The colosseum pulsed with renewed energy as the second round of the tests neared.
From above, magic wove through the air like golden threads unraveling across a vast canvas.
The audience had returned to their seats, conversations thick with speculation and nervous excitement. The platforms had been cleaned, the shattered earth of the Trial of Divergence already reconstructed with eerie precision. To many, it was simply beyond believable how they could quickly fix and turn the stage into whatever they wanted.
But something was different this time.
The arena hadn't taken shape yet.
It lay flat, a blank slate of smooth obsidian, surrounded by arcane conduits and rotating crystal pylons along the perimeter. The sky above dimmed—not from clouds, but from a growing veil of mana, forming a dome that shimmered with raw power.
Then, from the highest tier of the observation tower, a voice rang out—clear, elegant, and laced with barely concealed pride.
Dean Oryll of Wyrmere.
