"Apologies for interrupting the lovers," Mastrata's voice cut through the tense silence, his words soaked in mockery.
He approached Ursang with measured steps, but kept a careful distance, his thin frame radiating malice. Ursang stood firm, his imposing figure a stark contrast to the slender snake in front of him. He didn't move, only narrowed his eyes.
"If isn't Mastrata the bastard, who else could it be?" Ursang said, his tone cold, the insult biting.
"Always with the attitude, Ursang. Always thinking you're better than the rest," Mastrata sneered, twirling one of the daggers in his hand.
"Your words, not ours. No one put them in your mouth," Yacha shot back, his voice laced with disdain.
Mastrata's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Yacha. The hatred that simmered in those cold, reptilian eyes was unmistakable. Whatever sick games Mastrata had been planning, Yacha had no doubt he was at the center of them.
"The short whip ruins all the fun," Mastrata hissed. "Believe me, I could crush you here and now. No one would even know. Whatever happens in this forest, stays here... bitch."
"Stop talking. Act." Yacha's words were sharp, filled with challenge. "Words mean nothing."
Mastrata's grin returned, a sinister glint in his eye. "Then let's settle it. One-on-one, me and you, Yacha. And this time, no one interferes—like you did with that poor wolf." He raised his daggers, directing them towards the others. The tension spiked as Mastrata's team circled behind him, eager for blood.
"Show them their place, Mastrata!" someone shouted from the crowd. The air buzzed with the anticipation of violence.
Mastrata moved first. He lunged, his body low, daggers aimed at Yacha with lethal precision. Yacha parried the attack with his spear, deflecting the blade and dodging to the side. Their weapons clashed with a sharp ring, the forest around them eerily quiet, as if it were holding its breath.
Yacha spun, launching a curved fireball towards Mastrata, but the man was too fast—he twisted his body, narrowly dodging the flames. Ursang, seeing the fight escalate, took a step forward to help, but an arrow whizzed past him, embedding itself in the ground at his feet. It was a clear warning. They were playing dirty.
The battle intensified, but exhaustion was already gnawing at Yacha. His attacks grew slower, heavier, while Mastrata moved with infuriating ease, darting in and out, his daggers flashing in the dim light. Yacha could feel himself losing ground, his focus slipping as two arrows flew in from different directions. He barely dodged the first, but the second sliced across his shoulder.
A new figure appeared in the fray. Einner, clad in black, his face obscured by a hood. A master of close combat, he wasted no time launching a brutal attack on Yacha, his curved dagger grazing Yacha's back. The pain was sharp and immediate. Yacha tried to twist away from the killing blow aimed at his kidneys, but Einner was relentless, his strikes precise and unyielding.
Before Yacha could recover, Speira charged into the fight, her sword drawn as she engaged Einner. But the assassins' attacks didn't stop. One of Einner's allies, hidden in the trees, sent another dagger flying toward Speira. She dodged just in time, but the blade nicked her face, drawing a thin line of blood dangerously close to her eye.
It wasn't just Mastrata's fight anymore. His entire team joined, moving like shadows through the trees. Arrows rained down, knives flew, and Yacha could barely keep up. An arrow pierced his thigh, sending a jolt of pain through his body, and he stumbled, legs growing heavy, vision blurring. Mastrata saw his opportunity. With a grin, he drew his long sword and rushed toward Yacha, swinging with deadly intent.
Yacha couldn't move. The pain in his leg was overwhelming, his body too drained to respond. This was it—there was no way to dodge the blow.
Then, something changed.
Ursang roared, his body engulfed in a furious aura. At first, Yacha thought it was fire magic, but no—it was something raw, primal. Ursang's power surged around him, his rage palpable. Before Mastrata's blade could reach Yacha, Ursang was there, a sphere of earth magic exploding between them, knocking Mastrata off his feet. The earth trembled as Ursang unleashed his fury.
Mastrata's team faltered, stunned by the sheer force of Ursang's power. In the blink of an eye, Speira, Elin, and Ursang sprang into action. The fight turned. Speira's movements were a blur, her sword slicing through the air, while Elin's shield deflected arrows with surgical precision. The others couldn't comprehend what was happening—by the time they realized they were losing, it was too late. One by one, Mastrata's teammates fell.
Yacha, ignoring the pain coursing through his body, summoned the last of his strength. He channeled thunder magic into his spear, the crackling energy surging through the weapon as he charged toward Mastrata, who was still reeling from Ursang's attack. The spear struck Mastrata, the thunder magic sending paralyzing shocks through his body. For a moment, Mastrata couldn't move—his limbs seized, his muscles frozen.
But Yacha didn't stop. He raised his spear again, this time not to win, but to make Mastrata suffer.
Before Yacha could land the final blow, something stirred in the forest.
The trees glowed with a sudden green light, branches shifting and morphing, sharp and spiked, aimed directly at their heads. Everyone froze, their weapons still raised, unsure of what was happening.
A figure stepped out from the shadows. It was hard to tell if they were male or female, their form and features obscured by the strange glow of the forest. Slim, with long triangular ears and brownish skin, their eyes radiated a fierce green aura. An elf.
"So much entertainment for a race consumed by pride and greed," the elf spoke, their voice calm but full of contempt. "A pathetic display of violence and arrogance."
Yacha's heart sank. He recognized the power radiating from the elf. This was no ordinary being. The elf's magic, their very presence, was overwhelming. And they weren't alone. Around them, creatures began to swarm—snakes and cockroaches, their bodies shifting into strange forms. Yacha knew the stories. These were jinn, shape-shifters born from fire, beings far stronger than most humans. They were dangerous. Lethal.
The elf looked down at the battlefield, seemingly unimpressed by the chaos that had unfolded.
"this boy is thunder user Saint Sara?" one of the jinn, now shaped as a bat, asked.
"is he?, the boy we`ve been looking for?" the elf replied,
"perhaps... should i told the slayer of nergal we found her boy?"
"hmmm... send her the message, but tell her to not get her hopes high"
With a snap of her fingers, the elf sent Mastrata and his team flying. They vanished into the trees without another word, their broken bodies disappearing into the shadows.
The elf turned to Yacha and his group, her eyes locking onto Yacha's. "Head straight, Yacha. someone is waiting for you ahead" she said.
And just like that, she vanished into the night.
Yacha was confused at what he heard. Who was this person waiting for him. he wondered.
Speira knelt beside Yacha, breaking the arrow in his thigh and tying a makeshift bandage around the wound. The group, battered and bruised, shared a moment of quiet relief. The danger had passed, for now. They laughed—soft, exhausted, but alive.
Minutes later, they reached the clearing. Lights flickered ahead, and a platform with a heavily-guarded table came into view. To their left, multiple tents were set up, each serving different roles. Orcham and Hadleigh were waiting there, alongside the elf.
An official party greeted them, taking their names and recording their trophies. Their blood-soaked, dirt-covered forms were a testament to the brutality they'd survived.
A woman, her eyes warm and smile gentle, looked up from her clipboard. "Congratulations, young ones," she said, her voice soft. "You've passed."
The trials were over, but the real test was only beginning.