Chapter 666: Selection Test
The line finally reached the stone hall. The circular structure seemed even larger inside, lit by torches mounted on the walls and tall windows that let in daylight. Registration counters were scattered around the perimeter, each manned by a staff member dressed in the blue robes of the tournament organizers. Behind them, wooden shelves held stacks of golden medallions, ready to be distributed.
The murmur of voices mingled with the dry sound of quills scratching parchment. Armed guards watched the crowd, careful to avoid another disturbance like the one moments ago.
Strax and Samira walked together to one of the counters. The registrar, a thin, middle-aged man with dark circles under his eyes, looked up mechanically. He seemed tired of hearing the same arrogant introductions from the sons of noble families.
“Name?” he asked bluntly, dipping his quill in the inkwell.
Strax tilted his head slightly forward, the shadow of his cloak covering part of his face. His voice was calm, deep.
“Victor.”
The inscriber looked up for a second, assessing. “Victor… and the last name?”
“None,” Strax replied without hesitation.
A short silence. The man frowned slightly, but didn’t insist. He wrote it down. Then he turned to Samira. “And you?”
She smiled, amber eyes sparkling with mischief. “Violet.”
“Last name?” the inscriber persisted, expecting something more.
“None,” he replied, with a slight shrug, as if it were irrelevant.
The scribe stared at them for a few more moments, clearly finding it odd. Nobles always had last names, and even commoners often identified themselves by clan or village. But there was something about the two of them that didn’t encourage him to ask further. He simply recorded their names on the parchment.
With his quill scratching the last lines, he reached out and picked up two golden medallions engraved with dragon and phoenix symbols. He handed one to each of them.
“Here,” he explained in a monotone, as if he’d repeated those words a hundred times. “The medallion is your official tournament identification. It has your name and your quarters number on it.” He pointed to the larger doors at the back of the hall. “Follow the corridor to the courtyard. Inside, you’ll find houses with numbered plaques. Look for the number that matches your medallions.”
Samira held the medallion in her palm. The name “Violet” was engraved in delicate runes, next to the number 24. Strax checked his. “Victor,” also number 24.
“We’re together,” she said with an amused smile, tucking the medallion under her cloak.
Strax simply nodded.
They walked through the large doors, and immediately the atmosphere changed.
The corridor opened onto a vast courtyard, so large it resembled a fortified plaza. The floor was made of light, polished, and sturdy stone, prepared to bear the weight of crowds. The space was empty, but not silent: the echo of the competitors’ footsteps and voices reverberated beneath the stone walls that surrounded the area.
What drew attention, however, were the surrounding buildings.
Large houses, each marked with a metal plaque bearing numbers in robust numerals, formed a circle around the courtyard. They looked more like barracks than residences, built to house warriors during the tournament. Some doors were already open, revealing young men gathered inside, laughing, sharpening weapons, or simply gazing at each other.
Samira raised an eyebrow as she surveyed the scene. “Well organized. Each number, a base.” She held up the medallion. “Twenty-four.”
Strax didn’t answer, simply walked toward the designated quarters. The metallic clang of weapons and muffled conversations accompanied them as they passed other groups. Some competitors watched them with disdain, others with simple curiosity. But no one dared approach.
The sign for house 24 shone in the light. The door was ajar.
Samira entered first, her robe dragging on the stone floor. Inside, the room resembled a training hall. There was no furniture except side benches and low tables. The space was open, spacious, clearly designed for combat testing.
And they were not alone.
At least fifteen young men already occupied the room. Some leaned against the walls, others exchanged warm-up punches, others sharpened blades. There was a stark diversity: warriors in heavy armor, archers in light clothing, and even a tall young man carrying a spear almost taller than himself.
Everyone looked up when Strax and Samira entered. The air seemed to grow heavier for a moment.
Samira analyzed each face, each posture. Then she turned to Strax, the predatory smile curving her lips again.
“It seems we have… a selection test.”
Strax remained still for a few seconds, observing the room’s reaction. His golden eyes seemed to reflect the torches, as if they held a flame of their own.
“It seems so,” he said finally, his voice low and calm, but with the firmness of someone stating an undeniable fact. “We’d better wait.”
Samira inclined her head in agreement, dropping onto one of the stone benches against the wall. Her gray cloak slid, revealing the outline of her sword scabbard.
“Wait…” she repeated, her amber eyes slowly roaming the fifteen gathered warriors. Her expression was amused, like that of a hunter assessing prey. “Looking closely, none of them seem really strong.”
There was contempt in her voice, but also a hint of boredom.
A disheveled-haired archer was balancing an arrow on his finger, barely concealing his nervousness. Two brothers in clanking armor argued quietly, as if unable to decide who was best suited to lead. A spearman was training alone, but each blow seemed to lose strength mid-swing, revealing incomplete technique.
Strax walked slowly to the opposite wall and leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Underestimation is bad,” he said emotionlessly, as if repeating an obvious lesson.
Samira rolled her eyes at him, the smile on her lips growing a little wider. “It would be… if they were smart.” She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. “But many here are sloppy. Take a good look.”
She pointed discreetly with her chin.
A tall, muscular young man was laughing too loudly as he sharpened his sword, distracted enough to nearly cut off his own fingers. Another, sitting in the corner, tried to meditate, but his irregular breathing betrayed anxiety. There were those biting their nails, those glaring at others with gratuitous hatred, those letting their blades rest on the ground without the slightest care.
“They’re full of loopholes,” Samira added, her voice low, as if savoring the realization.
Strax didn’t disagree, but he didn’t smile either. His gaze was more distant, assessing not only what he saw, but what might happen.
“Let’s keep our guard up, after all…” Strax looked away. “There are people watching.”