliance.
George, along with the others, followed the instructor toward a vast open field behind the academy. Tents were pitched across the field, and they entered one, where a massive figure sat cross-legged inside.
Gideon Cross. The headmaster of the non-magic sect. His name alone was enough to send waves of intimidation through the room, but seeing him in person was an entirely different experience. The knight was a living legend, renowned not only in Emerald City but across the world as one of the greatest fighters. His hulking form dwarfed everyone in the room, and even the mighty barbarians seemed small in his presence.
Some of the barbarians bowed instinctively, but Gideon quickly waved them off. "None of that here. You're all equals. Act like it," he said, his voice carrying an easy authority.
The prospects exchanged glances, acknowledging one another. Among the group was Stulgra Angmar, the Barbarian Princess herself. Her muscular yet graceful form was unmistakable. She commanded respect simply by standing there, flanked by two barbarian companions, each as formidable as they come. Stulgra's lineage and strength were well known—she was destined for greatness, and it was only a matter of time before she took the throne of Angmar.
Across from her stood her younger brother, Prince Heigdeirr Angmar. While not an heir to the throne, his immense strength made him a force to be reckoned with, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow over the others.
Beside him was Madrath, a name whispered with reverence in the fighting circles. He was the younger brother of the current World Fighting Champion, Drothgar Angmar, and though he didn't carry the title of royalty, his skills in combat rivaled even those of his champion sibling. To fight him was to know defeat.
The tension in the tent thickened when the golden-clad young man spoke. His voice was confident, perhaps a bit too much so. "I didn't expect to meet the Barbarian Princess here."
Stulgra turned, bowing her head respectfully. "I greet the Prince of the Empire."
The other barbarians followed suit, bowing with equal respect.
The young man smiled, clearly enjoying the attention. "No need for such formalities. Here, we are equals. My royal titles mean little in a place like this."
He then shifted his attention to the swordsman. "Bryne of the Claymore Household, am I correct?"
Bryne, who had been silent until now, nodded. "Yes."
Bryne Claymore, the youngest son of the world-renowned Claymore family, stood stoically. The Claymores were legendary for their swordsmanship, their name carried weight across every continent. But even his prestigious background paled in comparison to the Prince standing before them.
Prince Royce Isenwyn, heir to the Empire of Isenwyn, was a man whose influence extended far beyond the academy. His family controlled kingdoms, ruled nations, and taxed powerful realms, including Emerald City itself. In this world, few dared challenge him.
"I almost missed greeting the two of you," Royce continued, addressing the elves who stood apart from the rest. "Skilled archers, I presume?"
The two elves gave a slight nod, acknowledging his greeting but offering little more in terms of respect.
Finally, Royce's gaze fell upon George, his curiosity piqued. "And you? I don't believe we've met. What's your name?"
George, drawing from years of experience as a lawyer and performer, met Royce's gaze with calm confidence. He extended his hand, matching the Prince's charismatic air. "I am George Sterlinguard. It's an honor to meet you."
Royce shook George's hand, though the name caught his attention. "Sterlinguard... The family that used to own Emerald Vale, correct? How is your family?"
George's face tightened, but he didn't falter. "They're gone. All of them."
Royce paused, his expression softening slightly. "I... I see."
The others in the tent had overheard the conversation, and murmurs spread as they realized George's family history. A fallen noble. The thought of what George must have endured drew a few curious glances.
Before more could be said, the instructor reentered the tent, ready to deliver instructions. But Gideon raised a hand, silencing him.
"Sir?" the instructor asked, unsure of why the headmaster had intervened.
"We have the ten most promising prospects standing in this tent, and you want to put them through the usual boring tests?" Gideon grinned, his eyes gleaming. "No, no. I want to see what they're made of."
The room grew still.
"All of you... will fight each other," Gideon declared, his grin widening.
George felt his heart sink into his stomach. He had spent the past week preparing for the standard tests, researching every angle, every strategy, only to find himself now facing something entirely different. A fight.
And as he looked around at the faces of the others, it was clear—they were eager. These were people who lived for battle. They couldn't wait.