The battleground stretched before us, a wide-open field surrounded by towering stone walls. It was an artificial arena, constructed specifically for the final test. The ground was covered in packed dirt, with faint traces of old battle scars—marks left by the countless trials that had taken place here before.
This was where the last test would take place.
The Soul Construct Battle.
A practical examination designed to push aspiring knights to their limits. Four candidates would be placed into a team, forced to cooperate, and pitted against a monster created entirely from condensed soul energy. These creatures weren't alive, not in the traditional sense. They had no thoughts, no emotions—only the sole purpose of fighting until they were destroyed. Their forms varied depending on the difficulty level assigned, but they all shared one thing in common: they were ruthless.
Unlike human opponents, they didn't hesitate, they didn't tire, and they didn't make mistakes.
The exam wasn't just about swordsmanship. It was about teamwork, adaptability, and mental resilience. It was a test of whether you could function as a knight—whether you could trust your comrades and survive on the battlefield.
I stood among the other candidates, listening as the knight overseeing the exam gave his final briefing. His voice was steady, authoritative, carrying the weight of someone who had seen more battles than most of us ever would.
"This test will determine your final ranking," he stated. "Your performance here will decide whether you are worthy of becoming a knight and, if so, where you stand among your peers."
His eyes swept over the gathered candidates, measuring us, searching for hesitation.
"You will each be assigned a team of four. Work together, or fail alone."
A simple truth. A brutal one.
"The construct you will face has been adjusted for this examination—strong enough to pose a threat, but not invincible. It will fight with full intent to kill. Do not hold back. If you do…" His gaze darkened. "You will die."
A hush fell over the group. Some swallowed hard, others tightened their grips on their weapons.
I remained silent.
It wasn't fear that concerned me. It was annoyance.
Team-based combat.
I wasn't against the concept—logically, I understood its necessity. But trusting others? Relying on them? That was an entirely different matter.
The knight began calling out names, sorting us into groups.
I barely listened until my own name was spoken.
"Freon."
I stepped forward.
"Your teammates are—"
He listed three names, but they meant nothing to me. I hadn't bothered learning the names of the other candidates.
I turned my head slightly, watching as my supposed comrades stepped forward.
A young woman with a slender build and sharp green eyes. A broad-shouldered man who looked like he had been fighting for years. And a younger boy—probably the least experienced of the three—who looked more nervous than I would have liked.
I exhaled slowly.
This was my team.
The knight gestured toward the field. "Take your positions. Your test begins now."
Without a word, I turned and walked forward, stepping onto the battleground. The others followed.
As we reached the center, the air shifted.
A deep, resonating hum filled the arena, followed by a pulse of energy. The ground beneath us vibrated slightly.
And then, the construct began to form.
Swirling tendrils of dark blue energy coalesced into a single point, twisting and stretching, taking shape. The form was humanoid, but grotesquely distorted—its limbs elongated, its fingers curved into jagged claws. Its "face" was a hollow mask, void of expression, save for two empty slits where eyes should have been.
It stood at least twice my height.
And it was watching us.
No breath. No heartbeat.
Just existence.
Waiting.
I tightened my grip on my sword.
The test had begun.
The construct moved first.
A blur of motion—far too fast for something that size. It lunged at us, its elongated claw slicing through the air with terrifying speed. The broad-shouldered man barely managed to raise his shield in time, and when the impact landed, it sent him skidding back several feet, dirt spraying into the air.
I didn't wait for orders.
Springing to the side, I gripped my sword tightly and closed the distance, aiming for the creature's exposed flank. The young woman moved alongside me, her twin daggers flashing in the dim light. We struck at the same time.
Steel met soul energy.
My blade cut deep—but not deep enough. The resistance was unnatural, like slicing through water that refused to part. The construct twisted unnaturally, its elongated arm whipping toward me in retaliation.
I barely ducked in time. The force of its swing sent a gust of wind rushing past my head.
"Its form is unstable!" the woman shouted. "We can cut it, but it keeps pulling itself back together!"
The younger boy, standing several feet away, raised his hands. Energy crackled between his fingers before he thrust them forward. A bolt of lightning shot toward the construct, striking its chest.
For a brief second, the energy coursed through its form, illuminating its hollow body—then the construct absorbed the attack, its dark blue mist pulsing as if feeding on it.
The boy froze. "That's not—"
The construct turned toward him.
And then it vanished.
A flicker of movement—then it reappeared directly in front of him.
Before he could react, its massive clawed hand swung downward.
The construct's claw descended like a guillotine. The boy's eyes widened in panic—too slow to react, too frozen in fear to move. But before the strike could land, steel flashed between them.
My blade intercepted the claw, deflecting it just enough to send the attack wide. The sheer force of the impact sent tremors up his arm, but he held firm, feet digging into the dirt for stability.
"Move," I ordered, voice clipped and cold. The boy hesitated only a second before stumbling back, retreating behind the others.
The construct adjusted, shifting its hollow gaze toward me, as if recognizing me as the new priority.
It was a mistake.
I exhaled slowly, loosening my grip slightly before tightening it once more. This wasn't a battle of brute strength. I could hack at the construct all day, and it would simply reform. No, this required something else. Precision. Technique.
The memories of an old master's voice surfaced in my mind, echoing across time.
"A true blade does not merely cut flesh. It carves into existence itself."
The Ashen Requiem Sword Art.
It was a technique born in an age of war, when knights faced creatures impervious to normal steel. It did not rely on overwhelming power but rather an understanding of where to strike, how to strike. It was said that a true master of the Ashen Requiem Sword Art could cleave through illusions, sever energy itself, and carve through the incorporeal as if it were solid.
I had not mastered it. But I knew enough.
I steadied my stance, aligning my blade, heart, and breath as one. The construct lunged, sensing an opening. But I did not evade. Instead, I stepped into the attack, blade flickering like a whisper in the wind.
A single cut.
Not wide. Not forceful.
Precise.
My sword met the construct's body at the core of its shifting energy—at the point where its power converged and stabilized. The blade slipped through like a needle through fabric, unraveling the energy as it passed.
The construct staggered. Its form, once fluid and seamless, wavered.
And then, part of its torso vanished.
The construct reeled back, an eerie, soundless shriek rippling through the air as its balance faltered. The remaining energy of its form flickered erratically, struggling to mend what had been undone.
I exhaled, blade steady, his gaze cold.
"Ashen Requiem Sword Art," I murmured. "You don't cut the body. You sever the essence."
The test was far from over.
But the battle had just shifted in my favor.