The morning of the final test arrives, not with quiet dread, but with the roar of a crowd.
The recruits are led to a waiting room on the highest level of a massive, coliseum like structure Carter had never seen before. It is an arena, vast and imposing, a monument of stone and steel built for the single purpose of combat.
He walks to a large, open air window and looks down. The sight steals his breath.
Thousands of people fill the tiered stands that circle the sandy arena floor below. He recognizes the entire leadership of the Library: Gabriel, the Branch Heads, and their assistants.
Each seated in a place of honor.
He sees the formidable figures of Miguel and Freya, their expressions sharp and analytical as they survey the field.
But they are not the only ones. He sees hundreds of other mages in the black combat gear of the field agents, their faces a sea of quiet, professional judgment.
Beyond them, thousands of branch workers and citizens from the Marble City gather to witness the forging of the Library’s next generation of warriors.
“Look at all these people,” Yulian says, his voice a low, awestruck rumble as he comes to stand beside Carter.
He presses his face against the window like a child at a candy store.
“It is like… the championship fight in Moscow! But with more swords, and less cheating.”
Keyona comes up behind them, a confident, almost predatory smirk on her face.
“And fewer rules. Try not to get yourself killed down there, big guy. I’d hate to have to fight a replacement.”
Carter just stares at the crowd, the sheer scale of the event settling over him like a heavy cloak.
This is insane, he thinks, his heart a low, steady drum in his chest.
It’s not just a test. It’s a spectacle.
They’re not just evaluating us either; they’re scouting, like it’s some pro-sports draft.
Noted. Pressure is on.
As if on cue, a deep, resonant voice, amplified by magic, booms across the arena, silencing the crowd in an instant. It is Gabriel.
“Ahem. To all Regional Directors, combat teams, and team leaders, I humbly thank you for being here with us today,” the voice begins, a calm, serene melody that hides the brutal purpose of their gathering.
“As you know, our combat teams are the first and last line of defense for this institution.”
“Without you, winning the war against the Order would not be a possibility.”
“As such, we are always looking to expand our ranks with promising new talent. And from what I have seen, this year’s recruits are quite promising.”
“Today, we will have three groups testing. Recruits from the Turkish sector, the Chinese sector, and here, from our own headquarters.”
“Each group will compete in a simple bracket style tournament, in one on one battles.”
“The winner of each battle will move to the next round.”
“The final winners from each class will have the privilege of choosing what branch or team they would like to join.”
“The goal for all of you,” Gabriel’s voice continues, now directed at the recruits themselves, “…is to display everything you have learned these past months.”
“Display your power. Display your control. Display your will.”
“Your performance today will determine your future.”
“Now, let us commence the third and final exam.”
A deafening roar erupts from the crowd.
The sound a physical wave that washes over the waiting room.
The tournament is about to begin.
The Turkish Recruits…
The roar of the crowd fades to a low, expectant hum as the first four combatants.
The recruits from the Turkish sector walk onto the sand colored arena stone floor.
They are all young, lean, and move with a quick, nervous energy, their eyes wide as they take in the sheer scale of the arena.
The battles are fast, brutal, and blindingly brilliant.
Their Turkish magic affinity is for complete control and manipulation of light, and they wield it not with subtle grace, but with the raw, concussive force of a flashbang grenade.
The arena is filled with searing flashes of light, solid constructs of glowing energy, and devastating arrows of pure, concussive force.
The fights are over almost as quickly as they begin, a series of quick, overwhelming displays of offensive power.
The final of the Turkish sector recruits pits a tall, defensive minded mage who can create shimmering, solid light shields.
Against a younger, smaller, and far more aggressive archer. The archer is a whirlwind of motion, never standing still, his bow a constant blur as he unleashes a relentless barrage of light-arrows.
In the waiting room, Paige pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her expression one of pure, scientific fascination.
“Incredible,” she whispers, more to herself than to anyone else.
“They’re not just creating light; they’re manipulating photons as if they were solid matter, giving them mass and kinetic energy.”
“The power required to maintain a stable construct like that shield must be immense. I wonder what the decay rate is at that level…”
Nico, on the other hand, looks simply terrified.
“Forget the science, that’s just impossible to fight! How do you even block an arrow you can’t see until it’s already burning a hole in your chest?”
“You don’t block,” Ruby says, her voice calm and analytical as she watches the fight with a professional’s eye.
“You move. See how the archer never stops? He’s making himself a harder target.”
“Constant motion, unpredictable patterns. That’s the key against a ranged specialist like him.”
Carter watches, his mind processing the fight not as a spectator, but as a future combatant.
She’s right.
It’s a completely different style. It’s not about strategy or brute force.
It’s about overwhelming the senses.
You can’t block what you can’t see, and you can’t hit what won’t stand still.
It all comes down to speed and reaction time.
Pure instinct.
Down on the arena floor, the archer proves Ruby’s point.
He feints left, then darts right, and as his opponent shifts his shield to block the anticipated shot.
The archer is already there, loosing a final, brilliant arrow of pure, white hot light that strikes the shield bearer in the shoulder.
Sending him staggering back in a shower of golden sparks.
The match is over. The young archer has won.
Gabriel’s voice booms across the arena once more.
“An impressive display of speed and power! Let us have a round of applause for our victor from the Turkish sector!”
“RAOOOOOOAAAAAAH!!”
The crowd roars its approval. As the Turkish recruits leave the field, a new sense of understanding settles over Carter’s group.
They have just witnessed the skill and power of their peers from across the globe.
The war they are preparing for is not a small, isolated conflict.
It is a global struggle, and they are just one small part of a much larger army.
After a short pause, the next group of combatants walks onto the arena floor.
The Chinese Recruits…
There are five of them, the recruits from the Chinese sector.
They move with a quiet, focused confidence, their expressions calm and unreadable.
Their style of combat is a stark, jarring contrast to the explosive, high speed duels of the Turkish mages.
Their battles are not fought with overwhelming force, but with a subtle, mind bending manipulation of the arena itself.
Carter watches, completely captivated, as one recruit seems to shrink the distance between herself and her opponent.
Closing a fifty foot gap in a single, impossible step.
He sees another teleport a series of thrown daggers, making them vanish in mid air only to reappear inches from his opponent’s back.
It is a style of fighting that is confusing, disorienting, and utterly terrifying.
“This is… confusing fight,” Yulian says, his brow furrowed in a mask of pure bewilderment, as he watches a young woman seemingly teleport out of the way of an attack.
“The swords are here, then they are there! It is like trying to punch a ghost.”
The comment is a simple, frustrated observation, but for Carter, it’s a revelation.
A light bulb goes off in his head…💡
The final match pits a young, agile woman against a powerful, older mage.
A man in his forties with a stern, weathered face and the cold, hard eyes of a veteran.
The man stands perfectly still in the center of the arena, his hands held open at his sides.
He speaks a single, sharp command in English, and a dozen gleaming, steel longswords materialize in the air around him, a silent, menacing halo of death.
Then, he speaks a string of complex, multi syllabic Mandarin words. And the swords attack.
They do not just fly at his opponent.
They vanish and reappear, a relentless, inescapable barrage of attacks from every conceivable angle.
The young woman is a blur of motion, her own teleportation skills pushed to their absolute limit as she desperately tries to evade the storm of steel. But it is useless.
The man’s control is absolute. He is not just a warrior; he is a master strategist, a chess master playing on a three-dimensional board, and his opponent is hopelessly outmatched.
Even Akira, who had watched the Turkish recruits with a look of bored contempt, now leans forward, his expression one of pure, unadulterated, and almost reverent awe.
“It’s not about the swords,” he says, his voice a low, quiet murmur.
“It’s about the space between them. He’s controlling dozens of spatial vectors simultaneously.”
“His mind must be like a fortress. That is a true master.”
In the viewing stands, Killian lets out a low whistle.
“See that?” he says to Miguel. “
That’s what a lifetime of discipline looks like. Not just power, but absolute perfect control.”
The older mage wins the match without taking a single step.
Gabriel’s voice booms across the arena, announcing his victory.
A brief, tense pause follows, the crowd buzzing with an excited, almost bloodthirsty energy.
The opening acts are over. The main event is about to begin.
The chapter ends as Gabriel’s voice booms across the arena one last time, a sound that makes the hair on Carter’s arms stand on end.
“And now, for our final group.”
“The recruits from our own headquarters!”