In a different chamber altogether, far away from the chaos of the ceremonial hall, several people sat before a vast screen that shimmered with magical light.

The entire scene of the test—the students' every move, every exchange, every heartbeat of tension—was being displayed in front of them.

A man stood off to the side, controlling the projection. His hands moved across several floating glyphs, each one altering the projection angles and magnifying the faces of the participants as the council members observed in silence.

No preparations.

No allies.

No strategies.

No familiar ground.

Everything about this test was meant to tear away comfort.

"That's one hell of a way to test them," a tall man commented with a grin that split his rugged face. His broad shoulders and thick brows added to the intimidating air he naturally carried. Dark brown eyes—matching the shade of his hair—gleamed with interest as he folded his arms, the faint trace of amusement visible on his lips.

This man was Mordred, the Seventh Seat of the Great Hall. His presence alone felt like standing before a cliff—unyielding and vast.

"Hmm," a sultry voice hummed. "Look at that one... isn't he Art's little brother?"

A breathtaking woman leaned slightly forward, her dark lips curling into an intrigued smile. The way her words dripped off her tongue made even the air seem to hesitate. Her eyes, like polished obsidian, followed a certain blond figure on the screen—the brother of Arthur.

Her black curls spilled over one shoulder, framing a face that could make even a battle-hardened knight stutter. There was nothing deliberate about her charm—it was effortless, dangerous.

She was Guinevere, the Fourth Seat of the Great Hall, and without question, the most beautiful woman on the continent.

"There are other candidates too, Miss Guinevere," a soft voice chimed in from her side. "But I doubt they're worth your attention."

The speaker had green hair and a calm aura that seemed to soothe the entire room. Her tone carried no malice, only peace. Even among warriors, she was known as the mediator—the one who could cool a raging flame with a word.

Galahad. The Sixth Seat of the Great Hall.

Aside from these three, three more councilmen were present, each carefully noting down observations. Together, they were the ones who would determine who among the students was worthy to step forward.

The platform was set. The direction was clear.

Every student was moving toward one goal—victory.

"Ah—Lextor strikes first!" Mordred suddenly roared with excitement, leaning closer to the screen. The blond boy, fast as lightning, charged forward. Before his opponent even registered what was happening, Lextor had already moved past him—and then the sound came.

DOOOM DOOOM DOOOOM!

The chamber echoed as the footage showed a flurry of punches landing with bone-crushing precision. Within seconds, the opponent crumpled to the floor, unable to even counter.

"That's… impressive," one of the councilmen murmured, unable to hide his admiration.

The hall fell quiet for a moment. None of the participants were weak—each one had earned their spot here. Yet against Arthur's younger brother, the possibly best performer of the year, the difference was crushingly clear.

"He's one of the impostors, right?" Galahad asked, her brows knitting. "Then why isn't he trying to deceive anyone? He's just attacking head-on."

Guinevere chuckled lowly, her eyes still fixed on the screen. "Isn't that fine? If anything, I'd be disappointed if he didn't rely on tricks. But little Lex is compensating well—showing off the martial arts he's polished for years."

Mordred nodded. "He awakened quite a weak skill… what was it again? Vertigo?"

One of the councilmen responded, "Yes. That's why he honed his body instead of relying on magic."

It wasn't uncommon.

Those born with weak skills often turned to martial arts, forging their bodies into weapons. The logic was simple—one could not master both magic and martial prowess to their peak. Those blessed with rare, powerful skills seldom had the time to refine their physical strength.

But for those like Lextor—who started early, who refused to bow to fate—they carved their own mark through sheer discipline.

Of course, there were exceptions.

A man who had both—a powerful skill and unparalleled swordsmanship—existed. A disciple of the Sword Saint who created his own sword arts.

One of the Seven Seats.

But he wasn't present in the room today.

"Ah, here comes Merlin's pick," Galahad suddenly said, her voice tinged with curiosity.

At once, every gaze turned toward a silver-haired girl appearing on the screen.

Guinevere's smirk deepened. "Let's see just how good the witch's choice really is."

…

Emma was running through the dark. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the air felt heavy—thick with unease. The silence in the vast hallways gnawed at her mind.

She hated this feeling.

The uncertainty.

The blindness of not knowing where to go.

Her barrier illuminated the surroundings, casting a soft glow around her—a circle of safety barely five or seven meters wide. Beyond it, shadows stretched endlessly.

'Was this place always this big?' she thought, spinning lightly on her toes to scan the area.

And then—

Ting!

Her barrier collided with another.

Emma froze, body tensed, and her eyes darted forward. The silver light shimmered against another translucent surface—and behind it stood someone she recognized.

Gizel.

The girl's face was bruised, blood trailing from the corner of her lip. But her eyes widened in relief upon seeing Emma.

"Emma?" she breathed out, shoulders easing. "Thank god—it's you."

But Emma didn't lower her guard. Her barrier stayed firm, her expression sharp. "Don't come closer," she warned. "Among the five of us, I have a strong feeling you're the impostor."

Gizel blinked, utterly stunned. "W-What? Why would you think that?! I just escaped a group of panicked students trying to knock me out!"

Her voice trembled with disbelief, but Emma's suspicion didn't waver.

"I have a hunch the impostors were informed of their role early—probably when they were in their cabins. Since then, you've been the most quiet, the most detached," Emma said slowly, her tone steady but cold.

"That's just how I am!" Gizel protested. "I've always been like that—you know that. You have to trust me!"

The silver-haired girl hesitated. The glow from her barrier flickered faintly as her mind raced. She exhaled softly and, for a moment, lowered her hand. The barrier thinned and she whispered, "Were you really attacked?"

When Gizel nodded weakly, Emma raised her palm, and a soft golden light enveloped the injured girl. The cuts and bruises began to fade under the healing glow.

"A few students started panicking," Gizel muttered under her breath. "They thought I was about to attack them, so they started throwing spells at me. I barely managed to get away."

Her tone carried exhaustion—tinged with disbelief at the absurdity of it all. The entire test felt less like an evaluation and more like chaos wrapped in fear.

Emma didn't say anything for a while. The faint hum of magic lingered in the air as her healing light faded. Shadows continued to crawl along the edges of her barrier, but her eyes stayed locked on Gizel's face.

Then, after a long minute of silence, Emma finally spoke. Her voice was calm, yet it carried the edge of a blade.

"Then let's try to find the entrance together. If we're lucky, we might get out… but remember this, Gizel."

Her silver eyes gleamed coldly through the dim light as she continued, each word sharper than the last.

"If I sense even a speck of suspicion from you—I'll knock you out before you realize what's happening."

Gizel flinched slightly, but nodded with forced calm. "I understand. Trust me—it's not me."

Then, turning toward the east, she added, "The entrance should be there. When the contest details were being announced, I placed barriers near each gate. I can still sense the faint residue of one of them from that direction."

Her glasses caught the faint glow of Emma's barrier as she looked back. "Now… follow me."

Emma said nothing. She simply adjusted the light around her, the barrier pulsing softly before she stepped in line behind Gizel. Her gaze didn't waver from the girl's back—not for a second.

The two moved through the maze of shadows, their steps echoing faintly in the emptiness.

....

[In the surveillance room]

"What a duffer," Guinevere scoffed, leaning back against her chair with an elegant tilt of her chin. The glow from the massive screen painted her skin in pale blue light, accentuating the curve of her smirk.

Crossing one long leg over the other, she muttered, "She's a fool… just like Merlin." Her tone dripped with mockery. "Easily believing that girl who practically screams suspicion. And now she's following her—straight into what's probably a trap."

She let out a soft laugh that lacked any amusement, brushing a curl away from her face. "How naïve."

Across the room, Galahad's calm green eyes shifted toward one of the councilmen. They exchanged a brief, knowing glance before the gentle woman sighed.

"Miss Guinevere," she said softly, her voice as soothing as ever, "you might be mistaken about that."

Guinevere's smirk faltered, her brows knitting faintly. "What do you mean by that?"

Before Galahad could answer, the councilman beside her did. His voice was composed but carried a trace of intrigue.

"It isn't Emma who's getting trapped," he said, looking at the screen closely. "It's the other way around."

Guinevere turned her gaze to the screen and soon, her eyes widened.

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