The third test began with nothing.
No announcements. No instructions. No visible danger. The remaining recruits—nearly 800 of them—were herded into a vast hall at the southern wing of Castle Loon. The walls stretched far in every direction, smooth and metallic, reflecting dull light that gave the room a washed-out, sterile feel. Above, an artificial sky flickered with motionless clouds, casting a grey tint over everything below.
The chamber was completely empty.
There were no weapons. No instructors. No guidance.
The moment the last recruit stepped through the gates, the heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a metallic thud that echoed across the vast space. Silence followed.
Xero stood near the edge of the crowd, eyes scanning the hall. Sonze was to his right, arms folded. He looked half-bored, half-curious. The others milled about, muttering.
Some sat on the floor, assuming this would be some sort of endurance test. Others leaned against the walls, yawning. After the brutality of the last two trials, an empty room felt like mercy.
But Xero didn't relax.
His instincts screamed.
Something was wrong. Too wrong. It was too quiet. Too easy. There was no way they could be brought here to play away their time. If he could recall vividly, the Grande Commander had said that the test levels increased in brutality in each procession.
He kept his body alert, knees slightly bent, eyes always moving. His blood hadn't stopped humming since the moment he entered. He was sure of one thing:
This wasn't rest.
A soft ticking sound filled the chamber. A countdown.
A digital voice echoed from hidden speakers:
> "You have ten minutes."
That was it.
No explanation. No rules. No hint of what was coming.
And so the minutes passed.
One minute. Then two. Then five.
Some trainees began to laugh nervously. Others laid down cracking stupid jokes.
By the ninth minute, nearly a third of the recruits had either seated themselves or dropped into casual conversation. The rest stood in loose formations, arms crossed, clearly expecting some late instruction.
Only a handful looked truly tense.
Only a handful were like Xero.
He watched everything. The way the air moved. The faint shimmer in the upper atmosphere. The subtle hum beneath the floorboards.
He didn't move.
Then came the tenth minute.
The room shifted.
It began with a ripple in the air near the center of the hall—a shimmer, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a falling stone. Then another ripple, and another. Before anyone could react, a figure dropped from the ceiling. Then another. Then another.
They hit the ground soundlessly.
Tall, cloaked in black, faces covered with bone-white oni masks. Leather armor molded to their lean forms. Blades strapped across their backs. And most horrifying of all—each figure seemed to flicker, then split.
One became two. Two became four. Four became eight. They were multiplying.
Within seconds, the room swarmed with identical assassins.
Screams shattered the silence.
The first kill was brutal. A girl sitting cross-legged, laughing with her friend, was impaled before she could even turn her head. The blade slid cleanly through her neck. She gurgled once and collapsed.
Chaos erupted.
The assassins struck without mercy.
A boy tried to run. Three of the masked killers surrounded him instantly. They didn't even pause—one slashed to the gut, one to the throat, and he was down. Blood pooled fast. The floor was already slick.
A fire-user tried to summon flame—but his fingers barely sparked before a blade pierced his spine.
The clones didn't speak. They didn't pause.
They just killed.
"AMBUSH!" someone yelled.
Too late.
The unprepared were being cut down like wheat under a scythe.
Xero moved.
He dropped low and rolled under a sweeping strike. A clone had targeted him already. The blade missed his head by inches. He came up fast, dodged sideways, and leapt over a body. A scream burst from behind him.
Sonze roared.
The big recruit had taken a shield from a fallen trainee and wielded it like a warhammer. One clone struck at him and was thrown back by a single punch. Sonze grabbed a second by the arm and slammed him into the floor. Bones cracked. The clone vanished in a puff of black smoke.
Xero ducked and pivoted again.
Another clone came. This one was faster. Smarter.
Their blade danced like wind.
Xero used his agility, weaving around the strikes, breathing hard. No time to counter. No time to attack. He just had to move.
He leapt over a corpse, rolled, and kicked off a wall, narrowly escaping a slash that tore into his robe. Pain lanced through his shoulder.
He winced but kept moving.
The test wasn't about fighting.
It was about not dying.
The thought hit him hard.
This wasn't a trial of power. It was a test of instinct. Of reflex. Of caution.
The ones who dropped their guard… were dead.
The ones who waited… were gone.
Only those who prepared survived.
Another minute passed.
More screams. More blood. Clones everywhere. Some disappeared only to reappear at another corner of the hall. Some walked through walls. Illusions? Magic? He couldn't tell.
All Xero knew was that every second he stayed alive, he got closer to passing.
He found cover behind a metal pillar and pressed his back to it. His breathing came sharp and quick. A blade had nicked his side. Shallow, but enough to burn.
Across the room, he saw Sonze grappling with two clones at once.
The big guy was injured—his leg was cut—but he kept swinging, brute force driving the clones back.
Then suddenly, as fast as it had started, it stopped.
The assassins halted. One by one, they stepped back.
Then, they vanished.
Gone.
As if they were never there.
The silence returned.
Xero remained crouched, blinking.
Bodies littered the ground. Blood soaked the floor. The stink of death clung to the air.
Of the nearly 800 that entered, fewer than 500 were still standing.
Xero slowly stepped out from behind the pillar. His legs trembled. He wiped the sweat and blood from his face.
He had survived.
Sonze limped toward him, dragging a broken piece of a training weapon.
"Damn," he said, voice ragged. "You alright?"
"Barely," Xero replied. "You?"
"I'll live." He looked around. "Most won't."
No instructors came in. No praise. No announcement.
Only the soft hiss of the chamber doors reopening behind them.
The survivors slowly, silently walked out. No one spoke.
Xero paused at the exit.
He looked back.
He understood now. The test wasn't about skill. It wasn't about power. It was about instinct.
About being cautious.
Assassins don't wait. They watch.
He clenched his fists.
Whatever was coming next… he would be ready no matter what.