The morning of the combat trial arrived with perfect weather and clear sky.
As if the gods themselves wanted a good view of the bloodsport.
Robin woke in the stable, his body rested despite the rough accommodations. He'd learned long ago that sleep was a weapon, use it when you could, because you never knew when you'd get the chance again.
He completed his morning routine in the stable yard. Push-ups, stretches, visualization. His muscles responded smoothly. Ready.
[DAILY QUEST COMPLETE]
[+50 EXP]
[LEVEL 6: 305/600 EXP]
The Academy's combat arena was in the center of the grounds. Robin had scouted it yesterday, a circular sand pit, fifty meters in diameter, surrounded by tiered stone seating. Built to hold thousands. Today, it would be packed.
He arrived early. Joined the other applicants gathering outside the arena entrance. The 312 who'd automatically advanced plus the 35 from special consideration.
Everyone was armed now. The Academy had provided standard-issue weapons; short swords, spears, small shields. Basic but functional training weapons.
Robin chose a short sword. Similar enough to his dagger that his weapon mastery would apply. The blade was blunted but still dangerous. Heavier than he preferred, but manageable.
The crowd in the stands was massive. Thousands of spectators, families of applicants, Academy officials, military scouts looking for talent, and common citizens who loved watching combat.
An announcer stood in the center of the arena. Magically amplified voice booming across the space.
"Welcome to the Royal Military Academy Combat Trial! Today, three hundred forty-seven applicants will face captured beasts in single combat.
Each applicant faces one opponent. Victory is achieved through beast elimination or examiner intervention. Failure results in disqualification."
The crowd roared. This was entertainment. Blood sport dressed as education.
"Beasts are ranked F through F-plus, matched to applicant capability. Combat continues until clear victor is determined!"
Names were called alphabetically. One by one, applicants entered the arena.
Robin watched from the waiting area. Studied each fight carefully.
A B-rank noble faced a Void Rat. Ended it quickly with a mana-enhanced strike. Flashy. Efficient. The crowd loved it.
A C-rank commoner fought a larger rat variant. Took longer. Several close calls. But competent swordsmanship prevailed. Solid performance.
A D-rank applicant struggled against a Scrabbler. The insectoid beast was fast, erratic. The applicant eventually won, but barely. Exhausted. Wounded.
They're matching beast difficulty to mana rank. Higher ranks get easier opponents. Lower ranks get harder challenges.
An E-rank commoner faced a Scrabbler. Lost. The beast's claw opened a gash across his chest before examiners intervened. He was carried out on a stretcher, his Academy dreams ended.
"Stark, Leo!"
Robin's brother entered the arena to cheers. His family was in the stands; Marcus and several bannermen. No Duke, but his representative was there.
Leo faced a Void Rat. Standard F-rank opponent for a B-rank applicant.
He made it look easy. Mana-enhanced speed and strength. The rat died in seconds, dissolved into black motes. Leo raised his sword to the cheering crowd.
Competent. But nothing special. He relied entirely on mana advantage.
More names. More fights. The pattern was clear, higher ranks faced easier beasts and had more tools to work with. Lower ranks struggled.
An F-rank noble girl faced a Scrabbler. She had no combat experience, just mana. The beast tore through her defense in seconds. Examiners pulled her out before serious injury.
The crowd's mood was mixed. They cheered flashy victories. Groaned at struggles. Gasped at injuries.
Finally, inevitably, Robin's name echoed across the arena.
"Stark, Robin!"
The crowd's reaction was immediate. Laughter. Jeering. The F-minus boy. The cursed child. This was going to be a joke.
Robin walked into the arena. The sand was hot beneath his feet. The sun beat down. Thousands of eyes looked at him.
He felt nothing. No nervousness. No fear. This was just another hunt. Just another kill.
Focus. Assess. Execute.
The announcer's voice boomed. "Robin Stark. F-minus mana rank. Special consideration applicant. Facing..." A pause for dramatic effect. "A Scrabbler!"
The crowd's laughter intensified. A Scrabbler - one of the hardest F-rank beasts. Given to an F-minus applicant with no mana.
They're setting me up to fail spectacularly. To entertain the crowd.
A gate opened on the opposite side of the arena. The Scrabbler emerged.
Exactly as Robin remembered from the outline he'd read. An insectoid creature, roughly dog-sized.
Six legs ending in sharp points. Two mantis-like claws. Armored carapace covering most of its body. And those eyes; multiple black orbs that tracked independently.
The beast chittered. A sound like metal scraping metal. Its movements were twitchy and unpredictable.
Robin raised his short sword. Standard guard position. He balanced his weight.
The Scrabbler lunged.
But Robin had fought these before. In the dungeon. In his nightly hunts. He knew the pattern.
He sidestepped. Minimal movement. The Scrabbler's claw slashed through empty air where he'd been standing.
The crowd murmured. Surprised he'd dodged.
The Scrabbler adjusted. Came at him from a different angle. Feinting with one claw, attacking with the other.
Robin read it. The tell was in the leg positioning which claw would strike was telegraphed by which legs bore weight.
He parried the real attack. His blade deflected the claw. The impact jarred his arm, but his improved strength held.
The sword is heavier than my dagger but the principles are the same.
The Scrabbler increased aggression. A flurry of strikes. This was where most opponents failed, the creature's speed and unpredictability overwhelmed them.
But Robin didn't meet the attack head-on. He gave ground. Let the beast come forward. Dodged, parried, redirected. Never fully committing to a counter.
The crowd's laughter had stopped. People were leaning forward now. Watching.
He's not dying. Why isn't he dying?
Robin continued reading the pattern. The Scrabbler favored its right claw slightly stronger, slightly faster. Its left side was the weak point. And between strikes, for just a fraction of a second, it exposed the nerve cluster behind its armored head.
There. I've seen it now. I know the opening.
The Scrabbler lunged again. Committed to a powerful overhead strike with both claws.
Robin didn't dodge.
He stepped in.
Into the attack, closer than the Scrabbler expected. Inside its striking range where the claws couldn't generate full power.
His sword came up. Not a slash. A thrust. Precise. Aimed at the exposed nerve cluster.
The blade punched through chitin and into the soft tissue beneath.
The Scrabbler's entire body seized. Its nervous system shut down instantly.
It collapsed. Twitching. Then still. Dissolving into black motes.
Robin straightened. Lowered his sword. Breathing steady. Not even winded.
The arena was silent.
Complete. Absolute. Silence.
Then one person clapped. Slowly. Then another. Then the silence shattered into noise not mockery this time, but shock, confusion and Impressed disbelief.
The fight had lasted maybe two minutes. One strike. Clean kill.
The examiner in the arena, a scarred veteran who'd been ready to intervene stared at Robin. He was surprised.
Robin walked toward the exit. His enhanced perception tracked the crowd's reactions. Some were impressed.
Many were confused. A few looked wondering how an F-minus applicant had moved like that.
Leo's face in the stands was dark and furious.
Robin exited the arena. Returned his weapon. Joined the other applicants who'd already completed their trials.
Conversations stopped when he approached. People stared and whispered.
"Did you see that?"
"One strike. He killed it in one strike."
"But he has no mana. How...?"
Robin ignored them. Found a quiet spot. Sat. Waited for the trials to conclude.
More applicants fought. Some won impressively. Others struggled. A few failed and were carried out injured.
But Robin's fight was the talk of the waiting area. The mystery.
The trials concluded as afternoon wore into evening. Final tallies were announced.
"Results will be posted tomorrow morning," the announcer declared. "All applicants are dismissed. Return at dawn for final acceptance notifications."
The crowd dispersed slowly. Robin left with them. Blended into the mass of bodies.
He had no copper left. The stable wasn't an option tonight. He found an alley. Settled in behind some crates. Not comfortable, but he'd slept in worse.
His mind reviewed the day. The fight had gone exactly as planned. Clean and efficient.
Not too flashy. Not too dominant. Just competent enough to be notable.
The examiners would see potential. A diamond in the rough. Someone who'd overcome terrible mana deficiency through pure skill.
Exactly the story the Academy loved.
┏━━[ Achievement Unlocked ]━━━━━━━┓
│ AGAINST THE ODDS
│
│ Description: Defeated examination beast
│ despite F-minus mana ranking. Single strike
│ elimination demonstrated exceptional skill.
│
│ Rewards:
│ ├─ +100 EXP
│ ├─ Reputation Gain: "Skilled Underdog"
│ └─ Academy Interest: High
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
[LEVEL 6: 405/600 EXP]
Robin closed his eyes. Let exhaustion pull him toward sleep.
Tomorrow, he'd know for certain. But he already knew the answer.
He'd passed. All three phases. Against all odds. Despite every disadvantage.
The cursed child with no mana had proven something important today.
That skill mattered more than power.
That technique could overcome deficiency.
That a sharp mind and a sharper blade were sometimes all you needed.
Phase three complete.
Now the real work begins.
Tomorrow, Robin Stark would officially become a student of the Royal Military Academy.
And the Duke would receive word that his exiled son hadn't just survived.
He'd excelled.
Robin smiled in the darkness of the alley.
Checkmate, Father.
I'm not coming home.
Because I never needed you in the first place.
Sleep claimed him. Deep. Dreamless. Victorious.
Tomorrow would bring confirmation.
But tonight, Robin Stark had won.