The Assessor’s Hall was busier than Alex had anticipated. Rows of polished desks stretched across the vast chamber, each manned by scribes engrossed in their work. The steady rhythm of quills scratching against parchment filled the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of wax seals and muted conversations.

  The atmosphere felt heavy, warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions hard, jaws set with purpose. Alex stood near the back, his gaze sweeping over the room.

  The ceiling stretched impossibly high, its surface engraved with faded murals of mythic figures, their deeds frozen in time. Demigods, maybe, Alex thought while moving through the space, his gaze locked ahead. The architecture was somewhat older than most buildings he had encountered in the city, as though it was a refurbished relic of a distant past. Its stone pillars towered with unending support, the base of each carved with sigils denoting the authority of Serra’s crown, bureaucracy woven into every inch of stone.

  Alex adjusted his cloak as he shifted, passing clerks who barely lifted their heads from parchment scrolls. Rows of desks lined the space, each occupied by scribes, officials, and a handful of guards standing watch. Conversations buzzed in low, muted tones—documents stamped, signatures demanded, disputes settled or dismissed.

  Behind the desks, a line of applicants stood waiting. Some clutched portfolios filled with papers—proof of their class, skills, and achievements. Others stood empty-handed, their expressions ranging from nervous to resigned.

  “Next!” a clerk called, waving the next applicant forward.

  Alex joined the line, his posture relaxed but his senses alert. His eyes caught the subtle exchanges happening around him—an applicant slipping a coin to a clerk, a whispered conversation that ended with a document being pushed to the top of the stack.

  Bribes. Favours. It’s everywhere, Alex noted.

  A man in fine robes brushed past, his badge gleaming with the insignia of one of the Houses. He didn’t wait in line. The clerks bowed slightly as he passed, ushering him into a side room without question.

  Alex tilted his head. So, connections matter here too.

  The line moved slowly, each applicant presenting their papers for inspection. Some were questioned about their combat experience or previous jobs. Others were dismissed outright, their applications rejected for reasons that were never explained.

  Finally, Alex reached the front.

  “Name?” the clerk asked without looking up.

  “Alex.”

  “Papers?”

  Alex pulled a folded document from his coat and placed it on the desk. They had made them each fill out a form on arrival, warning them that dishonesty would lead to instant dismissal. He had written would he could as best as he could and was confident it would be enough. The clerk unfolded the document, scanning the contents with practised efficiency born from daily document handling.

  “Combat class?” the clerk asked.

  “Sovereign.”

  The clerk’s pen paused briefly before continuing its scratch across the page. He stamped the document with a practised motion before handing it back.

  “Proceed to the interview panel,” the clerk instructed, nodding toward a set of double doors at the far end of the hall.

  Alex made his way across the marble floor toward the double doors. Two guards flanked the entrance, their expressions blank beneath polished helmets. One stepped forward and pulled the door open without a word.

  Inside, a row of five desks formed a line. Each was occupied by an official, their robes embroidered with the symbols of various Houses. Behind them stood a single figure—an appraiser class, their robes marked with an eye sigil, the symbol of their role.

  “Applicant,” the appraiser called, beckoning Alex forward. Their tone was brisk, disinterested.

  Alex approached, handing over the stamped document. The appraiser glanced at it briefly before meeting his eyes.

  “Name?”

  “Alex.”

  “Class?”

  “Sovereign.”

  The appraiser’s gaze sharpened. They placed the paper aside and folded their hands on the desk.

  “As part of this process, we’ll need to verify your status sheet. Please grant access to your system interface.”

  “No.”

  The refusal drew a pause. The appraiser tilted their head, studying him more carefully. The officials behind the desks exchanged glances, murmuring quietly.

  “You refuse to grant access?”

  “I do.”

  The appraiser reached for a quill, noting something on a parchment. Their expression remained impassive.

  “It’s within your rights to withhold your status,” the appraiser stated, though their tone carried an edge. “But refusal marks you as an unknown quantity. You’ll proceed to the next stage, but note that your file will reflect this decision.”

  Alex didn’t react.

  The appraiser placed the parchment aside and gestured to a clerk. “Escort him to the assessment.”

  A younger clerk appeared from the side of the room, motioning for Alex to follow.

  “Retrieve his file to add to the others, clerk,” the appraiser called out.

  As Alex exited the chamber, the clerk glanced at him nervously. “Most people allow their status to be checked,” the clerk said quietly, attempting small talk.

  “Most people aren’t me,” Alex replied, calmly without breaking stride.

  They passed through another set of doors, entering a wider courtyard where applicants gathered in clusters. The stone courtyard stretched wide under the pale morning light, its surface lined with faint scorch marks and cracks from battles past. Alex was led to stand among a loose crowd of applicants, their gazes flitting between the high walls and the heavily armoured figures standing guard.

  The atmosphere buzzed with tension, whispers circling like vultures overhead.

  “The Hand is overseeing today’s registration.”

  “That monster? Why would they send him for this?”

  “Testing new blood.”

  “No way. There’s no way, right?”

  Osric’s words replayed in Alex’s mind. “Strong enough to split a fortified castle with his fists.” Fortified by magic, most likely, and this world is the same grade as the sect’s world, so the materials are far more durable, too. That’s pretty strong, Alex thought with curiosity.

  The crowd turned as one at the sound of doors creaking open, the groan of wood and iron cutting through the low murmur of voices as a figure emerged from the main building.

  A man.

  Gideon Arlen.

  Alex’s eyes honed onto the figure immediately, drawn by the sheer presence the man carried. He moved with the kind of authority that couldn’t be faked—each step perfectly placed, and controlled. His boots struck the floor with a measured rhythm, a cadence that swept through the silence that followed his arrival.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a man carved from stone. His armour held a muted sheen, dark steel etched with angular patterns that hinted at some ancient design of the crown. It was far more than decorative—every piece served a purpose, reinforced at the joints, the plates layered for maximum protection without sacrificing mobility.

  His face was a map of scars. One cut ran from his temple to his jaw, a pale line that crossed his cheek like a jagged seam. His nose had been broken at least once, and his brow held a permanent furrow, giving him an air of perpetual scrutiny. Dark eyes scanned the room, sharp and assessing, missing nothing.

  Alex watched as those closest to the front straightened unconsciously, their postures shifting in subtle deference. The courtyard seemed to grow heavier with each step Gideon took, as though his presence alone was enough to weigh down the space.

  So this is the Hand. The Crown’s enforcer.

  Gideon stopped in the centre of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the gathered warriors. His expression remained unreadable—calm, but carrying an undercurrent of tension, like a blade drawn but not yet swung.

  Gideon’s voice, when it finally came, was weathered and gravelly, yet calm, carrying an edge that demanded attention.

  “Step forward.”

  No name. No instruction directed at anyone specific.

  A young man to Alex’s left moved first, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred axe strapped across his back. He walked with confidence, but Alex caught the stiffness in his stride—the way his shoulders tensed as he approached Gideon.

  Gideon watched him with an expressionless face, nodding slightly as the applicant stopped a few paces away.

  “You’re here to register as a hunter?”

  The man nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Gideon’s gaze flicked to the applicant’s weapon—the polished sword with ornate detailing. He snorted softly.

  “Draw your weapon.”

  The applicant hesitated before unstrapping his Axe.

  Gideon took a step closer, closing the distance with unsettling ease.

  “Strike me.”

  The applicant’s eyes widened in shock. “Sir?”

  “Strike me,” Gideon repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  The young man raised his weapon, his hands trembling slightly. He lunged forward, aiming for Gideon’s shoulder.

  In a blur, Gideon’s hand shot out, catching the deadly edge mid-swing.

  Metal met flesh.

  Gideon didn’t flinch. His fingers curled around the weapon’s edge, holding it in place with effortless strength. The applicant froze, his expression turning pale as he realized his sword hadn’t even drawn blood.

  Gideon yanked the blade from the man’s grip, tossing it to the ground with a casual flick of his wrist.

  “Too slow.”

  The young applicant stumbled back from the sudden jerk, the faint line of red across his palm going unnoticed at first. Blood welled up slowly, tracing the curve of his fingers before dripping onto the marble floor. He clenched his fist, pain flaring as the shallow cut deepened.

  Gideon’s gaze remained fixed on him. “Pick it up.”

  The young man’s face twisted in pain as he backed away, favouring his uninjured arm. He glanced around the space, his gaze flitting between the guards and the other applicants.

  No one moved to help.

  Gideon remained at the centre of the courtyard, calm and composed. His presence seemed to weigh on all present, pressing down on them, though Alex merely observed as the young man hesitated, his eyes darting toward the Axe at Gideon’s feet. His hesitation stretched a second too long.

  Gideon moved.

  In a single stride, Gideon closed the distance. His hand clamped down on the applicant’s shoulder—just above the collarbone, and the moment the hand clamped down, there was an audible crunch—a sickening sound of bone compressing under immense pressure.

  The applicant’s collarbone shattered beneath Gideon’s grip, the force driving him to the ground. His arm hung awkwardly at his side, the shoulder clearly dislocated from the impact. He gasped, his face pale as he cradled his limp arm, unable to move it.

  A thin stream of blood seeped from beneath his armour where Gideon’s fingers had dug into the flesh, marking the spot where strength had met fragility.

  The applicant knelt there, clutching his broken shoulder, the weight of his injury etched into every strained breath he took.

  “Pick it up,” Gideon repeated, his tone indifferent, as though the injury was nothing more than part of the process. “Above the ground.”

  The applicant forced his uninjured arm to move, grasping the axe’s hilt with trembling fingers, but failed to raise the weapon above the ground, its hilt slipping from his blood-slicked fingers.

  The silence stretched, each person absorbing what had just occurred.

  Satisfied, Gideon stepped back. His eyes scanned the remaining applicants, his expression calm, almost bored.

  “Next.”

  This time, for a heartbeat no one moved. The tension crackled between the gathered bodies. The quiet shift of feet. The sound of strained breath.

  Until another applicant stepped forward—a woman with a halberd strapped to her back and a carefully composed expression. She wore the leather armour of a seasoned warrior. Her stance was steadier and her eyes harder, filled with determination.

  Gideon’s expression remained neutral. He glanced toward the clerks observing from the edges of the courtyard, their quills scratching across parchment.

  “Mark her,” he said.

  One of the clerks nodded, recording the events without pause.

  “Draw.”

  She did, her hand moving quickly to her weapon as she took a defensive position, her grip firm as firm as her expression. Her halberd glinted dark red in the sun’s light, veins of crimson carved along its surface. She placed both hands on the shaft, her fingers pressing into the weapon’s grooves, and the patterns flared faintly—responding like something aware of its wielder. Blood twisted from her the blade’s surface and spread across her forearms, coating both in liquid armour. The crimson hardened like jagged like freshly torn flesh.

  Gideon paused to watch her for a moment before stepping forward. “Your name?” He asked.

  “Liora,” she replied without hesitation.

  “Liora,” Gideon repeated, tasting the name. He inclined his head slightly.

  “Strike.”

  She moved without hesitation, swinging the halberd in a swift cleave, her halberd cutting downward with force, aimed directly at Gideon’s collarbone.

  And when she swung, it wasn’t just a swing. The halberd’s head split apart, unfolding like a bloom, revealing rows of serrated edges. Each jagged tooth dripped crimson as if the weapon itself had begun to bleed, and the blades of the halberd hissed, cutting through the air with a haunting, wet sound, leaving a trail of red mist in its wake.

  “That’s a good enchantment,” someone near Alex muttered, nodding toward the halberd’s crimson glow as it absorbed the wielder’s blood. Alex turned, curiosity sharpening his gaze. “Why isn’t she using skills?” The man shrugged. “Nobody’s allowed to use them during the test, they can tell—only weapons and what you can do with your own strength.” Another bystander leaned in, lowering his voice. “Some say it’s to prepare for creatures that use blood curses to steal mana, but others say it’s to see what you’re made of— testing grit and how you fight when your mana runs out and you’re left with nothing but your weapon.” That’s good to know, and interesting too, Alex thought, imagining the prospect of a creature that could strip one’s access to mana, causing it to slowly regenerate from nothing. It’s not much different from what I can do, although these blood curses don’t sound like they have the same limits as Duel of Corruption, he thought as his gaze returned to the Liora and Gideon.

  Gideon’s gaze flicked to the blade, then back to Liora. His expression remained unchanged.

  This time, Gideon dodged—not with a dramatic leap, but with a slight shift of his weight. The halberd’s blade whistled past him, missing by a short distance. Gideon stepped in, catching the shaft near the iron head. Liora’s feet skidded across the marble as she tried to hold on, but his strength bore no resistance and the wood groaned under his grip.

  With a twist of his wrist, the wood groaned and her grip broke as he wrenched it free from her hands, the halberd crashing to the floor.

  She lunged for it.

  Gideon’s boot struck her knee before she could close the distance. Her leg buckled, sending her sprawling to the marble.

  The halberd clattered across the floor.

  He glanced down at the fallen halberd before returning his gaze to her stumbling form.

  “Better.”

  Before she could recover, he drove his fist into her ribs, the impact lifting her off her feet.

  She hit the floor hard, gasping as the air was forced from her lungs.

  Gideon closed the distance without pause, grabbing her by the collar and yanking her upright. Her hand dropped to her waist, reaching instinctively for the dagger at her belt. She never made it.

  Instead, her head snapped back as he slammed her into the nearest column, a hollow crack sounding and the stone shuddering on impact. She coughed, blood spilling from her mouth as her body sagged in his grip, and his fingers tightened, squeezing muscle and bone until her forearm gave a sickening pop.

  Liora’s eyes widened, the pain forcing a sharp gasp from her lips before Gideon released her and she crumpled to the floor.

  Blood smeared across the marble as Liora pushed herself up. Her breathing was uneven. Her left arm hung limp at her side, her shoulder dislocated.

  He kicked the halberd toward her.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  Her lips curled back in a grimace, but she made no sound. Liora reached with her uninjured hand, her trembling fingers hauling the weapon to rest on her other shoulder. She winced but held his gaze, her lips pressing into a hard line as her uninjured hand curled into a fist around the weapon’s shaft, trembling with strain.

  Gideon stepped past her and turned toward the remaining applicants.

  “Next.”

  ***

  Alex leaned against the far wall of the courtyard, his arms crossed as Gideon Arlen moved through the applicants like a predator among prey.

  Alex had zoned out some time ago, hardly paying attention to the events that occurred around him as he wondered what skills to insert into his blade. He wouldn’t be allowed to use his skills during their impending exchange, but the other applicants had shown that enchanted weapons were welcomed in the test. Inserting Thanatos’s sovereign is a given, sure. But using Duel of Corruption here won’t do. Using it on such a prominent figure—without killing him—would reveal one of his trump cards to the crown, the houses, and any demigods connected to them. Although they would likely mistake it to just be an enchantment of his powerful blade. So the second skill will have to be something I won’t mind the others here seeing, he thought, glancing around at the remaining applicants.

  They shifted in line, their nervous movements betraying the tension that hung between them. Warrior after warrior stepped up to face Gideon’s scrutiny. Some were dismissed outright, their names forgotten before they left the hall. Others were granted the chance to prove themselves, their fates decided with a single word. Ahead, the very first applicant before Liora still hadn’t risen. His shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, and blood-soaked through his tunic, pooling beneath him as the healers moved in silence. No ceremony and no gentleness existed between them. One knelt by the injured man, slicing his sleeve with a blade that shone briefly before drinking in the spilt blood and forcing it to return to its origin. The torn fabric darkened further as veins of crimson magic stitched themselves into a crude patchwork along the wound.

  The applicants that remained shuffled forward, wary expressions shifting to the healers who stood ready on the sidelines. All eyes were on the man who stood unmoved at the centre of the hall, surveying them with the detachment of someone selecting cattle for slaughter.

  He wasn't here to simply test them.

  He was searching for something deeper, perhaps something among them he could use.

  And every failure reinforced his resolve.

  The healers dragged the last applicant from the floor, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. Blood still seeped from the wounds Gideon had inflicted, though the man remained conscious—barely.

  Alex turned to regard the next applicant—a pale man with an emaciated frame and hollow cheeks. His mana is so freakin’ weird, Alex thought, observing the man as he passed through his domain. His eyes glowed faintly red, a sign that his blood hadn’t remained fully his own for some time. He had three sources of mana spewing chaotic torrents through his form; one in his heart, and two merged haphazardly together in his mind, as though grafted through some mad experiment. Each mana heart held a storm of conflicting mana, more than any Alex had seen in a single person since he’d arrived in the world. The man wore no visible weapons, his sleeves rolled up to reveal ritualistic carvings etched into his skin.

  Gideon studied him for a moment. “You’re bound to something.”

  The man tilted his head. “A shard of the Red Moon.”

  “You willingly let it take root?”

  “I had little choice.”

  Gideon nodded once, as if the response was expected. “Show me what remains.”

  Without waiting for instruction, he lunged.

  And Alex returned to his thoughts, only half paying attention. Without the ability to utilise skills, he doubted the possessed man would have anything worthwhile to show him.

  Pierce Reality wouldn’t be a bad choice. I’d be surprised if Gideon could sense any attacks from angles he can’t see… Alex almost confirmed his choice then, until another possibility caught his attention, one he had previously overlooked until he had witnessed the previous applicant Liora’s enchanted halberd. Thousands Become One. If neither of them were allowed to use their skills, how would Gideon respond to hundreds of weapons hurtling at his form? Not that it’ll come to that, Alex thought. Gideon Arlan was strong, sure— but he had seen worse.

  Much worse.

  Alex’s gaze shifted from his status to see Gideon’s hand snapping out to catch the strange applicant with carved skin by the throat and a pillar of blood collapse around them, splattering to the ground in thick, viscous droplets.

  Alex observed as Gideon’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into the cursed applicant’s pale flesh.

  “Your bond weakens you.”

  The man’s eyes widened, lips parting as though to argue—but the pressure on his windpipe silenced him. Gideon squeezed once more, and the sharp crack of cartilage echoed in the hall.

  He dropped the body without a glance.

  The healers rushed forward, their robes already soaked in dark stains. One knelt beside the fallen man, hands pressing to the wounds, drawing more blood to seal the break.

  Gideon’s gaze swept the remaining applicants. “Next.”

  This time, none dared; all stood still.

  “Cowards,” he said quietly, the word cutting through them like a blade. “If you won’t step forward, then you’re wasting my time.”

  His gaze locked onto a figure near the back of the line—Alex.

  “You.”

  I guess it’s time, then. Alex paused, then stepped forward without preamble. He would have preferred to observe more, but he supposed he could do so after.

  He strode toward Gideon as one would stride through a meadow, rather than a courtyard filled with healers desperately healing the many injured and a ground painted red by the blood of his peers.

  Up close, Alex let his domain expand subtly, brushing against Gideon’s form. The feedback was immediate—a dense wall of energy, compressed and immovable. Like Orick’s. The man’s aura didn’t flow like the others; it sat heavy and still, as if waiting for the right moment to erupt. From the short distance between them, Alex could see Gideon’s armour was worn without ceremony and clung to him like a second skin. The thick, darkened steel plates layered his chest and arms seamlessly, and their edges were dented from countless impacts, each a mark delivered by a being that had tried to kill him and failed, likely losing their lives in the process.

  Gideon’s gaze settled on Alex, sharp and assessing. Judging him.

  “Name.”

  “Alex.”

  Gideon’s head raised slightly, a hint of recognition passing through them.

  “Draw your weapon.”

  Alex unsheathed Eclipse, holding it steady in his hand. The dark blade hummed faintly, its chaotic energy contained but present.

  “Strike me.”

  Alex shifted his grip on Eclipse and planted his feet, the blade humming in response.

  “Don’t blink,” he said, his voice clear.

  And then he moved.

  The is up and running. So if you like, you can read ahead there!