The hall was immense like the inside of a cathedral carved into the heart of the mountain itself.
Towering arches pulsed with mana-infused light, and banners bearing the emblems of noble houses fluttered high above, untouched by wind.
Hundreds of new talents stood here, some was socked mostly commoners, others brimming with barely contained arrogance they are nobles.
But I stood still.
Not because of nerves. Not because of sock.
Because I was thinking.
Villains. Future monsters. Nightmares who have killed millions of people and they were here. In this very room.
My eyes moved slowly, moves towards the threats like pieces on a board. I'd read this scene in the novel this tournament i know everything.
It was brief a flashback in Sawan Rosford's perspective when he sold his soul to Demons.
But I remembered everything.
My gaze settled on him first who is glaring me constantly with killing intent in his eyes đź‘€.
Rudra Witsmen.
Even now, he radiated danger like a thundercloud waiting to explode.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a body built like a fortress tough and imposing. His face was sharply handsome, striking in a cruel way. His white hair fell messily around his ears, contrasting with the venomous green of his eyes.
Eyes like a snake ready to strike. Cold, unreadable, and hungry for violence.
Son of the current General of Rosford A war hero Jack Witsmen.
But his Son is a Future traitor. Future demon of thunder.
He would one day revel in slaughter, bathing in lightning and laughter as he massacred multiple Village his own people millions of innocents.
His name would become synonymous with betrayal. Not because he was clever. Not because he had reason.
But because he enjoyed it. He enjoyed Killing other's, Who are weak and helpless.
He was a brain-dead bastard, arrogant and ruthless.
Beside him are his bootlicker, his whispered and snickered who was also died at his hands.
Fools they had no idea what he would become.
Then, I saw him.
Sawan Rosford.
His presence was more composed. I could see the years of grooming in every step he took.
He stood tall, his frame refined, posture is perfect. His handsome face was framed by flowing crimson red hair that shimmered like fire in the hall's glowing mana light.
His eyes are sharp and piercing were deep red, glowing faintly like embers under control.
The royal crest pinned to his chest gleamed proudly.
Son of King Evan Rosford.
Eventually he was not the disciple of Sir Rosford but Sawan had been born into a legacy shaped by that legendary man.
Sir Rosford known to the world as the Martial God.
He was more than a legend. A Divine Rank martial artist, the only one ever to rival Sword Saint Justin Mars, the blade immortal of the western continent.
Author: "Many people have complains that why mythical rank is weaker then legendary that's why I have changed legendary Rank heroes into Divine Rank
Current Ranking: F,E,D,C B rank (Master) A Rank (Grandmaster ) S(Mythical) SSRank(Divine)"
Of the twenty legendary heroes, only three stood at the absolute peak:
Sword Saint Justin Mars. Crazy,Sword fanatic Also known as Sword immortal.
Martial God Rosford. Simple , Rude Hardworking also known as Fist king.
Elven King Aerion.Simple, graceful, powerful.
Also known as, The Emerald King of the ancient forest.
Three titans. Their names have been Written into the history of this world.
And now, the legacy of Martial God Rosford was hidden within this tournament.
In the novel, Sawan stumbled into it by accident. A twist of fate. A strange surge of mana that led him to a hidden chamber no one else had seen.
But I wasn't here to watch fate play its part.
I was here to rewrite it.
I clenched my hand, subtle and controlled.
That inheritance belonged to me.
I had studied the signs. The fragments of the story. The obscure footnotes that hinted at a hidden level l inside the dungeon used for this very tournament.
Buried beneath the artificial layers and protected by martial intent and illusory seals.
Only someone attuned to pure martial spirit could access it.
In the novel, it was Sawan. But that was chance. Accidental alignment.
This time, it would be choice. My choice.
The air shifted. Thickened.
A pressure fell across the hall like a divine hammer. Heat bloomed into the air, subtle at first, then suffocating.
My heartbeat slowed. I looked at him.
He was here.
King Evan Rosford.
He stepped into the hall through a corridor flanked by silver-armored knights. His long crimson robes trailed behind him, trimmed with gold flame motifs. His eyes were devoid of expression like burning coals buried deep under centuries of ash.
Damm it His aura is … immense.
I'd felt Master level power before, through Shela's magic and books describing past awakenings.
But this… this was different.
The Falme around him was alive. Not chaotic. Not wild. It was pure. Contained. Refined. I know about it from books of library.
True Yang Flame.
He had cultivated it to the peak. A martial path so dangerous and extreme that it consumed emotion.
He no longer felt like a man. More like a furnace in the shape of a king.
According to the novel, he was Sir Rosford's final disciple.
Chosen by the Martial God himself in the last years of his life, trained personally when the legend was already nearing 500 years in age.
Martial God Rosford had lived to be 530 years old, far outliving every other hero from the Great Demon Invasion 700 years ago.
Before passing, he had chosen Evan Rosford, then a young prodigy, and entrusted him with one final legacy: a flame that could burn away evil .
But it came at a cost.
Now Evan was a mythical-rank hero(s). Revered. Feared. And completely devoid of emotion.
In the novel, he would die not in glory, but in silence killed by a shadow, a nameless demon king's servant.
The identity of his killer was never revealed.
But I would find out because even without imotions he was a great men who despite being a noble never looked down a commoner.
He is proud men who fought in frontline for his people nobody hates him.
The king raised his hand.
The air obeyed. Everything is in silence.
"Children of Rosford,"
he spoke, voice heavy like molten iron, "you stand at the edge of power and possibility."
No one dared interrupt.
"This is your proving ground. Your war before the war. The tournament will test not just your strength, but your spirit."
He turned, and the walls of the hall shifted. An enormous gate opened at the far end, lined with glowing glyphs and rotating magic circles.
A portal to another space.
"Your first trial," he continued, "will be Dungeon Exploration."
The crowd stirred. Some gasped. I saw a few whisper in fear. Others grinned.
"Three hundred of you will enter an artificial E-rank dungeon," he said.
"It mimics real environments, real monsters. You will be given mana-bound bracelets. Each enemy defeated earns you points. Five hundred to qualify for the next round."
He let the words hang in the air before speaking again.
"You may also fight each other. Take their points. Take their strength."
Of course...
Just like every novel, every system trial, every twisted tournament .
I knew this script. It wasn't about fairness. It was about survival.
Form teams. Break alliances. Backstab. Ambush. Strip others of their victories.
The strong get stronger. The weak vanish.
As expected.
Evan Rosford finished without flourish.
"You have one day. Survive. Excel. Evolve."
And with that, the portal groaned open. The dungeon awaited.
Runes lit the floor beneath us. Our bracelets flashed one by one and locked around our wrists.
I looked down at mine. Cold to the touch. Engraved with the Rosford crest.
My target wasn't just 500 points. It was the hidden floor.
The one no one else knew about.
In the original story, he found it by following a strange beast that triggered a mana anomaly. He fell through an illusion and awakened the legacy.
This time, I would be ahead of the script.
I'd traced the mana pattern on that hidden illusion myself. It required intent not just power. Martial intent. Pure focus.
No spells. No distractions.
I was ready.
Around me, the others braced. Rudra cracked his knuckles, already laughing.
"About time."
Sawan stood with his arms folded, eyeing the dungeon like it was already his to conquer.
Let him believe that.
Because when he stumbled across the legacy this time.
It would already be gone.
I stepped toward the gate.
The air shimmered.
Heat from the True Yang Flame still lingered on the stone.
I passed through it all without hesitation.
The dungeon yawned before me dark, twisting corridors, glowing moss, distant growls.
A perfect place to hide a god's legacy.
And a perfect place for me to claim it.
Let the others fight for scraps.
I would take the throne.