Sparring  

After what seemed to be forever, it was finally Ragnar's turn. He rose from his seat and made his way toward the center of the arena.

Ragnar felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Despite the weight of anticipation bearing down upon him, he remained focused, his mind clear and his senses sharp. He opted to use a wooden sword as he did not know what his soul weapon could do to the instructor.

Facing off against the instructor, Ragnar squared his shoulders, his gaze steady as he awaited the signal to begin. With each passing moment, the tension in the arena seemed to mount, the air crackling with anticipation.

At last, the instructor's voice rang out, breaking the silence. "Begin."

At the sound of the bell, Ragnar immediately felt an oppressive force fall on him. It was almost suffocating. He raised his head and looked at the instructor who was maintaining his stance, holding only the sheathe of his sword.

He mustered all his focus and dashed towards him, wooden sword in hand. He made a horizontal slash. The instructor parried effortlessly with the sheathe, the clash echoing sharply in the arena. Ragnar followed up with a series of rapid strikes, each deflected with precision.

Ragnar pivoted on his heel, bringing his sword up for a high strike, only to be met by the instructor's quick sidestep. With a grunt, Ragnar dropped low, attempting a sweeping leg kick. The instructor jumped, his movements fluid and almost graceful, landing lightly out of reach.

Not wanting to lose momentum, Ragnar rolled forward and sprang up, his wooden sword aimed at the instructor's midsection. A powerful block met his strike, and the instructor's counterattack came swiftly—a sharp tap to Ragnar's shoulder with the sheathe, sending a jolt of pain through his arm.

Undeterred, Ragnar spun and hurled himself forward, swinging the wooden sword in a wide arc. The instructor tilted his head, the blade whizzing past harmlessly. Seizing the moment, Ragnar charged again, his sword coming down in an overhead strike. The instructor caught the blade with the sheathe, stopping it dead.

With a roar of frustration, Ragnar disengaged and somersaulted backward, creating distance. He landed and immediately gathered his energy, rushing forward with renewed determination. The instructor waved his sheathe, deflecting every attack with ease.

Breathing heavily, Ragnar closed in once more, feinting left before striking right. The instructor's defense was impenetrable, his movements a blur as he blocked, dodged, and countered each attack with precision. Ragnar's muscles burned, and his vision blurred with sweat.

Summoning his last reserves of strength, Ragnar unleashed a flurry of strikes, his wooden sword a whirling storm of motion. The instructor moved with inhuman speed, his blocks and parries almost a dance. With a final, desperate yell, Ragnar swung his sword in a wide arc.

The instructor ducked under the blade and stepped inside Ragnar's guard. With a swift, controlled motion, he tapped Ragnar's chest with the sheathe, a signal of defeat. Ragnar's strength gave out, and he stumbled backward, gasping for breath.

He fell to one knee, his wooden sword slipping from his grasp. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't even touched the instructor. The oppressive force lifted, and the instructor's stern gaze softened.

"Well fought," said the instructor softly, with a hint of pride. "You have a real talent for fighting."

As he turned away, the instructor smirked. 'This new group has some promising students,' he thought.

Ragnar stood, panting heavily. The sparring match had pushed him to his limits, both mentally and physically. His legs were shaking, barely able to hold him up. He realized just how weak he was.

'A rank 2 warrior is no joke. He was nothing like Shalom. I need to get stronger,' Ragnar thought.

After leaving the stage, he splashed his face with water and drank deeply. He was so tired and thirsty, he just wanted to go back to the motel and sleep. But he knew he had to stay until they announced who had passed the test. He couldn't miss it.

Ragnar made his way back to his seat to watch the rest of the matches. To his surprise, Julius was already there, waiting for him.

"Man, every time I see you fight, you keep losing. It's sad. Really, tsk tsk," Julius teased, clicking his tongue.

Ragnar ignored him completely, understanding Julius's playful nature by now. He grabbed a wet towel and tossed it at Julius's face.

"And how did your test go?" Ragnar asked.

"Hehe, yours truly got a green-colored evaluation!" Julius exclaimed proudly.

"That's great for you. So, you're going to pursue the mage path, I presume?" Ragnar replied.

Julius nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! Becoming a mage has always been my dream. I can't wait to see my old man's face when he finds out."

"Well, not before he grounds you for running away," Ragnar said with a smug grin.

Julius shivered at the thought. He could muster the courage to face anything in the world, except his father. That's how scared he was of him.

As they bickered, the next participant took the stage. He had neatly styled short blond hair and carried a sword with a lion emblem. Ragnar's eyes widened in recognition.

"Hey, isn't that the guy I sparred with?" he nudged Julius.

Julius turned his gaze toward the arena. "Oh, the Hargrave guy is enrolling here too? Weird. Usually, families like his pick the best academies for their kids. I guess everyone has their circumstances."

The instructor noticed the boy coming onto the stage and raised an eyebrow.

'Hm? That hair color... Surely, he's not from that family, right?' he thought.

The blond boy faced the instructor and introduced himself formally.

"Greetings, Mr. Alphonse. I am Marek Hargrave. Please take care of me." He then drew his sword and assumed a ready stance.

Alphonse couldn't believe it. 'Hargrave? What is going on with this batch?' He thought but maintained his composure.

"Very well, Mr. Marek. Please, come at me."

In the next instant, Marek launched himself at Alphonse, displaying impressive swordsmanship. Even though Alphonse could easily predict and parry his strikes due to the power gap, Marek's footwork and technique were exceptionally refined for someone without a ranking power. It had to be because of his family's sword techniques.

Their duel looked almost like a dance, each movement fluid and precise. Ragnar was captivated; he had never seen fighting appear so graceful. Though Alphonse was holding back, it was clear that if he wanted to, he could defeat Marek in seconds. That was the difference between their ranks.

After a while, they ended the spar. Marek was a bit tired, but he still had energy left, unlike those who had gone before him. He had shown his skills beautifully.

As Marek left the stage, he noticed Ragnar and gave him a nod. Ragnar nodded back.

One by one, the other participants showed their skills. Finally, the tests concluded. A sheet of paper with the names of the passing candidates was posted on the wall, drawing everyone's attention.