CLEAVER OF SIN

Every candidate felt their world spin as though it had lost all colour for a fleeting instant, as if existence itself had been drained of vibrancy. Then, in the very next heartbeat, colour came crashing back into their senses, returning with overwhelming force, almost too much for their fatigued minds to process.

In that moment of disorienting transition, they reappeared within the same grand hall they had been in before being teleported to the forest.

The moment their senses fully adjusted, numerous candidates collapsed to the ground. Their bodies finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been clawing at them for hours. Some fell completely flat on their backs, arms splayed helplessly as though the weight of their own shoulders was too heavy to carry.

Others dropped onto both knees, panting like dying animals desperate for breath. A few slumped onto one knee, barely able to steady themselves with trembling arms. Every single candidate gasped and wheezed, their breathing harsh, ragged, and utterly out of rhythm.

Their chests rose and fell in frantic succession, the rapid intervals of their respiration echoing loudly within the otherwise silent hall.

Each one of them bore marks of battle. Every body was scarred, cut, and broken in unique ways, evidence of the struggles they had endured. Some bore shallow wounds, mere scratches across their skin, still bleeding but not fatal.

Others had far more gruesome injuries: arms missing, legs severed, torsos punctured, blood still gushing from open stumps. But even in their agony, many gritted their teeth and desperately pressed their remaining hands against the wounds, struggling to halt the flow of blood.

Their determination was admirable, yet pitiful; their pride and fear of weakness forced them to keep resisting the collapse of their broken bodies.

Their appearances were a mirror of despair. Ragged and filthy, they looked nothing like the dignified candidates who had stepped into the forest five hours earlier.

Their clothes were shredded beyond recognition, their shoes were ripped apart, barely clinging to their feet. Their hair was matted with sweat, mud, and sometimes blood.

Some among them, too broken to resist, fainted the instant they appeared back in the hall, their bodies crumbling to the ground as though they had been strings cut from a puppet.

It was only natural. After all, every one of them had been forced to fight, run, and bleed for five hours with no respite, no opportunity for rest, and no sanctuary. Their stamina had been burned away; their strength had been wrung dry.

And though no instructor had ordered them to keep fighting, none had dared to stop. No candidate could allow themselves to rest when the very possibility of falling out of the top two hundred loomed over them like a death sentence. Stopping for even a breath might have meant failure.

Among this sea of battered, blood-soaked candidates, however, one figure stood out like a blade gleaming in darkness.

Asher.

He stood with insulting calmness and unshaken composure, as though entirely detached from the carnage everyone else had endured. His body bore no visible wounds. His clothes was intact, without a single tear.

His chest rose and fell at an almost serene rhythm, his breathing perfectly steady, not even the faintest hint of exhaustion weighing him down. His skin glistened with neither sweat nor grime. In truth, he looked so pristine that he seemed almost alien amidst the rest of them.

He stood as though he had not even participated in the exam, as if he had merely taken a leisurely stroll while the others waged a war for survival. Even those ranked among the top ten, individuals whose power towered over most of the candidates, panted heavily, bearing cuts and bruises across their bodies.

But Asher remained untarnished, a living insult to their suffering.

At the edges of the hall, students who had given up earlier, forfeiting twenty percent of their points, or had been outright eliminated before the time ran out, looked on.

These were the ones who had arrived long before the others, their trials already ended. They were rested, their injuries healed, their stamina somewhat restored. They gazed at the newly returned candidates with a mixture of pity, envy, and quiet judgment.

Then, the silence was broken. From the rear of the hall, a massive door groaned open, and every head turned instinctively at the sound. Through the towering entrance strode a man, his footsteps deliberate and calm, carrying no unnecessary weight. The candidates' eyes followed him unconsciously.

The man said nothing. He offered no greeting, no explanation. He simply advanced toward the center of the hall where the bloodied students clustered. Raising his hand, he brought his thumb and middle finger together and snapped.

The sharp crack reverberated through the hall, echoing against the high ceilings and marble floors. In the next moment, energy surged. A radiant, soothing green glow burst from his body, rippling outward like waves on a pond.

The glow washed over every candidate present, seeping into their broken forms.

The effects were immediate and miraculous. Severed arms and legs regrew in seconds. Muscles knitted back together, ligaments stretched and realigned, veins and arteries reconnected seamlessly.

Open gashes closed without a scar, broken bones slid back into perfect alignment, and torn skin stitched itself whole. Within the span of a breath, injuries that would have crippled or killed in battle were undone as though they had never existed.

And the man had not so much as moved an inch toward any of them. He had not needed to approach them individually, nor to concentrate on particular wounds.

His mastery his ability and his Life Rank were so overwhelming that a single snap of his fingers was enough to heal dozens, hundreds of injured candidates without the faintest effort. To him, these children were nothing more than flickering candles in the wind, and their restoration required not even a fragment of his focus.

Even Asher, uninjured though he was, felt the green energy sink into his skin, seep into his bones, and vanish. There was nothing for it to repair, but the energy encompassed all within the grand hall indiscriminately. Even the students who had already healed earlier were restored once more, the glow caring nothing for distinctions.

Among those healed, Ryaen Silvershade watched in silence as her arms regrew before her eyes. First, bone, tendons and muscle fibers stretched into being. Veins and arteries snapped into place, ligaments extended, nerves rewove themselves with eerie precision.

Then flesh covered it all, followed by skin. In seconds, her arms were whole again, flawless and unmarked. She flexed her fingers, clenching her fist experimentally, and nodded in satisfaction.

But the relief was brief. She quickly noticed the eyes burning into her back. Turning, she caught the gazes of the other top-ranked candidates, particularly the Royal Twins, Darissa, and the heirs of the Stormveil and Ravencroft ducal households.

She could see their thoughts reflected in their eyes: "How had she lost her arms? Who had been powerful enough to make her fall in such a way?"

But Ryaen Silvershade said nothing. Rising from where she sat, she steadied her exhausted body. Every muscle screamed with pain, every movement burned, but she forced herself to her feet. She had pushed herself far beyond her limits after losing to Asher, desperate to reclaim the points she had lost.

And though her body was whole once more, her exhaustion was untouched. The healer had restored their flesh, but not their stamina.

That, clearly, was not his concern.

Ryaen shifted her gaze away from the probing eyes of the others and looked toward the boy who had defeated her. Asher. The purple-haired boy stood like a statue carved in marble, unbothered by fatigue or wounds. She studied his relaxed stance for a few seconds, trying to understand him, then turned away, closing her eyes and sinking into her thoughts.

The healer, having finished his task, offered nothing more. Without a word, without even the faintest nod of acknowledgment, he turned and strode away. One snap of his fingers, and his work was done.

Groans echoed across the hall as the candidates began forcing themselves upright. They could no longer remain sprawled on the ground, not when they were in the presence of the Academy's instructors. Pride and respect demanded they stand. Even those who had fainted stirred awake, jolted by the healer's energy, their unconsciousness denied to them.