The morning mist clung to the forest clearing, wrapping the air in the earthy scent of wet moss and a hint of danger.
A group of children, each proudly displaying the emblem of the Aristeo family, stood in a haphazard formation. Their stances were a mix of nerves and bravado: some were visibly shaking, while others wore forced smirks.
Among them was Lyonel, hands tucked behind his back, his keen eyes scanning the treeline. The forest felt alive, breathing softly, with the distant hum of unseen creatures echoing through the chilly air.
Suddenly, from the shadows between two towering black oaks, a figure emerged.
His stride was relaxed, but the moment he stepped into view, the chatter among the children fell silent.
Clad in a dark instructor's coat, with disheveled hair and half-closed eyes that suggested he hadn't seen a good night's sleep in ages, Armel Aristeo sauntered in, dragging a bottle of something potent in one hand and a hunting knife in the other.
He was known as the infamous Shadow Dog of Aristeo, a man rumored to have hunted down traitors in the family's name, burying their remains deep in the thickest parts of the woods.
"Alright, you little princes and princesses," Armel called out, his voice gravelly and dripping with sarcasm. "The basic idea of this practical test is pretty straightforward."
He waved a hand lazily toward the fog-laden woods behind him. "You'll be surviving in this forest, Forêt d'Argenciennes, for two weeks. If luck's on your side and I'm sober, that might just be it. But if I've had enough to drink to forget about you, well, you could be here for a month."
A few kids shifted nervously at the thought. Armel's grin widened.
"You'll be hunting," he went on, "but not rabbits or deer, mind you. The Aristeo family doesn't raise cowards. You'll be going after beasts that could take your head off before you even think to scream for mommy."
A nervous laugh rippled through the group, but Armel brushed it off, taking a swig from his flask.
"Now… let's talk about the conditions." He raised two fingers. "First: you need to kill or capture at least one large monster. The bigger, the better. Second: you come back alive. Ideally, with all your limbs intact."
He let out a low, cruel chuckle. "You'll earn ten points for a successful hunt. If you come back with just a scratch, that's a sweet thirty."
He tilted his head, scanning the crowd. "Oh—and if any of you happen to die… well, that just means less competition for the family inheritance."
His words hit hard, like a hammer. Some of the younger kids flinched, but Lyonel stood his ground, his face a mask of unreadability.
Armel's gaze swept over them, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes lingered on Lyonel. There was a flicker of something recognition, perhaps, or curiosity but it vanished just as quickly.
"Alright, my little killers," Armel said, stepping back toward the trees. "You've got an hour to team up, gather what you can, and start your hunt. After that…" He flashed a grin, revealing his teeth. "…this forest won't be so friendly anymore."
With that, he slipped back into the mist, his laughter echoing like a growl from the depths of the woods.
Armel's grin spread wider, as if he was savoring the most wicked part of his tale. He waved a scarred hand through the mist, like someone brushing away cobwebs.
"Oh—hold on. Before I forget," he drawled, his voice slow and theatrical. "There's a restricted area."
He gestured toward a circle of blackened stones not far from the clearing, half-hidden by fog and half-buried in the earth, like some grotesque ring.
"You all need to stay within that circle. Don't worry—it's not small. It's huge. Plenty of space for you to hunt, kill, bleed, and pray to your heart's content."
The kids shifted uneasily. The forest seemed to lean in closer, as if it were eavesdropping.
Armel's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Kill to your heart's desire. Feed the land. Show me you're not just a soft toy made of silk and pretty names."
One of the older trainees raised his hand, a cocky grin plastered on his face. "What about murder?" he called out, his voice slicing through the fog. "Can we take out the others? Make sure the weak don't come back—clean out the trash?"
A ripple of murmurs spread through the group. Some laughed nervously, while others stared, their eyes glinting with hunger at the thought.
For a brief moment, Armel's expression hardened. He tilted his head, letting the question linger in the chilly air before responding with a slow, dangerous smile.
"That," he said, taking his time, "is up to you."
He let the words settle like a heavy stone. Then, as if he were bored, he added, "Whenever that feeling lust, hunger, blood, whatever dangerous little word you fancy overflows your soul, that's your business. No one will judge you here except the forest and your own conscience."
He chuckled, the sound reminiscent of a dog gnawing on a bone. "Survive it, or be consumed by it. I don't care which."
The murmurs grew into a rough chorus, some excited, some uneasy.
Faces that had been calm just moments ago now flickered with tiny hints of calculation: alliances, betrayals, who could be used, who could be cast aside.
Lyonel observed everyone with a calm, inscrutable look. The thought of sanctioned murder, letting the forest serve as judge, was a mix of poison and opportunity.
He didn't feel the childish disgust that might have once stirred in his body; instead, Kores' mind was busy cataloging reactions—who blinked, who smiled too quickly, and who didn't smile at all.
Armel took a step back, lifting the bottle in a playful toast. "Good. Now off you go. The forest is patient, but it's also hungry."
With a grin, he melted into the trees, leaving the children surrounded by fog, each other, and whatever dark choices they might make when no one was watching but themselves.
As the group scattered to gather supplies and form tentative alliances, Lyonel crossed his arms and contemplated the ring of black stone.
The rules were straightforward: survive, kill, return. The underlying message was even clearer: do whatever it takes.
The whispers started off soft, like secrets carried on the breeze, but quickly escalated into a cacophony of sharp, venomous remarks as more eyes turned in his direction.
"Hey, look… isn't that the seventh son?" one boy jeered, his voice a mix of amusement and pity.
Another chimed in, dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, that's him — Lyonel Aristeo. I heard he hasn't even got Kensei down yet."
A few snickers followed.
"Tier five, right? He hasn't even made it past that?"
"Pathetic. At this rate, he won't survive a day in the forest."
"Forget the beasts; the bugs will take him out before sunset."
Their laughter echoed through the trees like a haunting melody.
Some shot him smug glances, while others looked at him with open disdain, as if his very existence was an affront.
One of the older participants, smirking beneath his dark bangs, leaned toward his friend.
"Honestly, why even send him? He's just a placeholder. Maybe they're hoping the forest will take him out. Save the family some shame."
That earned a few more chuckles.
Lyonel stood there, silent amidst the chaos, his expression calm and unreadable. His crimson-blue eyes remained steady, refusing to acknowledge the noise around him.
Inside, however, his thoughts turned icy and calculated.
So this is how they still see me. The useless seventh son.
He could almost hear the laughter of his past self the Lyonel before the regression who would have likely bowed his head and swallowed the humiliation.
Lyonel took a slow breath, letting the chatter fade into the background hum of the forest.
His gaze swept over the other participants, committing faces, voices, and tones to memory.
Then, a sharp whistle sliced through the noise.
Everyone froze, hands flying to their ears.
Lyonel's mind snapped into focus. Black Ear. He'd heard the name whispered in rumors a technique that turned sound into concentrated, brutal waves.
It wasn't magic; it was torture elevated to an art form.
Massive sound waves from a whistle, designed to shred eardrums, immobilize the victim, and burn.
He could feel it hitting him, a pressure that felt like someone was hammering on his skull, even through his palms.
With his hands clamped over his ears, he gritted his teeth and thought, Why the hell is he using this on trainees?
Finally, Armel lowered the whistle, letting the sound fade away like a dying echo. "Cut the chatter," he said, his voice sharp and icy. "And don't worry about your ears; I held back, only using one percent of it."
Lyonel froze. One percent? His eyes widened a bit as he clenched his jaw. That's the power of a Tier 3 Kensei user?
A faint chill crawled down his spine. The gap in strength suddenly felt like a vast canyon.
Armel scanned the group, his expression a mix of irritation and boredom. "Don't judge others for their weakness," he continued. "You're here for a test, nothing more. Not for mockery, not for pride."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was weary of even explaining. "Alright then, with everything settled, you can disperse now."
The trainees began to scatter, still shaking off the ringing in their ears.
The heavy air of the forest swallowed their footsteps, leaving only the soft hum of the wind and Lyonel's quiet, lingering thoughts.