Thomas POV

It was unsettling to Thomas how some people were so fixated on coins that they would accept any kind of proposal, even one that would hurt them. It wasn't a desperation for money to get food or a home. No, it was an obsession with coins to the point where anything was possible, driving them to embrace tasks others might deem too risky or unsavory.

Over his shoulder, Thomas carried Rat. A scrawny man with long, thin fingers and the gaunt appearance of someone who hadn't eaten properly in days. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, and his sharp features hinted at a cunning spirit. Yet, despite his frail exterior, Rat moved with a surprising agility. He wasn't educated in the conventional sense; his smarts weren't born from books or scholarly pursuits. Instead, he possessed the kind of streetwise cunning that kept one alive on the harsh streets.

When Aldwin had introduced Rat to Thomas, he immediately knew they had found the right man for the job. Amidst hundreds of people gathered for the trials, most were focused on their fears of sinking into the mud or being struck by arrows. Rat, however, seemed unfazed by such dangers. His keen eyes missed nothing, always observing, always calculating.

Thomas had almost missed it when Rat slipped into the test. The wiry man had waited until the challenge was well underway, strategically joining the trial halfway through. With stealth and precision, he darted into the course, diving headfirst into the muck to conceal himself. The mud clung to him, masking his presence as he burrowed deeper, hiding from sight. His red-rimmed eyes watched intently, waiting for the perfect moment.

At the predetermined signal, Camille released one of her arrows. It flew true, striking Rat as planned. He let out a piercing scream that cut through the air, thrashing about as if in agony. Blood sprayed dramatically, spattering the mud and startling nearby participants.

"Gods! He's been hit!" someone shouted, panic edging into their voice.

Rat continued his performance, flailing and wailing, his cries echoing across the field. Participants nearby recoiled, some slipping in the mud as they tried to distance themselves from the apparent injury. The chaos served its purpose, sowing hesitation and fear among those whose resolve was less than firm.

Thomas acted swiftly, halting the trial under the guise of attending to the wounded man. He navigated through the mud, reaching Rat and hefting him onto his shoulder with practiced ease. The gaunt man felt almost weightless.

"I'm taking him to the cleric!" Thomas announced, his tone authoritative.

As he carried Rat away from the testing grounds, the murmurs and uneasy glances of the participants followed them. The image of the bloodied man being ferried away added a grim reality to the trials, testing not just their physical endurance but their mental fortitude as well.

The cleric's waited in Thomas's house just like the last time. Thomas entered without ceremony, gently laying Rat onto one of the wooden chairs inside.

"This is the first one," Thomas remarked, securing Rat's limp form.

The cleric glanced over without surprise. He had long since ceased questioning the peculiar circumstances that often accompanied the Golden Fiddle Company. Between their frequent patronage and his fondness for their exceptional beer, he had become well-acquainted with their ways.

The cleric examined the wound. "A superficial cut placed to create the illusion of a serious injury without causing lasting harm. Excellent shot," the cleric commented, his tone almost appreciative. "Just deep enough to bleed convincingly."

"Years of practice," Rat replied proudly, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Thomas observed the exchange, for a moment puzzled. 'Was the cleric complimenting Rat on his act or Camille on her marksmanship?' The ambiguity lingered, but he decided it didn't matter. The plan had unfolded as intended.

The cleric placed both hands gently over the wound, his fingers splayed as a soft chant escaped his lips. A luminous green light began to emanate from his palms, casting a verdant glow throughout the dimly lit room. The healing spell enveloped Rat in its warm embrace, the ethereal light seeping into torn flesh and mending it. As the light faded, Rat's pallid complexion gave way to a healthier hue, his cheeks flushing with newfound vitality.

"All better now," the cleric murmured. Rat flexed his limbs, a crooked grin spreading as he realized the extent of his rejuvenation. His fingers twitched eagerly with the anticipation of promised coin.

Without delay, Thomas reached into a satchel slung across his waist and produced a pouch that jingled with the unmistakable sound of silver coins. He handed it to Rat, the weight of fifty silver pieces settling into the conman's palm.

Rat's grin widened into a sly smirk, his eyes reflecting the shimmering sheen of the silver as if captivated by their luster.

"Much obliged, young master," Rat chuckled. "I trust we'll have more business dealings in the future."

Though his words were courteous, Rat's gaze never left the pouch, his fingers caressing the worn leather as if it were the most precious treasure. It was as if he was mentally counting each coin, savoring the prospect of what they could procure. With a nod that bordered on a mock bow, he slipped away as silently as he had arrived. The shadows seemed to swallow him whole, and before Thomas could utter another word, Rat had vanished from the house without so much as a creaking floorboard.

A shiver coursed through Thomas as he realized the conman's eerie departure.

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But there was little time to dwell on such thoughts; his day was far from over.

"We'll be starting the combat shortly," Thomas informed the cleric, who was wiping his hands clean with a linen cloth. "We'll still require your services. After this trial, however, you'll be free to go."

The cleric nodded, settling back into a well-worn chair by the window. "Very well, I'll be here," he replied, his gaze drifting to the tranquil scene outside.

Thomas offered a brief nod before turning on his heel and striding out of the house. The sun cast long shadows as he made his way back to the platform, where the upcoming bouts would determine the mettle of those aspiring to join their ranks.

As the crowd murmured with anticipation, one of the academy youths stepped forward with a confident stride. His dark hair framed a face marked by determination, and his eyes bore the fervor of untested ambition. Clad in mud-streaked but finely made robes, he was a stark contrast to the hardened warriors that surrounded him. In his hands, he held a steel spear.

Ascending the steps to the platform, he halted and leveled the tip of his spear directly at Thomas. "I wish to challenge the [Farmer]," he declared.

A hush fell over the spectators. Thomas met the boy's gaze, recognition flickering in his eyes. He remembered this young man. He had wielded thunder and lightning during the Academy combat training. In any other circumstance, Thomas might have hesitated to face such an opponent, one who had so much raw power.

However without delay, Thomas rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. He moved toward the center of the arena with purpose, his steps measured yet unyielding. Muscles honed from years of toil and combat rippled beneath his plain attire, a stark contrast to the youth's more refined appearance.

Jamie, observing from the sidelines, caught Thomas's arm before he could take the stage. "Give him no quarter," Jamie advised, his eyes intense and unwavering.

Thomas nodded subtly, understanding the seriousness behind his leader's words. "Understood," he replied softly.

The guard mounted the platform, the wooden boards creaking faintly under his weight. The atmosphere was charged with tension, an electric undercurrent that matched the fiery determination in the young challenger's eyes. Though the boy was younger, Thomas was neither foolish nor arrogant enough to underestimate him. The memory of the boy's previous display of raw elemental magic was fresh in his mind.

'But I have experience,' Thomas thought, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. The familiar weight was reassuring.

The two combatants ascended the steps of the platform, their boots thudding softly against the aged timber. Facing each other, they stood mere paces apart. The murmurs of the gathered crowd faded into a hushed silence as all eyes fixed upon the impending duel.

"Begin!" Jamie's voice rang out from the sidelines.

The young challenger wasted no time. With practiced ease, he leveled his spear before him. His stance was wide and balanced as he sought to limit any movement Thomas might make.

Thomas remained steadfast, his sword held before him in a two-handed grip. After the last week of intense training, the weapon felt like a part of him. His muscles were relaxed but ready, his breathing calm. The weight of the blade was familiar, its balance perfect. He observed his opponent, noting the subtle shifts in posture and the tightening of fingers around the spear's shaft.

They began to circle slowly, each testing the other's defenses with probing strikes. The boy advanced with a series of quick thrusts, the spear darting like a viper. He was searching for an opening, trying to gauge Thomas's reactions. But Thomas was not one to be easily baited. He parried each lunge with precise deflections, using the flat of his blade to push the spear aside, disrupting the boy's rhythm.

Sweat began to bead on the young man's brow as he realized his initial tactics yielded no advantage. Frustration flickered across his face. Thomas could see the impatience growing, the desire to end the bout swiftly.

Taking two swift steps back, the boy narrowed his eyes. "Let's finish this," he declared, a hint of irritation edging his voice.

Shifting his grip, he held the spear in one hand, drawing it back as if preparing to hurl it. Thomas recognized the stance immediately. He had seen this maneuver before and knew what was coming.

The air around them began to change. Thomas felt it, a subtle pull as the mana in the ground, the air, and every surrounding element was drawn toward the boy, swirling around him like an invisible vortex. The hairs on Thomas's arms stood on end as the ambient energy coalesced.

"Lightning—" the boy began, his voice resonating with the raw power he was summoning.

But Thomas was prepared. Before the boy could complete his incantation, Thomas acted. With a swift, fluid motion, he raised his sword high and brought it down in a decisive vertical slash.

"Reap!" he uttered, his voice firm.

A shimmering arc of force burst forth from his blade. The energy surged forward, unstoppable, slicing through everything in its path. The boy's eyes widened in shock, his spell unfinished, as the wave struck him.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

Then, crimson bloomed across the boy's chest as the shockwave tore through his tunic and flesh. Blood sprayed outward, the droplets catching the light as they scattered across the platform and spattered onto the stunned spectators nearest the stage.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. The murmur of voices stilled into a heavy silence, the gravity of what had transpired sinking in.

The boy's voice faltered, the incantation dying on his lips. The spear slipped from his fingers, clattering to the wooden planks below. His strength ebbed away, and he dropped to his knees, a hand pressed futilely against the wound.

"Dammit," he whispered hoarsely, the only word that escaped before his gaze dulled.

"Duel finished!" Jamie's voice cut through the quiet, authoritative and final.

Thomas straightened, lifting his sword. The blade gleamed with a cold light as he held it aloft, a silent acknowledgment of his victory.

His gaze swept over the remaining competitors gathered around the platform. Shock, fear, and uncertainty etched their features. He could see some shifting uneasily, their earlier bravado shaken by the swift and brutal conclusion of the duel. Thomas was almost sure that more would reconsider their ambitions after witnessing the harsh reality of the challenge before them.

But then, movement caught his eye.

Standing near the edge of the platform was a young woman, her lips curved into a knowing smile. There was a calm confidence about her. She wore a fitted tunic and breeches, the garments practical yet accentuating her lithe form.

"Who will be next?" Thomas called out, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Barely a heartbeat passed before the young woman took a step forward. Without hesitation, she began ascending the steps to the platform, her boots tapping lightly against the wood. The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake.

As she reached the top, she met Thomas's gaze directly, her smile never wavering. "I will," she declared confidently.

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