The participants of the final stage of the exam gathered in the underground coliseum. The vast space was illuminated by pulsating lights resembling artificial suns, casting sharp shadows on the uneven metallic surface of the track. At the center stood a massive, circular starting platform, surrounded by tiered stands filled with examiners and invited guests.

Izak’s heart raced as he glanced at Kornel, who stood with his arms crossed, completely unfazed.

“Looks like it’s going to be intense,” said Pilsudski, trying to hide his nervousness.

“Just don’t get left behind at the finish line,” Kornel retorted, adjusting his red scarf.

Suddenly, the director’s voice echoed across the coliseum:

“Welcome to the final stage of the exam! The participants who have made it to the finals are: No. 3 Kornel, No. 6 Klara, No. 10 Makoto, No. 12 Adhiraj, No. 13 Sora, No. 15 Maja, No. 34 Anna, No. 66 Grazyna, No. 74 Witold, No. 77 Lucja Serafin, No. 140 Tommy, and last but not least, No. 647 Izak Pilsudski. Since this is the decisive match, I’ve taken the liberty of inviting your loved ones...”

This announcement took Izak by surprise, and he began scanning the stands. He spotted his mother, Aniela, and his younger sister, Oliwia, among the crowd. Oliwia, noticing his gaze, waved at him enthusiastically. A mix of joy and sadness filled him—happy to see his family, but acutely aware that they were never truly safe around him. Ultimately, he decided to trust Filip’s judgment in bringing them here.

“…And now, a little about the final stage. It will be a race. The track is made up of multiple platforms, some of which you can fall from. There are plenty of traps, so watch yourselves. As for the rules, there’s only one: no killing. Other than that, anything goes. Only the first six to finish will win, so it’s every man for himself. Let the race begin!”

Before the race could start, the entrance doors to the arena burst open with a loud crash. The room filled with murmurs as a group of elegantly dressed individuals marched into the coliseum. Leading them was a man with silver hair and a golden crown—it was none other than King Jozef Poniatowski, dressed in a regal outfit adorned with gold and the symbols of his royal lineage. Beside him walked his son, General Piotr Poniatowski of the royal guard, a young man with long golden hair and a cold, piercing gaze. Following them was the king’s adopted son, Michal Poniatowski, general of the inventor’s guild and one of the youngest generals in history. He was also a recent graduate of the elite class, his face marked with the same red streaks under his eyes as Lucja.

“It is an honor to witness such promising candidates,” the king declared, his voice calm but firm. “Good luck. Let this race be a true test of your determination.”

Izak and Kornel exchanged glances. The boy in the red scarf simply shrugged, as if the presence of the king himself was nothing extraordinary. Izak, trying to mask his emotions, felt a shiver run down his spine.

The royal family took their place in a VIP box. Prince Piotr, known for his extreme views and favoritism towards the nobility, began scrutinizing the participants.

“I see we only have two nobles this year: Pilsudski and that girl from the Moniuszko family… what was her name again?”

“Maja,” Michal replied coldly.

“Ah, yes. Maja. Along with the prince from India, they’re my top picks,” Piotr added smugly.

“You always judge based on heritage. One day, that’ll be your downfall,” Michal said, adjusting his collar.

“Oh? Speaking up for them because you’re a commoner yourself?” Piotr sneered.

Their conversation was cut short by the king.

“Piotr, show respect to your brother and to the participants. In my view, the chances are even.”

The first prince reluctantly fell silent, and Michal followed suit. However, the younger Poniatowski couldn’t take his eyes off Kornel.

“This can’t be…” Michal thought, his expression darkening. “How did he survive…?”

The underground coliseum buzzed with energy, the air thick with anticipation. The starting line was crowded with participants, each ready to face the final challenge. Kornel glanced at Izak, who was tightening the bandage on his arm.

“Focus, Pilsudski. I’m not dragging you through this,” he said curtly.

Izak met his gaze briefly but didn’t have time to respond as the starting signal blared. The participants surged forward, and chaos erupted instantly.

The first segments of the track were filled with pitfalls, laser barriers, and moving platforms. Numbers 3 and 647 quickly formed a temporary alliance, helping each other navigate the hazards.

“Jump on my signal!” Kornel shouted, pointing to a rising platform.

Izak obeyed and managed to land safely on the next stable section of the track. Despite his detached demeanor, Kornel demonstrated exceptional strategic thinking.

Meanwhile, Makoto, wielding his katana, effortlessly slashed through the mechanism controlling one of the barriers, forcing several competitors to stop abruptly. Grazyna, with dark energy swirling in her eyes, attempted to dominate Maja but failed.

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“Tough luck,” Maja remarked, executing a flawless dodge before leaping to a higher level of the track.

Elsewhere, Witold tried to outwit Anna. Pretending to help her up from a trap, he attempted to push her down to gain an advantage.

“Let me help you, young lady,” he said with a polite smile.

Anna grabbed his hand, but at the last moment, Witold yanked her downward. Her scream caught Lucja’s attention, who appeared out of nowhere.

“Bad people don’t deserve mercy,” she said coldly, severing Witold’s arm. The older man recoiled in agony, and Lucja helped Anna to her feet.

“Thank you…” Anna whispered, visibly shaken.

“Don’t thank me. Just be more careful,” Lucja replied before charging ahead, a single thought echoing in her mind: “If I win, I can become a hero like my mom.”

In the middle of the track, separated from Kornel, Izak faced his first real obstacle—an injured but unyielding Witold. Despite missing an arm and showing visible fatigue, the older man’s face still radiated determination.

“It won’t be that easy, young man,” Witold challenged, his voice laced with defiance.

Izak took a deep breath, analyzing the situation. Despite his age and injuries, Witold moved with surprising agility. When Izak attempted to pass, Witold countered with a sudden kick, forcing him to dodge.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Izak taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he baited his opponent into making another move.

Seizing the opportunity, Izak feinted an attack and used his speed to slip past Witold. The older man reached out with his remaining hand but lost his balance, collapsing to the ground.

“Maybe it’s time to give up, old man,” Izak quipped before moving forward.

Grinding his teeth, Witold remained on the ground, too exhausted to continue.

As Izak advanced, he encountered Adhiraj, who was tackling one of the track’s most challenging sections—a moving ramp lined with laser barriers.

“Falling behind too, Pilsudski?” Adhiraj sneered, his voice tinged with forced confidence.

Izak smirked.

“And what about you? I thought rich boys had everything handed to them.”

Adhiraj clenched his jaw.

“It’s strategy. I don’t need to be first to win. Maybe we can work together?”

“No thanks. I prefer doing things my way,” Izak replied, brushing off the offer.

Adhiraj attempted to block Izak’s path, but the younger participant used his agility and determination to vault over the obstacle, leaving the prince far behind.

A few meters ahead, Izak spotted another obstacle—Grazyna, standing dead center on the track with her hand raised, brimming with spiritual energy. Her glare was sharp, her stance unyielding. She was clearly ready to unleash her frustrations on anyone daring to pass.

“You think I’ll let you get ahead of me?” she growled, launching a shadowy wave of energy straight at him.

There was no time for hesitation. Izak steadied himself, recalling Filip’s relentless training. He knew the only way to counter spiritual energy was with precision and confidence. Taking a deep breath, he summoned a faint aura around his body, then swiftly moved his hand, dispersing Grazyna’s attack like smoke in the wind.

“Not bad—for an amateur,” he taunted, shifting into a defensive stance.

Grazyna’s face twisted with frustration, and she hurled herself forward, her energy crackling like a storm. But Izak had already noticed her momentary lapse in focus. With a quick sidestep, he dodged her strike and countered with precision, targeting the weakest point in her attack. The shadow disintegrated, forcing her to stumble back.

“Luck won’t protect you forever,” she hissed, retreating with visible frustration.

Izak didn’t bother responding. He could see she’d lost her edge, and without missing a beat, he surged forward.

Further along the narrow track, Izak encountered another challenger—Sora. The precise and focused Asian stood in the middle of a bridge spanning a deep chasm, his arms crossed in an air of calm confidence.

“You know you don’t stand a chance, right?” he said, his smirk barely breaking the surface.

“You’re not very original. Grazyna said the same thing,” Izak replied, keeping his tone cool.

Without another word, Sora sprang into action. His movements were lightning-fast, each kick and strike a calculated attempt to force Izak back. The blows came with such precision that Izak found himself taking a defensive step, then another, struggling to stay on balance.

When Sora tried to shove him off the bridge entirely, Izak spotted his chance. Blocking the attack, he twisted to the side and slipped past his opponent, delivering a sharp jab to his ribs as he went.

Sora faltered, losing his balance, and tumbled into the chasm below, landing on a lower platform.

“Thanks for the sparring session,” Izak called over his shoulder, leaping across the bridge and continuing his race.

As the track curved closer to the final stretch, Izak came face-to-face with Klara. Despite the challenges she had faced earlier, she was still holding her ground, her icy glare fixed on him as she adjusted her glasses.

“Ugh, another idiot shows up?” she sneered with disdain.

“Maybe. But at least I watch where I step,” Izak replied, a sly grin forming as he pointed toward the ground.

Klara instinctively looked down, but it was already too late. Izak had activated a hidden trap, and the floor beneath her feet gave way. She plummeted into the pit with a yelp, managing to spit out:

“You idiot! You’ll regret this!”

Izak sighed at her outburst but didn’t let it distract him. The finish line was close, but he knew more obstacles awaited.

Just before the end, a shadow emerged—Tommy. Izak had barely noticed him throughout the race, but now the boy stood in his path, casually holding his handheld console. His lack of visible fatigue made Izak pause, an uneasy feeling settling in.

“Completely forgot about him,” Izak thought, narrowing his eyes.

“Speed +20,” Tommy announced with a cocky grin. In the blink of an eye, he was suddenly beside Izak.

Realizing the race was truly on, Izak pushed himself to move faster, the two of them running neck and neck as the finish line drew closer. Tommy, however, seemed to have another gear. Without warning, he surged ahead as if propelled by a hidden reserve of energy.

Caught off guard, Izak didn’t react in time to block when Tommy landed a sharp blow to his injured arm. The pain was blinding, momentarily breaking his focus. Seizing the opportunity, Tommy pulled ahead by several meters and crossed the finish line as the sixth and final qualifier.