Jake and Luckie stood in a large auditorium with the other participants who buzzed in anticipation. The room’s amphitheater-style seating circled a raised platform where the Proctor, a stern-faced figure robed in red and gold, commanded silence with a single raised hand. The sea of mages fell quiet.
“Welcome, participants, to this year’s Magic Trial,” the Proctor began, his voice echoing through the expansive room, “unlike previous years, this trial will consist of a singular round lasting twelve days.”
An uproar erupted. Participants exchanged shocked glances and murmurs of disbelief.
Jake was oblivious to what caused the uproar but beside him, Luckie leaned in and whispered, “Every year before this had always consisted of two rounds:—one battle royale, and one large round-robin. The format being changed most likely derails a lot of people’s prep. Not to mention, twelve days is four times as long as last year’s Magic Trial.”
Twelve days, huh.
“Silence! Silence!” When the noise subsided, the Proctor continued. “The trial will be held outside the city, utilizing an 8x8 kilometer section of the forest. A barrier will prevent anyone from straying outside the battlezone, whether by accident or intention.”
The Proctor went on. “The trial has been designed with unique safety measures to ensure no one suffers life-long injuries. A cancellation ring will be in place, specifically to prevent any harm from escalating beyond recovery. Should anyone sustain a major wound, a teleportation ring stands ready to remove them from the arena immediately, preserving their safety above all else. And most importantly, all measures, every single one of them, will be under the sole control of Grand Warden Gellius.”
The crowd gasped. Another uproar followed.
Jake subconsciously leaned toward Luckie, waiting for him to again explain the gasps and uproar.
“It’s unheard of,” Luckie started, clearly baffled himself. “One person solely controlling two rings covering such a large area? The aura reserves needed, Grand Warden Gellius is one of a kind.”
Hearing Luckie sing the praises of his mentor made Jake feel a little more confident about the upcoming trial.
“Moving on!” The Proctor’s voice cut through the whispers. “This year, twenty Corp Officers will serve as team leaders. Participants may select an Officer to lead them, provided that Officer hasn’t already been chosen by four subordinates. Each team will consist of five members.
“Now, let’s talk objectives. Hidden throughout the forest are many relics. To pass, your team must secure one relic by the end of the trial. Each team will be provided with a multi-needled compass that automatically points to collected relics. On the third day, the needles will point toward all relics, whether collected or not, increasing competition. Every four days, unexpected magical effects will occur. Be vigilant.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
As the Proctor stepped back, the doors behind the stage opened, and the twenty Corp Officers entered the room in unison. Dressed in varying levels of combat gear, each wore the red-and-gold armband denoting their rank. They lined up in a straight row, exuding authority.
“Participants,” the Proctor announced, “you may stand behind the Officer of your choosing.”
The participants began moving toward their chosen leaders. Jake scanned the lineup, his eyes settling on the seventh Officer. Unlike the others, this one was fully armored, their face hidden behind a polished helm. Without hesitation, Jake made his way to stand behind them.
“Why him?” Luckie asked, joining Jake.
Jake shrugged. “Badassery.”
As they waited, two more individuals joined their team. One was a hooded figure who remained silent, while the other was a well-dressed man sporting monocles. With that, their team of five was complete.
The Proctor’s final words rang out. “Good luck.”
Gellius stepped forward and in an instant, swept them away, teleporting them to the battlefront.
Asariel Snowhart, only son of the noble House of Snowhart, sat in the ornately decorated observation room. The chamber was circular, with high vaulted ceilings that bore the insignias of various noble houses. He surveyed the magical map that displayed the figurines representing the trial participants. Each piece moved in real time, their positions updated by the Configuration ability infused within the map.
The Proctor addressed the gathered nobles. “As you can see, this magical map will allow you to monitor the movements of all participants throughout the trial. Each figurine corresponds to a team. Their progress, strategies, and engagements will be displayed for your viewing pleasure.”
Asariel’s gaze lingered on Team Seven.
The chamber doors creaked open, drawing the attention of everyone present. Duke Fauques entered, his extravagant robes trailing behind him. Two hulking henchmen flanked him. Fauques’ hawk-like features twisted into a polite smile as he approached Asariel.
“Ah, young Lord Snowhart,” the Duke said smoothly, inclining his head ever so slightly. “My sincerest apologies for my tardiness. Though my rank precedes yours, this is your city, after all.”
“Of course, Duke Fauques. Your presence is most welcome.”
The Duke paused, a practiced look of solemnity crossing his features. “I was not especially fond of your father, but it is with deepest regrets that I send my condolences. Shame, what an untimely death.”
Asariel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Very much appreciated.” In truth, Asariel himself wasn’t fond of the Duke either. It was well known that he had been one of the troglodytes breathing down his father’s neck while he was still alive.
Lord Goldworth, a rotund man with a penchant for theatrics, cleared his throat, his golden rings catching the crystal light as he gestured toward the map. “Shall we make this interesting, gentlemen? Perhaps a friendly wager on which teams will stand among the victors by day twelve?”
“Betting?” Fauques scoffed dismissively, adjusting his collar. “A game for the poor.”
Goldworth chuckled, undeterred. “No gold on the line, dear Duke. Simply pride. Surely even you can afford that?”
After a pause, Fauques inclined his head. “Very well. For pride, then.”
The nobles took turns naming their team of choice, each predictably backing their own representatives. When Asariel’s turn came, he spoke convincingly, “Team Seven.”
