The crowd shifted uneasily as Headmaster Reins raised his hand. "Those with formal invitations, move to my right. The rest of you, to my left."

I clutched Mallie's invitation beneath my cloak as people began to separate. The sound of boots on cobblestones filled the courtyard, accompanied by the rustle of fine cloth and clink of weapons. I joined the smaller group on the right, noting the prevalence of noble crests and expensive attire among my fellow invitees.

Antonius strutted to our section, his purple-clad retinue trailing behind him like peacock feathers. He positioned himself at the front, chin lifted high enough to look down his nose at everyone else.

A flash of green scales caught my eye. Arctur moved through the crowd with surprising grace for his size, several humans stepping back to give him space. The lizardman's presence among the invited candidates drew whispers and stares. His worn leather armor contrasted sharply with the silk and steel around him, yet he carried himself with quiet dignity.

The non-invited group formed a much larger mass to our left. Their clothing ranged from practical traveling gear to battle-worn armor, marking them as mercenaries, soldiers, and adventurers seeking entry. Barkatus stood among them, his weathered face betraying no emotion as he watched the proceedings.

I counted roughly thirty invited candidates compared to over a hundred without invitations. The disparity spoke volumes about the Academy's selection process. Most of those with invitations bore noble house sigils or carried themselves with the entitled air of privileged upbringing.

My mechanical fingers tightened on Mallie's invitation. In that moment, I felt acutely aware of being an outsider, a broken thing hiding behind veils and pretense, standing among the chosen few through borrowed credentials.

The irony wasn't lost on me that I, a monster, had ended up among the privileged while so many humans were relegated to the larger group. My Analyze ability confirmed what my eyes told me: the invited section averaged much lower levels than those without invitations. Experience, it seemed, counted for less than social standing.

Headmaster Reins stepped forward. "Only those with invitations may attend the Academy this year."

Quiet murmurs rippled through the larger crowd. A few hands gripped sword hilts, while others clenched into fists.

Kalder raised his hand, silencing them. "But in the War Academy, worth isn't proven by paper." His voice carried across the courtyard like thunder. "Worth is proven through blood."

My synthetic spine straightened at those words. Around me, several noble youth exchanged worried glances.

"Those without invitations may challenge any invited candidate to a duel. Win, and you take their place." Kalder's eyes swept over both groups. "However, no killing. That privilege is reserved for true Academy students."

Gasps erupted from the invited section. Antonius's face turned an interesting shade of purple. "This is outrageous! My father will hear-"

"SILENCE!" Kalder's roar shook dust from the courtyard walls. The noble youth stumbled back, mouth snapping shut.

I watched the non-invited group carefully. Many wore predatory grins as they sized up the nobles. Their higher levels and battle experience gave them clear advantages over the sheltered youth around me.

Arctur remained stoic, his scaled hand resting casually on his spear. Unlike the panicking nobles, he seemed unfazed by this development. I understood why: his level and bearing marked him as someone who had earned his invitation through merit rather than birth.

My mechanical fingers flexed beneath my cloak. The mechanical body I wore underneath my mourning dress could handle most challengers, but revealing it would expose my true nature. Yet the alternative was losing Mallie's invitation, which was my only path to vengeance against Duke Redflight.

The nobles around me had begun arguing again, though in hushed, frightened tones. "This can't be legal-" "Father said the invitation guaranteed-" "We can't fight these common thugs-"

Their complaints died as several warriors from the other group stepped forward, eyes gleaming with opportunity. The stage was set for blood to be spilled, though not fatally. At least, not yet.

Barkatus moved with a predator's grace, the crowd parting before him like water. His scarred face smiled for the first time, full of malice and cold purpose as he fixed his gaze on Antonius.

"I challenge that loud mouth little twat."

The blood drained from Antonius's face. His expensive purple doublet suddenly seemed too large for his frame as he shrank back.

The aide in matching purple livery jumped forward, hands raised. "This is preposterous! You stand before Antonius Souls III, Second Prince of the Kingdom of Souls. We cannot allow such a-"

"Shut up." Headmaster Reins's voice cut through the air. "Prince or not, he will face his challenger or forfeit his place."

One of Antonius's guards stepped up, armor gleaming. "My lord, allow me to stand in your-"

Kalder turned to Casper, who stood silent and deadly at his side. "The next one from their party who speaks that isn't the prince… cut their jaw off."

Casper gave a single nod, his hand moving to rest on his sword hilt. The simple gesture carried more threat than any battlecry.

Silence fell over the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to still. I watched the Souls delegation's faces cycle through shock, outrage, and finally fear as they realized the Academy truly didn't care about their status. Here, titles meant nothing compared to steel.

I watched Antonius's legs tremble as he approached the center of the yard. His purple doublet caught the sunlight, making him look like an exotic bird about to be devoured by a wolf. Barkatus waited, stance relaxed but ready, his weathered armor and scarred face a stark contrast to the prince's pristine appearance.

"You don't understand what you're doing." Antonius's voice cracked. "I am Second Prince of the Kingdom of Souls. This challenge could spark a war between our nations."

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

My Analyze ability showed me his level: a mere 11 compared to Barkatus's 25. The difference was stark enough that even without the ability, anyone could see it in their bearing.

Barkatus threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the courtyard walls. "The Kingdom of Souls?" He spat on the ground. "Your land's only famous for two things: pretty songs and prettier whores. Not warriors." He drew his sword with fluid grace. "I'll be fine."

The prince's face flushed dark red. His jaw clenched so hard I could hear teeth grinding. With jerky movements, he pulled his own blade free: an ornate thing that looked more decorative than practical.

Antonius dropped into what I recognized as Court Style stance, blade held high and angled down toward his opponent. The form was textbook perfect, exactly as one would learn it from an instructor who'd never seen real combat. His weight was too far forward, his grip too tight.

The gathered crowd formed a loose circle around them. The noble youth watched with horror while the veteran warriors grinned, already knowing how this would end. I noticed Arctur studying the match intently, his reptilian eyes missing nothing.

I itched to point out all the flaws in the prince's stance, Assembly wishing to analyze how his expensive sword could be improved in design. But this wasn't my fight. I was here to observe and learn how the Academy handled such matters.

The stark difference between the two fighters told the story of the Academy's dilemma, one of birth versus merit, privilege versus experience. In this moment, all the prince's wealth and status meant nothing against a battle-hardened mercenary.

"Begin," Kalder commanded.

My mental eyes tracked every movement. Barkatus exploded forward, his form blurring. In the fraction of a second before impact, I detected a surge of mana coursing through his blade. The sword transformed into a streak of silver light.

Three distinct cuts manifested in rapid succession. The first severed Antonius's sword arm at the elbow. The second took his other arm at the shoulder. The third, completely unnecessary and cruel, shredded what remained of his limbs into bloody chunks that scattered across the cobblestones. It would be impossible for a healer to reattach his arms now.

The prince's scream pierced the morning air. He collapsed, blood pooling beneath him as his guards rushed forward. His fine purple doublet turned a darker shade as it soaked through.

I recalled what I could remember seeing, focusing on the older mercenary's sword technique. The mana flow pattern suggested an advanced sword skill that multiplied the blade's speed and cutting power. Yet even with my enhanced perception, I'd barely followed the movements. The level difference between them had been decisive.

Around me, the invited nobles erupted in panic. Several retched at the sight of the mutilated prince. Others backed away, faces pale as milk. The non-invited warriors watched with grim satisfaction, a few nodding in approval at Barkatus's ruthless efficiency.

Barkatus flicked his blade in a practiced motion, sending droplets of blood arcing across the stones. The casual gesture spoke volumes about his experience. He sheathed his weapon with the same fluid grace he'd used to draw it.

"The winner is Barkatus of Vokkheim," Kalder announced, his voice cutting through the chaos. "He will take the prince's place among the invited candidates."

I studied Barkatus more carefully now. His level was impressive, but it was his willingness to permanently maim an opponent that truly revealed his nature. He hadn't just defeated the prince, he'd ensured Antonius would never wield a sword again.

The guards carried their whimpering prince away, leaving streaks of blood across the courtyard stones. His severed arms remained where they'd fallen, the fingers of one hand still curled around the ornate sword's grip.

"Next!" Kalder's grim voice announced.

I watched the next duels with keen interest, analyzing every move and technique. My initial assumption that the noble students would be easy prey proved incorrect.

A burly woman challenged a young noble wielding twin daggers. Though she was three levels higher, his enchanted blades sparked with lightning that numbed her sword arm. He capitalized on her weakness, scoring precise cuts until she yielded.

The most impressive display came from an elven girl in flowing silk robes. My ability identified her as Bethani Morne, level 14 Elementalist. Her challenger, a weathered spearman two levels above her, struck with brutal efficiency. But her defensive magic proved remarkable, as each thrust deflected by shimmering barriers of wind. She moved with practiced grace, weaving spells between his attacks until a cage of ice crystals trapped him in place.

"I yield," the spearman called out, frost creeping up his legs. A wise choice, as her next spell likely would have been painful.

More duels followed. A noble archer's enchanted arrows found their mark despite his opponent's superior speed. A young baroness proved her worth with expert swordplay learned from the finest instructors. Even those who relied purely on their equipment showed they knew how to use it effectively.

Yet there were losses too. A foppish lord who'd never seen real combat fell to a grizzled monster hunter. A merchant's son yielded after his expensive armor proved useless against a skilled monk's strikes. The Academy's entrance ceremony was efficiently separating wheat from chaff, regardless of social status.

Through it all, I noted how the instructors remained impassive, showing neither approval nor disappointment at the outcomes. This was clearly a normal part of their selection process: letting combat skill speak louder than any letter of recommendation.

"I challenge the widow!"

The bellow came from a hulking brute with a shaved head and a battle axe nearly as tall as he was. My Analyze ability revealed his status: Level 13 Axeman. His lips curled into a predatory smile as he sized up what he assumed was a helpless woman in mourning.

I stepped into the blood-slicked courtyard without a word. My mechanical legs moved with perfect balance across the stone as I took position. The wrappings fell away from Kolin's sword as I raised it horizontal to the ground, its tip unwavering as it pointed at my opponent's chest.

His smile faltered. Something in my stance must have triggered his survival instincts. But pride wouldn't let him back down now.

"Begin," Kalder called out.

The Axeman charged with a roar, his weapon whistling through the air in wild, powerful arcs. I shifted just enough to let each strike pass harmlessly by. My body moved through the familiar forms of Isparan Battlefield Fencing, each motion precise and economical.

His attacks grew more frenzied as frustration set in. I waited for the perfect opening, then struck. My thrust slipped past his guard and pierced his left bicep. Blood sprayed as I withdrew the blade.

He switched his grip, trying to power through with his good arm. But his technique grew sloppier, his swings more desperate. I deflected a particularly wild overhead strike and countered with another precise thrust into his right arm.

"Yield," he gasped, dropping to one knee as his axe clattered to the stones. Blood dripped steadily from both arms.

"The widow advances," Kalder announced.

I caught Professor Malakin Shawe's expression of pure disgust as I returned to my position. I thought I had felt the tell-tale tingle of someone using Analyze on me during the bout; I guess now I knew who it was. The disdain in his eyes made it clear: he wasn't pleased to see a monster progress to the next round.

The remaining duels passed quickly, each fighter eager to prove their worth. A young mage used illusions to confuse his opponent before striking. Another duel ended when a swordswoman's enchanted blade shattered her challenger's weapon.

Blood and sweat mingled on the courtyard stones as the final match concluded. Those of us who emerged victorious, about thirty in total, formed loose ranks before the instructors. Some nursed minor wounds, others still breathed heavily from exertion. The lizardman Arctur's scales gleamed with fresh scratches, while Bethani's silk robes remained pristine despite her earlier battle.

Barkatus stood near me, his well-worn blade still stained with the prince's blood. His cracked leather armor and callused hands marked him as someone who'd earned his place through true combat rather than practice yards.

Headmaster Kalder's gaze swept over our assembled group, his expression stern yet satisfied. "Well done," he announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "You have all proven your worth, both in my eyes as well as the eyes of Kaldos, God of War and Change."

His weathered face then broke into an approving grin.

"I now formally greet you as your Headmaster. With this shedding of blood, you are marked as students of the War Academy. Welcome."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.