The metallic machine hovered in front of the gathered children, its surface smooth and gleaming like polished obsidian. Unlike the crude machines we used in daily life, this one was different—a relic from the Ancestors' time, its structure seamless, its mechanisms unknown. Strange runes glowed faintly along its underside, pulsing in a rhythm that felt almost… alive.
Then, without warning, it let out a piercing hum.
A ray of golden light shot down from its underbelly, expanding into a massive screen that shimmered in the air like a veil of fire. The children gasped, their breath hitching as an image formed within the light.
A man stood before us.
Even through the projection, his presence was overwhelming.
Broad-shouldered, his frame exuded raw power, wrapped in a deep black cloak embroidered with crimson steel patterns. His face was weathered, lined with the marks of countless battles, but his piercing golden eyes held the fire of a warrior who had never once been defeated. His black beard was neatly trimmed, a contrast to the long silver-streaked hair tied loosely behind him. At his side, a massive iron-forged blade rested—casual, like an afterthought, yet every child here knew it had likely ended thousands.
He was Lord Draegon of the Southern Iron Castle—Overlord of the Tarkhan Clan.
The Head of the Warborn.
When he spoke, his voice boomed, deep and authoritative, as if the earth itself obeyed his words.
"Listen well, warriors."
His tone carried no warmth, no sympathy—only cold, absolute command.
He lifted a small black flag, its fabric barely fluttering in his iron grip.
"Throughout this forest, one hundred flags like this are scattered. Your task is simple—find one and bring it to the Red Tower at the forest's center."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered children.
One hundred flags.
Yet we numbered at least three hundred.
That meant more than half of us would be eliminated before even reaching the second phase.
Draegon's expression didn't change as he continued.
"There are no rules."
A pause.
A flicker of realization passed through the crowd.
No rules.
Meaning anything was allowed.
"You are warriors now. Fight, steal, survive. Or fall. The Trial officially begins."
And just like that, the image vanished.
The flying machine let out a sharp whir before it turned, rising higher into the sky. Then, as quickly as it had come, it disappeared beyond the trees.
Silence fell for the briefest moment.
Then—
Chaos erupted.
As if bound by a single instinct, the entire crowd lunged forward at once, bodies colliding, dust rising in a frenzy of movement. The forest awaited, and every single one of them knew—time was everything.
Some shoved, some tripped others to gain an edge. The strongest immediately sprinted, pushing ahead with terrifying speed.
But I…
I simply walked.
___
The dense canopy of Zalagh Forest enveloped me as I ventured deeper, the cacophony of the initial rush fading into the whispering rustle of leaves and distant calls of unseen creatures.
As I navigated the winding paths, it became evident that many of the participants had formed alliances. Groups of children, bound by familial ties or shared ambitions, moved together, their combined presence a deterrent to lone challengers.
I passed several such clusters, their eyes narrowing as they noticed my solitary figure. Some whispered among themselves, perhaps contemplating the ease of overpowering an individual competitor. Yet, none made a move but I was sure that will change soon.
The forest was alive in more ways than one. Amidst the towering trees and thick underbrush, movements caught my eye. Once, I glimpsed a deer, its slender form poised gracefully as it observed me from a distance. In that moment, I was reminded of the tales of old.
A time when such creatures were mere myths, stories passed down of a world teeming with animals—beings that roamed freely, each playing a role in the intricate tapestry of life. Through advanced sciences, they endeavored to recreate these lost species, breathing life into legends.
The deer before me was a living testament to their success, a bridge between the past and the present. Yet, much like the enigmatic flying machines and other remnants of their era, the knowledge of how these marvels came to be had faded. The sciences that birthed them had disappeared, leaving behind wonders without explanations.
But deers are not the only animals in this forest as soon three figures stood against a massive tiger, its striped fur bristling, muscles coiling beneath its flesh like steel cords. Its amber eyes gleamed with predatory hunger as it prowled forward, tail flicking in calculated anticipation.
It was Lucas who stood at the front of the trio, his golden hair catching the scattered sunlight. To his right, Lisa, her stance light yet firm, wielding twin daggers, and on his left, an unfamiliar boy gripping a spear with both hands, his knuckles white from pressure.
A soft mechanical hum caught my ear, and as I tilted my gaze skyward, one of the flying machines hovered just above the treetops. Its reflective surface mirrored the scene below, its lens-like eye rotating—watching.
The tiger lunged.
Its sheer size made it seem unstoppable, a force of nature barreling toward them with claws extended, jaws parting to reveal gleaming fangs. Lucas was the first to move.
His sword blurred, his body shifting with graceful moves. Back then I didn't knew it but it was the Bladewind Form, the martial art of chieftain, one of the most famous techniques in the tribe.
The tiger's claws raked forward—Lucas twisted, sidestepping the deadly swipe. His blade flickered, a rapid, near-invisible cut appearing on the beast's side. The tiger roared but did not falter.
Lisa and the spear-wielder took the opening.
Lisa darted low, daggers flashing, carving a path along the tiger's leg before retreating just beyond its retaliation range. The spear-girl thrust forward, her weapon striking the tiger's shoulder, pushing it back just enough to throw its balance.
Lucas took advantage of the stagger.
His sword moved like wind through the trees, I observed with quiet detachment. His technique was masterful but nothing Anazor can't deal with.
The tiger, wounded and struggling, let out one last snarl before Lucas's final strike came.
A single step—a flicker of steel—and the beast fell.
The fight was over.
The hovering machine's lens refocused, capturing the victorious moment.
The dimly lit chamber buzzed with quiet murmurs as holographic screens flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow across the stone walls. The largest screen, stretching across an entire wall, displayed dozens of small scenes, each capturing a different moment of the trial.
Some showed children clashing, weapons ringing in the depths of the forest. Others depicted groups hunting creatures, their forms barely visible beneath the thick canopy. A few simply sprinted through the underbrush, desperate to reach the next phase.
But the central screen—the one everyone's eyes were drawn to—showed Lucas standing atop the massive, lifeless body of the Siberian Tiger. The blood-streaked sword in his grip, the unwavering confidence in his gaze—it was a moment of undeniable dominance.
Seated in the room, a gathering of tribal leaders and warriors observed in silence. But at the head of the chamber, occupying the largest chairs, sat the two most important figures.
The first, Chief Varun Sorina, leader of the Sorina Tribe, watched with a stoic expression, his sharp features unreadable. His gray-streaked black hair was neatly tied back, his dark robes embroidered with the silver crest of his lineage. He did not react—not to the fight, nor the murmurs of admiration filling the chamber.
Beside him, an imposing man leaned back with an amused grin.
His ebony skin gleamed under the dim light, the deep scar running from his brow to his jaw only making his features more formidable. Broad-shouldered and clad in dark, rugged leather, he radiated the aura of a seasoned warrior. His very presence demanded attention.
This was Raiga Carja, the Warlord of the Fire Carja.
His voice, rich and edged with laughter, broke the quiet.
"Three children who haven't even hit puberty yet defeated a Siberian Tiger? You really created a monster, Chief."
His golden eyes—sharp as a predator's—focused on Lucas, still displayed on the holographic screen.
Chief Varun, ever calculating, merely nodded. His voice was steady, measured.
"Yes. He has a lot of potential."
Raiga's smirk widened as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"But I heard your son is also in this trial. Where is he?"
Silence.
The tension in the chamber shifted. The other leaders turned their gazes to the Chief. Some, expectant. Others, wary.
Varun's expression remained unreadable, but inwardly, his thoughts were guarded.
Raiga Carja was no ordinary man.
The Maredain region had long been dominated by three great tribes—the Sorina, the Zephyrfang, and the Ironclad. Each commanded vast lands, warriors, and influence. Meanwhile, the smaller northern tribes, fractured and limited in resources, had remained insignificant for decades.
Until Raiga arrived.
Ten years ago, he single-handedly conquered every minor tribe in the north.
He forged the Fire Carja from nothing, turning once-forgotten warriors into an empire strong enough to rival the great tribes.
Since then, the border wars between Sorina and Carja had never ceased.
And yet, for the first time, Raiga had extended an offer of peace—delivered in the form of a personal letter.
An invitation for diplomacy.
Yet why had he chosen this week—the week of the trials—to appear?
Varun was no fool. This man always had a purpose.
So, carefully, he answered.
"He's not on the screen. I'm ashamed to admit that my son lacks the talent to be worth watching."
Raiga tilted his head, his smirk never faltering.
"Oh? I see."
He leaned back again, seemingly satisfied. But inside, his thoughts churned.
'It seems they have limited drones. They want to focus on their most talented children. That means… he truly believes his son isn't worth watching.'
The warlord's grin returned.
'Interesting.'
...
The night was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant howls. The young boy, barely past his twelfth year, ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his breath ragged, fear tightening his chest. Behind him, the heavy thudding of paws crushed the underbrush, accompanied by a deep, guttural growl.
The bear was relentless.
He didn't dare look back. His heart pounded in his ears as he pushed forward, dodging trees, leaping over roots—until his foot caught a stray rock.
"Aahhh!"
He tumbled, rolling violently down a steep hill, his body bouncing against the earth as dirt and leaves filled his mouth. He hit the bottom face-first, groaning in pain.
"Ew..." he muttered, spitting dirt as he wiped his face.
Then, instinctively, he whipped his head around—but the bear was gone.
His breath slowed, relief washing over him.
"I survived..." he whispered.
That was when his eyes landed on it.
A small red flag, piercing the earth, its fabric fluttering softly in the breeze.
His eyes widened.
"It's the flag!"
Without thinking, he rushed forward, his hands reaching for the prize. He grasped the thin pole and yanked it from the ground.
The moment the flag was removed—
Something shot out from the hole.
A streak of crimson light rocketed into the sky, exploding like a flare, painting the treetops in red.
The boy froze, panic creeping in.
"Of course, it's not that easy…"
He spun on his heel and bolted.
Branches snapped around him as he ran, his eyes darting left and right. He could already hear footsteps approaching. Others had seen the signal.
He needed to hide.
His lungs burned as he dived behind a tree, peeking around the trunk.
A group of four dashed through the clearing, their heads swiveling as they scanned the area. They were searching.
The boy pressed himself against the bark, barely breathing.
A long moment passed.
Then—finally—they moved on.
He let out a shaky sigh of relief.
But just as he turned around—
He froze.
Standing across from him, barely a few paces away, was a boy.
He was alone. Silent. Unmoving.
His expression blank. His gaze piercing.
The young boy stumbled back, his pulse racing. But then, as recognition dawned, his fear melted away, replaced by a relieved laugh.
"I know you."
He straightened, smirking.
"You're Anazor! Damn, I was actually scared for a second."
He let out a chuckle, shaking his head.
"But I can deal with you. Hahaha."