The fourth test came without warning.
No preamble. No rest. Just a horn blast at dawn that rumbled through Castle Loon like thunder. Lights flared in the dormitory halls. Recruits stirred, groaning and blinking against the artificial sun that spilled through skylights.
Xero sat up immediately, already dressed. His blade was strapped across his back. His boots were tied. He hadn't slept.
Sonze rose with a growl, flexing his bruised arms. "Another one already?"
Xero nodded. "They're not giving us time to breathe."
"Or mourn."
Together, they marched with the others to the Test Hall. A different one this time—Test Arena Theta.
It looked like a stadium. Giant pillars surrounded a circular platform, and hundreds of recruits stood at the edge, staring down at the central arena below.
At the center stood a man.
He wore no armor. Just simple black trousers and a red sash tied around his waist. His chest was bare, his skin pale and unmarked. His black hair was tied behind him in a short knot. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes were closed.
He looked peaceful.
But the aura around him was monstrous.
Dark. Heavy. Like a beast pretending to sleep.
An instructor's voice boomed from above.
> "This is Master Idran. Former assassin of the Silent Blade Sect. Known as the Phantom Pulse."
The man opened one eye.
> "Your task: strike him. Once. One clean hit. Do that, and you will be instantly teleported to safety. Fail, and remain in the arena. You have ten minutes to strike. If you cannot land a hit before the sun completes its arc overhead... you are out. By the way its orgsnised to be done batch by batch. Each batch should have 20 members. "
Gasps spread.
Xero squinted. A faint beam of light streamed through the glass ceiling, already moving along the floor in a slow arc.
Ten minutes per batch. Twenty recruits at a time.
Clark stood on the other side of the arena. His eyes sparkled.
Sonze nudged Xero. "Think he's fast?"
Xero didn't answer. He already knew the truth. The man before them ought to be a Grand Master if not a Legend.
The first batch stepped forward.
Twenty hopefuls, faces tense, weapons ready.
The countdown began.
3...2.....1.....BEGIN.
The moment they stepped forward, Idran moved.
Not disappeared. No one saw his precise movements.
He blurred from view. One moment he was standing, the next, he was on the far side of the platform, untouched.
A recruit swung a hammer at him.
Idran dodged by tilting his neck—barely an inch. Then tapped the recruit's chest. The hammer dropped. The boy fell unconscious.
Another came from behind. Idran spun on one foot, caught the sword mid-strike, and flipped the girl over his back with a single motion.
It was beautiful.
Terrifying.
Ten recruits down were already in thirty seconds.
Someone shouted, summoning ice from the ground. Spikes shot up.
Idran stepped between them like a dancer. He turned once, placed his palm on the recruit's stomach, and pushed. The boy flew backwards. He wanted to move further but his mouth opened and he vomited hie blood.
A girl with wind magic created a cyclone. Dust whipped into the air. Idran vanished into the storm, moving likehe had seen this before.
Then emerged behind her, untouched.
Another failed.
Another.
Ten minutes passed.
No one landed a hit.
The next batch entered. Then the next.
One boy used fire to distract Idran while three others circled. They coordinated. They feinte. They were precise and accurate but...
Idran ducked beneath a flame, turned his body, and elbowed one in the throat. Another slashed with twin daggers. Idran leaned back, spun midair, and kicked the attacker sideways.
The third almost touched his arm.
Almost. Nearly was not an achievement though.
But Idran dropped flat to the ground, swept the recruit's legs out from beneath him, and stood again in one fluid motion.
Then came Clark.
The arena held its breath.
Clark walked forward slowly. Calm. He didn't draw a blade. His hands remained at his side. His eyes never left Idran's.
Idran smirked.
The moment the match began, Clark vanished.
Xero blinked.
Clark reappeared behind Idran, fist outstretched. Idran dodged—but just barely. A flicker of light sparked between them.
Clark followed with a knee strike. Idran blocked it with his elbow. The impact echoed.
They moved like gods or rather Idran let it be.
Clark spun, delivering a sweeping kick. Idran ducked and jabbed. Clark dodged. Idran turned. Clark feinted.
Then—
A sound.
Tap.
Clark's fingertips brushed Idran's shoulder.
The older assassin blinked.
And Clark vanished. Teleported.
The crowd exploded.
He had done it.
The first to land a hit.
Sonze laughed, clapping. "That bastard actually pulled it off."
Xero exhaled. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
More stepped up. One by one, the hopeful tried. Some clever. Some reckless.
A boy used illusion magic—created five copies of himself.
Idran danced between them and struck the real one.
A girl manipulated shadows—blending into the arena floor.
Idran waited. When she rose, he was already behind her.
None succeeded.
Only a few managed what Clark did.
A spear-user channeled lightning through his weapon and tossed it like a javelin. Idran caught it in midair.
Then smirked.
"You're learning," he said.
And he let the spear touch him.
The recruit disappeared.
Hours passed.
The beam of light moved steadily.
Batch after batch went in.
Sonze stepped forward in the twelfth group. His knuckles were taped. He carried no weapons.
He entered the arena.
"Come on," Xero whispered.
Sonze didn't wait for the timer.
He ran full speed at Idran, feinted left, dropped to his knees, then leapt straight up with an uppercut.
Idran blocked—but Sonze turned midair and kicked.
The strike grazed Idran's ribs.
Flash.
Sonze vanished.
Xero grinned.
"Two more batches and I will be in there against that guy?" he said softly.
He would be in the last batch.
He still had time.
He watched every movement. Every pattern. Idran was fast—but not invincible. He followed rhythms. Reacted instinctively.
But if you predicted his reaction...
You could touch him.
Xero closed his eyes.
He remembered the shadows in his dreams. The silent power beneath his skin.
His turn would come soon.
And when it did—
He would strike.