Flash!
As soon as the blinding flash of white light vanished, the world settled into silence—no more howling winds, no more screaming youths hurling techniques and fists at each other, no more shaky ground or ocean mist stinging their skin.
Just crisp, fresh air, a steady floor beneath their feet, and a sudden stream of translucent, floating screens popping up in front of every participant’s face like a system-wide announcent had just dropped from the heavens.
The words were clear and glowing golden in bold letters, as if trying to reward their eyes for all the trauma they’d just gone through:
[Congratulations! You have successfully passed the first trial!]
Right below that, a follow-up ssage sparkled into view,
[The second trial will comnce in exactly one week. All successful participants are to report to Parisia for the final phase. Good luck!]
The mont Creed read the notifications, he let out the most satisfying, drawn-out sigh of relief his body could muster.
His shoulders dropped, his jaw unclenched, and he rolled his neck like soone who had just been told they didn’t have to do Monday chores anymore.
"Finally," he muttered, stretching out his arms like a lazy cat waking up after a three-day nap.
For a mont back there, after boarding the ferry, he genuinely thought the ride would be a short breather before they were tossed into another hellhole of terrifying traps and boss monsters.
The sea had been quiet, almost suspiciously so, and Creed’s instincts kept whispering, ’This peace is a lie.’
Then, without warning, the light had engulfed them.
His first reaction? Absolute panic.
His eyes had snapped wide open and he’d imdiately assud so super-level being had just dropped an ultimate skill on them—so "Heaven’s Finger of Judgnt" that ca with auto-disqualification and a permanent seat on the loser bench.
But when he opened his eyes and saw that they were back in the calm, neutral grounds with stable ground and soft blue skies above them—and more importantly, still very much alive—he finally realized that the flash was just a teleportation activation marking the end of the trial.
It wasn’t a death beam. Just a magical Uber drop-off.
Around him, thousands of other students were going through their own dramatic reactions to realizing they were, in fact, not disqualified.
They had qualified for the next phase!
So fell to the ground and kissed it like it was their long-lost lover.
A couple of girls hugged each other while ugly-crying, mascara running down their cheeks like lted crayons.
One buff guy dropped to his knees and scread "YEEEESSSS!" so hard it echoed.
And then, amusingly, a few of them actually started to approach Creed, scratching their heads, awkward smiles on their faces, and thanking him.
Yes, they thanked him for helping them survive, even though he’d basically scamd them for the golden crystals at prices that would make a black market dealer blush!
One guy even patted Creed on the shoulder and said, "Honestly, you’re evil, but fair. That’s rare these days."
Creed just grinned and nodded graciously, accepting complints and complaints in equal asure like a true businessman.
Lilith and Tierra, who had been lounging around his shoulders like queens riding their human throne, finally let out twin sighs of relief and shimred back into his tattoo, their bodies glowing before dissolving into streaks of light.
A mont later, their voices tickled his thoughts through the ntal link they shared. ’Master... make sure to feed us well tonight. We almost died out there, y’know.’
Creed smiled wryly, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath. "I’ll get you both a nice dinner. Maybe steak. You’ve earned it."
He couldn’t lie—he was looking forward to so peace and quiet with his girls, maybe even a chance to test out so of the weapons he’d looted during the trial to check whether so might prove useful.
Especially that weirdly glowing dagger from that bushy-haired girl who tried and failed to backstab him during the third wave.
As he stood there basking in his record-breaking 56 million credit profit, Creed turned his head smoothly to his side where Amara was standing.
Her arms were crossed and her eyes were still scanning the place coldly like a dignified ice queen.
She looked too serious, like she hadn’t processed that they were finally safe.
Creed tilted his head slightly and gave her his best charming smile. "Hey," he said, cool and casual.
"Mind if I get your contact details? We’ll be eting again for the next trial, right? Gotta make sure we’re on the sa page."
Amara blinked at him, obviously caught off guard by the smoothness of the request.
Creed wasn’t like those cringey protagonists who’d stutter and blush just to say hello to a girl.
Nah, in his past life, he was a top-tier player. He’d chard nobles, flirted with assassin queens, and talked his way out of a death penalty once just by smiling the right way.
Just kidding, but still...
Socializing was part of his skillset, just like swordplay and strategy. And this was easy mode.
No pickup lines. No awkward silences. Just a confident vibe and a goal in mind.
Amara hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly handed over her communication slip—a sleek little crystal card that contained her contact details.
"Don’t spam ," she said with a warning tone, though the faint blush on her cheeks suggested she didn’t actually mind.
Creed chuckled, pocketing the card. "I’m a gentleman. Mostly."
As the last notifications faded from the air and the plaza buzzed with murmurs of preparation for the next trial, Creed looked up at the sky, his eyes sharp and focused.
One trial down. A week to prepare. And then the real ga would begin.
But this ti, he’d enter with a fully loaded wallet, a reliable team, and a reputation that was rapidly spreading across the youths.
Oh yeah. Life was good. He glanced at Amara one more ti.
Her usual poker face was cracked ever so slightly—her cheeks were just a little pink, and she avoided eye contact for half a second too long.
"Thanks for your help... back there. You were... useful." With that, she turned and started walking away like it was just another Tuesday.
Creed stood there for a mont, watching her go, a smug little smile spreading across his face like butter on hot toast.
"Oh yeah... we’re past the cold shoulder phase now." He couldn’t help but feel a tiny sense of victory blooming in his chest.
Just a few days ago, they would’ve preferred talking to a cactus than sharing a sentence with each other.
But now, after everything they’d gone through together in that chaotic rift, they’d built at least so level of understanding.
Their teamwork had been real, their banter had beco smoother, and that wall they’d built between them had started to show cracks.
They might not be best friends or anything, but they were definitely past the whole ignoring-each-other-like-strangers stage.
He pocketed her number like it was a golden ticket and casually followed her back toward the massive sky carrier that hovered just above the ground, waiting to take them back to the city.
Around them, the other participants had mixed expressions.
So were cheering, laughing, and fist-bumping with their teammates, while others looked completely deflated, either from losing friends in the trial or realizing how close they’d co to getting kicked out.
The energy was weird. It was half celebration, half funeral. But Creed just walked through it all with a relaxed confidence, taking a seat beside Amara on the carrier like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You really weren’t gonna give your number if we hadn’t almost died together, huh?" he said casually, nudging her shoulder a little.
Amara raised an eyebrow and looked at him with that familiar expression that balanced right between "you’re annoying" and "you’re amusing."
But she didn’t tell him to shut up. Instead, she just replied coolly, "Well, if we’re going to be on the sa battlefield again, it makes sense to be able to coordinate, doesn’t it?"
That was all he needed. Creed grinned and leaned back in his seat, and just like that, a normal, surprisingly chill conversation started between the two of them.
Nothing dramatic, no awkward tension, just back-and-forth chatting about the trial, their favorite monts, and even joking about so of the overly dramatic lines that other participant had kept shouting during fights.
Honestly, it felt kind of nice. After all the madness, having a mont to just talk like real people felt like a reward in itself.
Eventually, the carrier touched down, and the two of them stepped off onto the familiar streets of the Infernal Ice Bastion.
The slightly cold air hit Creed’s face like a slap from winter itself, but at this point, he was not even paying attention.
He turned to Amara with a confident but polite smile. "Guess I’ll see you soon. One week, huh?"
"Don’t get lazy," Amara said, turning on her heel. "You’ll need to be better if you want to keep up with next ti."
Creed laughed softly. "You wound ." And with that, they split up, each heading their own way through the well maintained streets.
As Creed walked ho alone, his pace finally slowed down, and a strange calmness settled over him.
For the first ti in what felt like forever, he wasn’t watching his back, calculating the next move, or preparing to dodge a rooty punch.
The entire ti in the rift, he’d been operating like a machine—analyzing, adapting, and staying on high alert.
But now? Now his mind could finally breathe. Sure, he was dying to go and sell off his stash of goods, especially those rare loot drops and experint with the leftover golden crystals.
The potential credits he could rake in were enough to make any rational person run straight to the nearest trading hub.
But Creed wasn’t that stupid anymore. He knew that ntal exhaustion was just as dangerous as any sword.
If he wanted to be sharp and prepared for the next trial, then he needed to recharge properly—no stress, no business, just food, a hot shower, and the kind of deep, satisfying sleep that made you forget your own na.
His stomach growled as he thought of that. Yeah, a good al was top priority.
Maybe a plate of roasted thunderboar ribs or that fire-spiced stew he liked so much. Anything that wasn’t dried rations or ergency jerky.
By the ti he reached his apartnt complex—a tall, grey building near the business hubs, he was practically dragging his feet.
He trudged up the front steps, hands in his pockets, just ready to collapse.
But then, as he got closer to his door, he heard it—the blaring, chaotic sound of rock music so loud it probably violated several noise pollution laws.
His eye twitched.
She’s ho.
That "she" was his next-door neighbor, a mystery in human form.
The only way Creed ever knew she was back in the bastion was when her apartnt started blasting music at full volu, like she was hosting a personal concert for the entire block.
Creed didn’t even need to knock or check—he could already imagine her inside, dancing like nobody was watching, maybe tossing weapons around for fun while snacking on so cursed chips.
He rolled his eyes, shrugged like it was just another day, and walked into his own apartnt.
As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by silence—sweet, precious silence—and a mountain of letters stacked neatly by the entrance.
He paused, blinked once, then let out a small, smug smile.
"Is that what I think it is?"
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