Southern Edge — Spectator’s Booth

A group of people sat and stood around a large area of the southern edge. In the middle floated an unnatural, hazy image, picturing what was happening inside the forest in a near-real-time display; however, the sounds of the scenery inside didn’t come.

The visions was granted by an artifact that captured light and movement from a certain distance, and display it for a crowd to see. It was an expensive and rare artifact, rarely let outside of the royal vaults, but the Third Prince had permitted its usage for this year. It was a marvel of the capabilities of artifacts, but it was an imperfect one.

The images wavered like heat haze, their details often softened for fast motions. The bright daylight washed out the scenes further, forcing some to shield their eyes or shift position for a better angle. Yet, no one complained. The mere ability to witness events unfolding leagues away was a spectacle in itself

The guests, who were mostly parents of the Gilded Track students, had been watching various visions of the examinees’ trek through the forest. They had been cheering for their children, occasionally boasting about them to others as they collected their flags and clashed with each other.

When instructors entered the fray at the half-hour mark, it was met with delight.

One instructor, known for his agility in maneuvering, had challenged several of the examinees to a chase. Another, with the rare Talent [Phantom Step], had challenged the examinees to find her for her flags. Many of the examinees couldn’t keep up, but it was an entertaining watch.

The atmosphere was one of polished civility, a tapestry of murmured praise and subtle boasts woven between sips of wine.

Then the vision shifted.

It focused on an instructor facing down five examinees. A murmur of interest passed through the crowd as they recognized Carine Sareid at the group’s head, easily the highest-ranking personnel in that forest.

The interest immediately turned to unease the moment the instructor dismantled the students with brutal efficiency. Then the voices solidified into stunned silence as she cast magic, trapping Carine and one other examinee in a sinkhole.

In one of the private tents, the air grew still and cold. All eyes drifted towards it, as if drawn by the sudden, palpable shift in pressure. Inside, Duke Sareid did not move, but his deep glare at the vision promised a storm. The attendant at his side was no different… Her eyes were dead yet sharp, fixed on the image in the air.

In a separate, less opulent tent, where the atmosphere wasn’t that of civility but of professional observation. That professionalism had just evaporated in a single second.

“What is she doing?!” one instructor screamed, his hands clawing at his own hair as if he meant to tear it out. “Cornellia, have you lost your mind?!”

The staff had watched the vision from afar, mostly to record how the exam went for documentary reasons. But now, they who were meant to be impartial observers documenting the exam, had devolved into a state of pure, undiluted panic.

“Is she trying to drag our academy through mud?!” another instructor squeaked, wringing her hands.

“T-The artifact! W-We need to change the scene… fast! Go and tell Alwyn to turn to—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

A shadow fell over the tent’s entrance. Duke Sareid stood framed in the opening, his towering figure seeming to suck the air from the room. He took a single, heavy step inside; his expression was that of frozen calm. Yet everyone there knew it was nothing but that.

Immediately, the four instructors inside shifted from their positions to stand upright.

“Y-Your Grace!” one instructor stammered. He then swept into a bow so deep, he nearly folded himself. “A-A thousand apologies for this mistake, Your Grace! W-We shall reprimand the—”

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“—My daughter…” the Duke interrupted. He turned to see the vision once more, his expression now a mystery to the instructors inside. “It appears she is facing a significant challenge. I wish to see how she overcomes it.”

He took another step. The fabric of the tent seemed to shudder. The seasoned knights, each a warrior in their own right, cowered before the man who was once the living legend of the Royal Knights Academy.

“After the exam, I wish to speak with the board of directors and that instructor as well. Ensure they are available.” It wasn’t a request, but an outright command.

They weren’t in any position to schedule such a meeting, but they weren’t in any position to refuse either. All they could do was nod, their heads bobbing in frantic, synchronized agreement.

One thing echoed clearly in their mind: Cornellia wasn’t just digging a hole for an examinee. She was digging a grave for the entire academy.

—

The mud was cold and clingy on Carine’s uniform, turning the mostly white outfit into a pattern of earth and mud. But my anger wasn’t directed at that; rather, it was at the one who caused it.

Instructor Cornellia.

She stood in front of me, a dark glare flickering in-between the two of us. Her open coat revealed the wooden daggers at her hips, and though they were mere training tools, knowing just what those hands could do was enough of an intimidation.

“Take the flags and hide,” I ordered Phil.

“But Lady Carine, I can—”

“Now

.”

Before he puts you and our flags into a hole again.

He finally got the message and bolted with our precious flags. I let him keep his sword instead of grabbing it for Feyt; there’s a chance he might need it.

Cornellia’s glare shifted from Carine to Feyt. “Tell me, why is a standardized track examinee here?” she said, almost like a fake curiosity. “Shouldn’t you be in the eastern forest? Did you stumble here by chance, or are you here to play the hero for a noble?”

I raised my wooden sword as Carine, the gesture firm and practiced despite the nervousness I hid deep inside. “We’re leaving. Stand aside.”

“I think not.” Her hand shifted as she picked up a dagger, its light weight danced around her palm. But she didn’t throw it. Instead, she snapped her eyes open with concentration, and a string of foreign words spilled from her mouth.

“Oh roots and stone, yield underneath their weight—!”

It’s magic again!

I quickly shifted my legs, stepping laterally in opposite directions, forcing her to split her focus.

Her chant stuttered. Her eyes, wide with sudden confusion, darted between the both of me, unable to settle on a single target. With a sharp, frustrated exhale, she abandoned the spell and leaped back, putting distance between us once more.

Alright, it worked.

I snatched my sword from the ground as Feyt. Now we stood as mirror images, around ten paces apart, both facing her. The options unfolded before me like a mental simulation. I could lure her, bait and ambush, or use constant feints. But one thing remained awfully clear. Fighting her held little to no merit.

She had not only experience, skill, physique, but also magic.

Our wooden swords were toys in comparison.

I spent quite a bit of time in that hole; I doubt it would be long until the trumpets were sounded, and I hadn’t even secured a clear path to the southern edge.

But how should we escape? She was fast, not a blur, but still fast, and I had good reason to believe she would chase me—Carine, specifically—to the ends of this forest.

Not to mention, I was worried about the others in the forest. I could hear their groans of pain, caused by the woman before us. She wouldn’t go as far as hurting them badly, would she? She’s still an instructor, after all.

Before I could think of any other options, the thought was cut short as she moved.

In a sudden sprint, she didn’t go for Carine. She wen’t for Feyt.

Why me?!

I reacted quickly and brought my sword up to anticipate an attack, but she didn’t even swing. She grabbed the wooden blade, her grip as strong as iron.

“Stay out of this, boy,” she said, and then her foot buried itself in my stomach.

Ugh—!!

The pain rippled throughout both of my bodies, a sickening jolt that nearly caused my unharmed self to stumble. But I gritted my teeth and stood my ground.

I quickly rushed forward as Carine, lunging at her back. But thanks to her [Spatial Awareness], she noticed my presence and turned just in time and unleashed a high sweeping kick over my head. I ducked, the wind from the kick rustling my hair.

She’s fast, but my eyes are faster!

She had left an opening. A small one, but an opening nonetheless. I drove the pommel of my sword hard into her side.

She let out a small but satisfying wince of pain. It was almost worth the mud. She let go of Feyt’s blade and jumped back again, a hand held tightly to her ribs. The glare she directed wasn’t just cold; it felt like genuine anger this time.

That was another thing I noticed. Her weapon of choice was daggers, along with her punches and kicks; you had to be in close range to use them. But why was she keeping her distance? She wasn’t exactly throwing those daggers of hers a whole lot either.

A theory formed in my mind.

Could it be… she isn’t all that durable?

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