The capital's grand arena hadn't seen a crowd like this in decades.
Stone pillars draped in gold and crimson banners, enchanted lights floating high above, and tens of thousands of people packed into the stands, buzzing like a storm that couldn't decide whether to cheer or pray.
It was the Hero Selection Trials — the Empire's proudest spectacle.
Bards sang, vendors yelled, and nobles from every corner of the continent gathered under a sky streaked with mana lights. The air itself hummed with power and arrogance.
And right in the middle of that noise, a single man in a long black coat walked in through the west gate — fashionably late.
Kyle's boots hit the polished stone, echoing faintly under the roar of the crowd. The new attire the elf tailor made him fit too damn well — crisp, dark, and just expensive enough to make him feel like he owed someone money.
The gate guards moved to block him, but the second one recognized that face, his eyes went wide.
"W–Wait— you're—"
Kyle didn't even slow down.
"Yeah. I'm me."
He slipped past them like it was his own home, hands in his pockets, not a care in the world.
The arena floor was massive — sand and marble arranged in circles layered with runes. Seven banners waved proudly, each representing one of the continent's seven S-rank adventurers. They were already here, surrounded by guilds, knights, and recruiters losing their minds trying to look important.
Every one of those S-rankers looked the part — armored, cloaked, glowing, or dripping with mana.
And then the eighth man walked in.
With no banners and Emblem, Just that strange weight in the air, like the shadows themselves leaned closer to listen.
"Who the hell's that?" someone muttered.
A guildmaster squinted. "Never seen him. But whatever he is, he's not ordinary."
Up on the sidelines, a familiar recruiter froze mid-sentence when his eyes landed on Kyle. Clipboard slipped from his hand, papers scattering.
"Y–You actually came," he stammered, rushing over.
Kyle's half-smile was sharp enough to cut. "You sound terrified, not happy."
"I— I didn't think you'd accept the invitation!"
"You offered money," Kyle said, strolling past him. "I'm broke, simple maths"
In the noble pavilion above the arena — a wide, shaded balcony lined with velvet seats — the capital's elite watched the spectacle unfold. The King sat at the center, his children beside him, flanked by the heads of the empire's most influential houses.
Among them, Lord Aurelian, head of the Aurelian family, adjusted his cloak with quiet authority. His daughter, Seraphina Lys Aurelian, sat at his side, silver hair catching the light like frost.
When Kyle stepped onto the sand, her father leaned forward slightly.
"Hmm. That one — the man in black. Which house is he from?"
Seraphina froze. Her gaze locked on Kyle instantly.
Of course he'd be here. Of all places.
Her father noticed her expression. "You know him?"
She nodded quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Yes, Father."
He raised a brow. "An acquaintance?"
"...Something like that," she said, lips tightening.
Her father hummed, eyes still on the arena. "He doesn't wear the colors of any guild or noble line. Interesting."
"He's not... someone easily placed," she admitted under her breath.
Further down the pavilion, the King spoke quietly to one of his advisors, mentioning the rare sight of eight S-rankers instead of seven. The name of the eighth was missing from every registry.
The announcer's voice boomed, magically carried across the stands.
"Welcome, champions! Today, you stand before the Empire — and the Hero who will lead us to victory against the Demon Lord!"
The crowd erupted. Trumpets flared. Mana lights spiraled through the air.
Kyle winced. "Every time I think I've seen peak stupidity, someone adds fireworks."
The S-rankers lined up in the center circle, eyes flicking toward one another.
Every one of them felt it — that quiet, unseen pressure rolling off the man in black.
One of them, a scarred beastman with a giant cleaver resting on his shoulder, sized Kyle up.
"You the new one? You look too damn calm for this."
Kyle cracked a faint grin. "Calm's cheaper than confidence."
"Hah! Big mouth."
"Big ears," Kyle replied without missing a beat.
The gong's echo still rolled across the arena when the first explosion hit.
A searing arc of flame carved through the sand — two S-rankers clashing, their mana flaring bright enough to make the crowd gasp. Steel met spell, and the air itself seemed to quake under the pressure of so much power.
And Kyle just stood there. Hands still loose at his sides. Watching.
He wasn't waiting for an opening — he was measuring. Every move, every twitch of muscle, the rhythm of how these people fought. Decades of battle had given him a hunter's patience.
Another blast tore the ground beside him, showering him with dust.
A lean swordswoman sneered at him from across the circle. "You planning to move or die standing there, pretty boy?"
Kyle brushed the sand off his coat. "I was thinking about breakfast and....this suit was new"
She lunged.
The strike was fast — too fast for the crowd to follow. Her twin blades flashed in a whirl of silver arcs that would've diced most adventurers into ribbons.
Kyle slipped under the first, parried the second with a soft clang, and turned his wrist — just slightly — redirecting her momentum. His movement was quiet, efficient. Decades of real fights refined into muscle memory.
She staggered, surprised, and he stepped forward, twisting the hilt of his blade against hers, the runes flaring dimly. Sparks danced as steel scraped steel.
"Just die fast," she hissed, grinning.
"Oh really?" Kyle muttered, shoving her back with a sharp kick.
To the right, two more S-rankers — a dwarven juggernaut and a beastman knight — were tearing up the ground in a brutal contest of strength.
The dwarf noticed Kyle's clean exchange and laughed mid-swing. "Hey, kid! Stop flirtin' and show what ya got!"
Kyle cracked his neck. "Fine, fine. Don't cry about it later."
He blurred.
Not teleportation — just speed that looked impossible. One step, two, then his sword met the dwarf's hammer in a thunderclap that sent dust spiraling into the air. The crowd gasped as the shockwave rippled through the arena.
The dwarf's boots dug into the ground, cracks forming under him. "Tch— what kinda strength—!"
Kyle exhaled through his nose, pressing the clash. His arm didn't tremble.
"Lighten the hammer. You're slow."
He twisted, sidestepped, and with a precise strike at the haft, disarmed the dwarf — the hammer went flying, landing with a ground-shaking thud.
The beastman didn't wait. He lunged with a roar, claws wrapped in mana. Kyle turned sharply, parrying a strike that split the air, boots grinding into the sand as the two locked in a clash that screamed raw force.
The audience felt the pressure ripple through their chests. The shockwave cracked the stone at the arena's edge.
Seraphina gripped the railing, her silver hair catching the wind. Her father muttered low beside her, "...He fights like someone who's seen more battle than anyone his age has a right to."
Down below, the beastman shoved off, landing hard. He grinned through a bleeding lip.
"You're strong, bastard. What rank you really at?"
Kyle spun his sword lazily. "Depends on who's paying."
Then the beastman's eyes glowed — the telltale shimmer of a mana burst. His body doubled in size, fur bristling, claws like blades. The crowd screamed as he charged, kicking up dirt like a storm.
Kyle's expression didn't change.
He just whispered, "Alright then."
His blade slid from its sheath in one clean, chilling sound.
The moment the beastman's claw came down, Kyle wasn't there. He was at his side. One arc of blackened steel sliced the air, the edge barely visible — just enough to nick the beastman's arm and make him freeze mid-motion.
Then came the recoil.
A surge of dark mana pulsed through the cut — not enough to kill, but enough to drain the beastman's energy in an instant. The transformation broke like a candle snuffed out.
Kyle caught the collapsing brute by the collar before he hit the dirt, lowering him gently. "Sleep it off."
The swordswoman from before tried again — from behind this time. He caught her blade with his bare hand, twisting her wrist until she dropped it. The runes on his glove shimmered faintly, absorbing the strike's mana.
Her eyes widened. "What—?"
Kyle leaned close, voice calm. "Don't swing twice at someone who doesn't blink."
He stepped back and kicked her sword away, knocking her down with a casual shove.
By now, half the arena had stopped fighting.
All eyes were on the man in black — who fought like a veteran soldier, not some overpowered monster. Every motion efficient, every strike learned. He wasn't moving fast to show off. He was moving like someone who'd done this for far too long.
He wasn't untouchable — one cut grazed his side, another burned his coat — but he moved through it like the pain barely registered.
The dwarf wheezed from the ground. "Who the hell trained you?"
Kyle sheathed his blade, breath steady. "Time."
The announcer's voice cracked over the sound of the crowd's uproar.
"Contestants, cease combat! The round concludes!"
Kyle exhaled slowly, brushing dust off his sleeve. He could feel their eyes — the spectators, the nobles, even the king's. Didn't matter.
He rolled his shoulders once, muttering, "Still rusty."