Saga Of Mastery; The Assessment[END]

[Bell Obius]

The scent of damp earth and ancient stone hung heavy in the air as Bellamarasu navigated the sprawling grounds of Ars Haven. Rain had fallen lightly overnight, and the cobblestones felt slick beneath her worn leather shoes, reflecting the overcast sky like a bruised mirror. She had made it through the main courtyard, a place that felt less like a welcoming entrance and more like a gauntlet; a forest of glares and snickers followed her like shadows. Yet, despite the prickling discomfort, Bellamarasu remained stubbornly optimistic.

Ars Haven. The name itself resonated with prestige throughout the Astral Kingdom. A place of growth, of mysticism, and self discovery. Bell was here for one purpose: to master the art of the sword, specifically the ancient, near-forgotten Paryi style, and bring honor to her family’s name. Today was the day. The Potential Assessment. The very first, nerve-wracking stepping stone of her ambitions. Her heart thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Gripping tight her entrance papers, she remembered her last conversation with her dad just before she set off to live in the dorms.

Spoiler

Show

" You have everything packed? Bell?

"..."

"What's wrong? Nervous?"

"It's just...is....is this something I can do?

"Bell..."

"Elephants on roller skates have more grace than I do; I'm sure you think of me as an embarrassment...."

"Bellamarasu, you and your brother are my greatest accomplishments. There isn't a single victory in my life that holds nearly as much merit as the day you both came into my life.

"You're...just saying that..."

"It's true...I believe in you, Bell; we all do. Don't worry so much about comparing to others, or even me. The purpose of Ars is not to prove yourself superior to others...but to discover who you are... and what is most precious to you."

"What's...most precious to me?"

"That, my girl....is the essence of what it means to wield a blade. Or have you forgotten the Soul of the sword?"

"The sword is a vessel of the strong, to cut down the foes of the weak..."

"But most of all, remember Bell, no matter how many times you fall, no matter how many times you fail. You will always have a family to return to."

"Breathe, Bell, Breathe.

She inhaled deeply, the chill morning air filling her lungs. The memory of her father's words was a warm ember against the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Confident strides replaced her earlier hesitant steps as she marched forward, papers clutched tightly in her hand.

THUD

Her foot snagged on a rogue cobblestone, and the world tilted. A gasp escaped her lips as her arms windmill, a desperate ballet against gravity. She managed to stay upright, but the entrance papers fluttered from her grasp, scattering like fallen leaves across the slick stones.

A hushed silence had fallen over the small groups of students loitering in the courtyard, the silence fractured into a ripple of suppressed laughter. Her cheeks flushed crimson out of embarrassment. Her gaze lifted from the humiliating mess to see the source of the amusement.

Standing a few feet away, radiating an air of effortless disdain, were Kayla and Meredith. Their Obius lineage was clear in their sharp, angular features and the intricate silver braids woven through their dark hair. Bell knew them – distant, older cousins, already established at Ars Haven, notorious for their sharp tongues and even sharper gossip.

Kayla, the taller of the twins, finally broke the strained silence with a drawn-out, mocking tone. "Well, well, well," she sneered, her thin lips stretching into an unpleasant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Look who it is. Little Bell. Still tripping over her own two feet, are we?"

Meredith giggled, a sound like nails on glass. "Honestly, Kayla, it’s almost endearing," she offered with faux sweetness, then her tone turned sharp, cutting through the air. "Almost. Imagine representing the Obius clan with such…grace. Or lack thereof."

Kayla leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice theatrically, though it carried perfectly in the quiet courtyard, designed for acoustics. "Did you hear? Her father still practices that…archaic style. Pathetic, really."

Meredith's giggle returned, higher and more grating this time. "Benemaru the Dead Blade, isn’t that what they call him now? Imagine clinging to such outdated nonsense. He probably just polishes that ridiculous scabbard all day."

Bell’s blush deepened from mortification to a furious red. Her own clumsiness, she could endure. The ridicule, even. But insults directed at her family, at her father, at the style they held sacred? That was a line crossed she wouldn't tolerate. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her practice sword, not the special Paryi katana, but a regulation training blade, strapped at her hip. The laughter around them seemed to fade into a dull roar as a cold focus descended, hardening her gaze and squaring her shoulders. The initial embarrassment and nervousness vanished, swept away by a furious surge of protective anger.

"You can laugh at me," Bellamarasu said, her voice surprisingly low and steady, a stark contrast to her earlier trembling breaths. She didn't bother gathering the scattered papers. Her attention was solely on the smirking faces before her. "Laugh all you want. But when you start talking about my family… about my father…" Her voice dropped, becoming dangerously quiet, laced with a warning as sharp as any blade. "I suggest you choose your words very, very carefully."

Kayla scoffed, crossing her arms and raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, treating Bell's warning like an amusingly pathetic threat. "Oh? Or what, little Bell? Is 'Dead Blade Benny' going to come running to your rescue with his rusty old toy? He’s probably too busy polishing his relic to even notice you’re embarrassing yourself…again."

Bellamarasu took a slow, deliberate step forward, her eyes locked onto Kayla’s sneering face. "My father," she began, each word distinct and laced with steel, "is more of a warrior than either of you will ever be. He refused to abandon the Paryi-"

"The Paryi style is outdated."

A new voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the tense air, drawing all attention like a sudden gust of wind. The small gathering of onlookers parted, revealing a tall, lean young man with his brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, eyes the colour of pale river stones. Bellamarasu recognized him instantly: River, son of the influential House Obius, a major branch of their clan, even more prominent than her own. Rumor whispered of his prodigious talent with a blade, a near-master even at his young age, destined for greatness.

"River," Kayla breathed, her posture softening, a sliver of her sneer replaced by something almost admiring as her focus shifted entirely to him. Meredith simply simpered, nodding eagerly.

River’s gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over the scene, settling finally on Bell. His lips curved into a faint, almost cruel curl of amusement. "What do you hope to accomplish by coming here today, Bell?" he asked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Don't tell me you’re actually planning to take the assessment exam? With that?" He gestured dismissively towards her blade, Komorebi, it's burgundy blade hidden by the worn sheeth, a gift form her father.

Kayla and Meredith erupted in a fresh wave of giggles, mirroring River's derision like loyal, if slightly toxic, cheerleaders. Bell’s eyes flicked towards them, a silent glare that sent a prickle of unease down their spines, momentarily silencing their cackling. She took a deep breath, consciously easing the white-knuckle grip on her sword hilt, forcing the raw anger to recede, replaced by a firm, cold resolve.

"It’s not outdated," Bell retorted, her voice regaining strength, ringing with conviction. "It’s the foundation. Centuries of refined technique, discipline, skill…and strength."

River’s smile widened, but it held no warmth, no kindness. "Foundation for cowards," he sneered, echoing the common, ignorant prejudice against the defensive style. "For unrefined vagabonds who are afraid of true battle inflexible vagrants with no true eye for art. Clinging to antiquated forms because they lack the…innovation…to adapt to modern warfare."

Bell clenched her fists at her sides, her frustration bubbling back to the surface, hot and bitter. River’s condescending gaze felt like the midday sun beating down on her, oppressive and judgmental. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning slightly against a stone pillar, his posture radiating ingrained arrogance and superiority.

"I’m… I’m going to prove you wrong, River," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction despite the tremor of lingering anger she still fought to control. "All of you." She swept a defiant glance at the twins clustered near him.

River turned away, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist, as if the conversation was beneath him. But then, he glanced back over his shoulder, his pale eyes piercing, holding hers with a chilling certainty. "Do whatever you want, Bell. Tripping through the assessment, clinging to your father's... legacy," he said, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "But know this. Should our paths cross in the exam… I will shatter your ideals and that… ugly sword of yours."

The twins, eager to bask in River’s attention again, scurried to his side, Meredith chirping back at Bell as they followed him away. "See you later, Dead Blade…" Kayla finished, her voice dripping with saccharine mockery, the sound trailing behind them as they merged with the flow of students.

[Bell Obius]

The sting of their laughter followed Bell as she quickly knelt, her trembling fingers fumbling for the scattered papers. The slick cobblestones seemed to mock her struggle, but the heat on her cheeks wasn't just embarrassment; it was a slow, simmering burn of fury. River's dismissal, the twins' vicious mockery – they were like pinpricks of ice, each one hardening the resolve that had been forged in the warmth of her father's embrace.

She smoothed the crumpled sheets, her gaze lifting to where the trio had disappeared around a corner. "Outdated," she whispered, the word a bitter taste on her tongue. "Foundation for cowards." Her father, a coward? Benemaru, who had faced down challenges that would make their privileged lives tremble, a coward? The anger flared, sharp and cleansing, burning away the remnants of her earlier self-doubt.

"I will shatter your ideals and that… ugly sword of yours."

The words echoed, and her hand instinctively went to the hilt of the practice sword resting against her hip. It wasn't ornate or gleaming, just simple, well-worn steel, like her father's. Ugly? To them, perhaps. To her, it was a symbol of everything she was here for. It was the weight of her family's hopes, the legacy of a style they scorned, and the promise she had made to herself and her father.

"Breathe, Bell, breathe," she reminded herself again, but this time the phrase was not a plea for calm, but a command, a centering force. Her father's words returned, not just the comfort of family, but the deeper lessons. Discover who you are... what is most precious... the Soul of the sword.

What was most precious? Not the approval of entitled snobs like River, Kayla, and Meredith. Not fitting in with their narrow definition of grace or power. What was precious was the belief her father had in her, the honor of their name, and the quiet strength of her roots – a strength built not on flash, but on discipline, resilience, and the conviction to protect.

She rose to her feet, the papers held tight. The tremors were gone from her hands, replaced by a steady resolve. The courtyard, moments ago a stage for her humiliation, now seemed merely a path. The glares and snickers still lingered, but they felt distant, less significant. They were background noise to the fierce, quiet determination that had solidified within her.

Following the flow of other nervous, hopeful applicants, she walked towards the grand archway leading into the main assessment hall. The air grew heavier with anticipation. Murmurs rose and fell – names of prestigious families, rumors of the assessment's difficulty, hushed whispers about those expected to excel. She saw faces alight with ambition, others pale with fear.

The hall itself was vast and echoing, light streaming through high arched windows illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. At one end stood a raised platform where several robed figures conferred, presumably the assessors. Scattered across the hall were various stations – some with intricate mana-casting circles, others with target dummies, and several empty dueling rings. The sheer scale of it was daunting, a stark reminder of the challenge ahead.

A fresh wave of nervousness tried to creep in, the familiar voice of self-doubt "Elephants on roller skates..." whispering at the edges of her mind. But she pushed it back. No matter how many times you fall, no matter how many times you fail. You will always have a family to return to. And this wasn't about avoiding failure; it was about trying. It was about standing up, dusting herself off, and pushing forward, fueled by something far more profound than ego or status.

She found a designated waiting area, joining a cluster of other hopefuls. Her eyes scanned the crowd, half expecting to see River's arrogant face or the twins' sneering smiles, but they were nowhere in sight among the immediate group. Good. She needed a moment to center herself.

Gripping the smooth, worn hilt of her sword beneath her cloak, she closed her eyes for just a second. She wasn't here to prove she was better than anyone else. She was here to discover if she had the potential to live up to her father's belief in her, to embody the true spirit of the sword, to find out if she was capable of becoming the greatest swordsman to ever live. The stumble, the insults, the threats – they were just distractions.

This was her chance. Her stepping stone. And she would not be defined by someone else's scorn or her own momentary clumsiness. She took another deep breath, held it, and let it out, the last vestiges of shame dissipating. Her eyes opened, clear and focused. Bell was ready. The Potential Assessment awaited.

[Bell Obius]

After turning in her damp papers she waited. The assessment hall was a large, echoing space, marked by training dummies, targets, and watchful examiners. Student after student was called, some demonstrating raw power, others intricate footwork, modern techniques Bell barely recognized. The whispers and glances followed her as she waited, the Obius girl with the "dead" sword style.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a proctor called her name. "Bellamarasu of House Obius!"

She rose, walking towards the designated area, her steps steady this time. She carried on her person was Komorebi. The examiner, a stern-faced woman with a scar across her cheek, gestured towards a sturdy wooden dummy. "Show us your potential. Demonstrate your readiness."

Bell nodded. She took her stance, the coiled, waiting posture of the Paryi. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of her katana, the scabbard a familiar weight against her hip as if her father was there with his hand on her, guiding her blade, stabilizing her hand. She closed her eyes for a brief second, picturing the hours she spent watching him, picturing the forms. Respond to surprise. Quick unsheathe, resheathe. The technique was designed for a sudden, overwhelming counter-attack. It required control, precision, and explosive speed condensed into a single, devastating moment.

She opened her eyes. The air around her seemed to tighten. The scattered crowd of onlookers instinctively leaned forward, curious or dismissive. She saw, just at the edge of her vision, the faces of Kayla, Meredith, and River, watching, waiting for her to fail.

She didn't fail.

Bella didn't move, didn't shift her feet or alter her stance. It was stillness, absolute and focused. Then, in an instant that defied the eye, her hand moved. The blade seemed to leap from the scabbard – not with the exaggerated draw of other styles, but a lightning-fast upward arc, a whisper of steel against wood. A faint burgundy gleam of light was the only register of her blade leaving it's sheath. It was a single, devastating blow, delivered with such economy of motion and explosive speed that it barely registered as the blade impacted the dummy. The sound was a sharp crack, cut short.

And then, impossibly, the blade was back in its sheath. The movement was so fluid, so rapid, it was almost a blur. She didn't bother using her anthem, not even the help from the sheath. She wanted them to see what she was capable of without any kind of enhancement. She hadn't moved her feet. She simply stood, blade sheathed, in the same coiled stance. Those with seasoned eye saw exactly hat had happened the scarred eye woman stood immediately. mouth nearly a gape.

Silence hung in the assessment hall. Students whispered, confused. The examiner blinked, her stern expression replaced by surprise.

Then, a beat later, the true force of the strike manifested. A large, invisible cutting shockwave erupted from the point where the blade had met the dummy, radiating outward like a ripple in water. The sturdy wooden dummy didn't splinter or fall; it was cleaved in two, the cut so clean it looked as though a giant, invisible knife had sliced through it. The shockwave continued, slicing a clean line through the air behind the dummy before dissipating against the far wall with a faint hum leaving a scar on it as it faded.

Bella stood still, her chest rising and falling steadily. The quiet click of her blade settling fully into the scabbard seemed deafening in the sudden silence. She met the examiner's wide eyes, then glanced out at the crowd.

Kayla and Meredith were frozen, their snickers replaced by gaping mouths and pale faces. River, leaning against a pillar, had straightened, his eyes narrowed, the amusement entirely gone, replaced by a flicker of something else – shock, appraisal, perhaps even grudging respect.

Bella hadn't just performed the Paryi style. She had showcased it's base potential, a potential they had dismissed as outdated nonsense yet one that with out a drop of naten could achieve that which seemed impossible. She had shown them the hidden strength in the "Dead Blade" style. The assessment might determine her worth in their eyes, but this single, silent strike had already proven her point. She had made her mark on Ars Haven. The path ahead was still uncertain, still fraught with challenge, but she had taken the first, crucial step.

[Bell Obius]

The hushed anticipation in the great practice hall was thick enough to cut. One by one, hopeful supplicants had demonstrated their skills before the panel of Proctors, each vying for a coveted spot in the academy. Flares of controlled arcane energy had danced, elaborate sword forms had blurred the air, and earth-shattering strikes had left temporary fissures in the reinforced floor. The displays had been varied and, by most accounts, impressive until the last one. A simple, almost silent draw of a sword, a single clean cut through the air, the blade sheathed before anyone could truly register the movement, leaving only a faint, shimmering trace in its wake. Then, a voice shattered the quiet.

"Pfft what luck." River Obius, draped in unnecessarily elaborate silks and followed by the identical, fawning figures of Kayla and Meridith, stood near the front. His face, usually a picture of smug self-satisfaction, was contorted in a mask of sheer disbelief, wrinkles furrowing his brow as he refused to accept what he had just witnessed. The twins tipped their heads, mirroring his expression like a pair of loyal pups picking up their master's scent of displeasure. Bell, the subject of his disdain, stood calmly by the testing area, her simple tunic a stark contrast to River's finery. Her eyes, which had been casually drifting over to them, now settled into a solemn glare. Proctor Xera, a woman with sharp eyes and an air of quiet power, who had been about to address the hopefuls, turned her attention to the hot-headed Obius.

"Is there a problem?" Xera asked, her voice level but carrying easily across the hall.

"Problem?" River scoffed, adjusting a cuff that didn't need adjusting. "Everyone else's displays, including mine," he puffed out his chest slightly, "showcased a flagrant armada of technique and power. Elaborate sequences, elemental infusions, devastating final blows! All she did was show us some basic Iai draw... are the standards of this academy truly so low that even basic swordplay is marveled at?" His gaze raked over Bell, dripping with condescending dismissal. Bell's face, which in the past might have burned with a flustered red at such a public accusation, instead held only that quiet, unwavering glare. She opened her mouth, ready to defend herself, "Listen Ri—"

"...I actually agree." Xera's bored tone cut through Bell's protest and the sudden ripple of surprise from the other students. Bell's eyes snapped from River to the Proctor, wide with shock. Xera? The one who had given her a nod that felt like genuine approval just moments ago, a nod that had felt like damn near a standing ovation in its silent affirmation? Now she had stumbled onto River's side? A cold knot formed in Bell's stomach.

"See, Bell," River crowed, his snarky tone amplified by his triumph. "Even this proctor knows dead weight when she sees it." Kayla and Meridith giggled in unison behind him, their eyes flickering between River and Bell with undisguised malice.

"I agree," Xera continued, her eyes now holding a peculiar glint, "that a display against a test dummy only shows so much. Thankfully, that is only the first half of the potential assessment." She folded her arms, a fiery smile playing on her lips beneath her grin.

A collective gasp, followed by a low hum of bewildered questions, swept through the hall. "First half?" Bell muttered, the question echoing in the low, quaint inquisitions of dozens of other hopefuls who were just as confused.

"I wasn't aware of—" River started, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face before he quickly smoothed it over, puffing out his chest again, trying desperately not to appear caught off guard in front of his admiring audience.

"Naturally, Mr. Know-it-all," Xera said, a hint of amusement in her voice as she subtly mocked his pretense of having prior knowledge. "The first part of the exam is to gauge students' foundational techniques and promise. The second phase is a 1v1 duel... no holds barred."

The air in the hall thickened with sudden, palpable tension. Duels? Real ones? Bell's gaze faltered for a moment. She wasn't expecting to have to fight another student so soon. Training dummies she could handle, their unfeeling surfaces offering no resistance, bleeding no blood. But against a person... if she cut them. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. No. She pushed the doubt away fiercely. Now wasn't the time to start worrying. She had always known that she would have to face her fears; it was part of what was necessary to become a master swordsman. To truly master the blade, one had to be willing to wield it against another.

"Take 5 minutes to steel yourselves. We will begin calling names shortly." Xera's voice cut through the rising buzz of nervous energy. She met Bell's eyes for a brief moment, the fiery smile still present, and gave a short, almost imperceptible nod before turning and joining the other Aces who stood like silent sentinels near the proctors' table.

Bell, River, and the twins exchanged one final, loaded glance across the growing space between them. River scoffed again, louder this time, a sound of feigned indifference masking a flicker of unease about the unexpected second phase. He turned on his heel, striding off towards a group of equally arrogant-looking students, Kayla and Meridith scrambling to keep pace, their whispers following him like a shadow.

Bell ignored their retreating backs. She found a quiet corner away from the nervous, chattering clusters of students, seeking solitude to gather her thoughts. Her fingers went to the hilt of the sword resting against her back. Slipping it just an inch from the scabbard, she allowed the soft light of the hall to catch its polished surface. The unique burgundy gleam of the blade seemed to absorb the light, reflecting it back like a soft sun ebbing against her face, a warm, familiar weight against her palm. She would not fail. Not here, not now. She refused to allow River the satisfaction of seeing her defeated. It was well past time someone humbled him. Closing her eyes for just a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath, she whispered, "Father... guide me..." The murmur was lost in the anxious energy of the hall, but for Bell, it was the anchor she needed. The duels were coming.

[Bell Obius]

The hum of nervous energy filled the vast hall, a stark contrast to the earlier silent tension. Students clustered in small groups, whispering frantically or finding isolated spots to gather their thoughts.

River, still flanked by the identical, wide-eyed twins Kayla and Meredith, held court near the center. He was attempting to regain the swagger lost in his momentary stammer. "Preposterous," he scoffed, louder than necessary. "Duel a student? This is unprecedented. Still, it changes nothing. My techniques are forged in real sparring, not this make-believe farce. This merely separates the true warriors from..." He cast a pointed glance towards Bell's retreating back. "...from those who rely on...luck."

Bell in her corner, a quiet space shielded by a large, ornate pillar. The marble felt cool against her back. She sat, drawing her knees up slightly, unsheathing her sword the merest inch as she had done countless times before, finding solace in its cool, polished surface. The burgundy gleamed, not defensively, but with a quiet, potent energy. River's words stung, of course. They always did. But beneath the familiar ache was a new, sharp edge of defiance. He had underestimated her, reduced her years of practice to a word like "basic" and a concept like "luck."

Her earlier hesitation about hurting someone flickered, a cold knot in her stomach. But her grip tightened on the sword hilt. This wasn't just about passing the assessment anymore. It was about proving him wrong, proving her own path wasn't foolish, and protecting the quiet power of her chosen technique. It was about finally silencing the arrogant sneer that followed her everywhere.The five minutes felt simultaneously like an eternity and the blink of an eye. Conversations died down as Xera, her 'fiery smile' now settled into a cool, authoritative expression, stepped forward onto a raised platform overlooking a clear circular space in the center of the hall – clearly designated the dueling arena. The other 'Aces' stood beside her, faces impassive, ready to monitor the combat.

"Alright, hopefuls," Xera's voice resonated, clear and strong. "Time is up. Remember the rules: No killing blows, subdue your opponent or force their surrender. Proctors reserve the right to stop any match immediately. Your placement depends on both your first phase display and your performance here. Let us begin."

A hush fell over the crowd. Every student held their breath, wondering who would be called first, who they would be matched against. The air crackled with raw tension.

Xera consulted a list. "The first match..." she announced, her gaze sweeping across the faces. "...Contestant Abernathy Ahkkia versus Contestant Lyle Kiaht".

Two students, looking pale but determined, stepped forward and moved towards the arena. The hall remained hushed save for the soft scuff of their boots. The first duel was tense but relatively short, a tentative dance ending in a quick disarm. Then came another, and another. Each match added to the mounting pressure, showcasing various levels of skill, flashiness, and raw nerve. River's twins fought separate, swift matches, both winning decisively with aggressive, if slightly unpolished, techniques, earning nods of approval from their patron. River himself watched with a critical eye, offering loud commentary on others' flaws, still brimming with confidence.

Bell watched too, analyzing the flow, the openings, the ways fear or overconfidence affected performance. Her earlier knot of anxiety hadn't vanished, but it was now tempered by a steely resolve. She was ready.

Finally, Xera's voice cut through the murmurs after a particularly messy bout. She paused, her eyes lingering for a moment on Bell, then shifting to River. A faint flicker of that 'fiery smile' returned.

"Next match," Xera announced, her voice carrying a hint of anticipation. "Contestant River Obius."

River puffed out his chest, a smug grin spreading across his face. He adjusted his collar, earning admiring glances from Kayla and Meredith. "Looks like it's my turn to show them how it's done," he practically purred, striding confidently towards the arena.

"...Against Contestant Bellamarasu Obius."

The words hung in the air for a beat before a collective gasp rippled through the hall. River froze mid-swagger, his confident expression replaced by instantaneous, utter disbelief. Kayla and Meredith's jaws dropped in perfect synchronicity.

Bell, who had been watching steadily, felt a jolt, but her hand didn't tremble as it rested near her hilt. This was it. The challenge he'd issued, the dismissal he'd thrown at her... fate, or perhaps the proctors' deliberate matchmaking, had brought them face to face.

River recovered quickly, though the disbelief still etched faint lines around his eyes. He forced a laugh. "Pfft," he scoffed, mirroring his earlier words but with a strained edge. "What luck. Guess I have to waste a match on charity." He resumed his walk, though with a slightly less fluid arrogance than before.The air grew still, the collective breath of the hall held tight. All eyes tracked River as he swaggered, then stumbled, then resumed a slightly less convincing gait towards the arena. Beside him, unnoticed for a beat, Bell rose from her quiet corner. There was no fanfare, no bravado in her movement. Her burgundy-gleaming sword, resheathed, hung at her hip, a silent promise of her intent. She walked with the same quiet focus with which she had sat, her gaze fixed not on River, but on the circular space that would soon be their battleground.

As they reached opposite sides of the arena's edge, the crowd leaned forward. River stepped onto the polished floorboards, his Ferrosilk threads, previously subtle embellishments on his tunic, began to shimmer and lift, responding to the burgeoning magnetic field he conjured with his Anthem. They flowed around him, twisting into tentative, beautiful shapes – sharp needles, a swirling shield, a flexing whip-like strand. He smirked, flicking a wrist, sending a handful of ferrous dust scattered on the floor skittering and forming geometric patterns. A clear display of effortless control.

Bell entered the arena in contrast, deliberately slow. She didn't immediately unsheathe her sword. Instead, she stood still, her hands relaxed at her sides. A single, thin thread of Ferrosilk, almost invisible, emerged from beneath her collar and wound around her wrist, settling like a delicate, living bracelet. It didn't swirl or form constructs; it merely pulsed with a faint, contained energy, a quiet connection to her own Magnetism Anthem. This thread was her birthright, her anchor, but she didn't rely on it to fight for her. The earlier knot of anxiety was still there, a cold presence in her stomach, but it was encased now in a shell of pure, focused resolve. This wasn't just about passing. It wasn't just about silencing River's sneer. It was about honoring her chosen path, the strength of her father's legacy.

Xera, perched above, watched them with an unreadable expression. The other Aces straightened, their attention sharp.

"Contestants," Xera's voice echoed, firm and clear. "Are you ready?"

"I told you, Bell, if we crossed blades, I would shatter you and that hideous sword of yours."

"You talk too much, River. As my mother always said, a man of many words hides that many insecurities.

River's face fell into a scowl, Bell's into a half-smirk, her flowing black hair dropping from her like bleeding night.

Xera raised a hand. The hall held its breath.

"Begin!"

River didn't hesitate. He needed to reassert his dominance, erase the moment of shock from his and everyone else's minds. He launched into Kaminami's signature move, the 'First Slash'.

His body became a blur. He surged forward, the magnetic field around his sheath flaring, violently accelerating the draw of his katana. The air shrieked around the blade as it ripped free at impossible speed. A miniature sonic boom cracked through the hall, a shocking, physical manifestation of the technique's destructive force. The strike was aimed not just to defeat but to overwhelm and shatter her defenses and will in a devastating blow. It was designed to sever spirit from flesh, leaving an opponent reeling and vulnerable.

Bell didn't move, not in the way the spectators expected. There was no desperate leap back, no frantic attempt to parry the unstoppable force head-on. Instead, her hand tightened on her hilt. Her Magnetism Anthem surged, not outwards offensively, but inwards, focused and precise. The Ferrosilk at her wrists and woven into her uniform vibrated intensely.

As River's blade screamed towards her, Bell performed the core of Paryi. With a speed that rivaled River's draw, she unsheathed her katana a mere few inches – just enough for the edge to clear the sheath's lip – and simultaneously angled the magnetic field of the sheath. It wasn't a block. It was a redirect.

Her Magnetism, amplified and focused by the Ferrosilk, met River's flaring magnetic field just as his blade reached the peak of its acceleration immediately in front of her. She didn't oppose his force; she subtly shifted it. Using the combined magnetic fields and the precise angle of her partially drawn blade and sheath as a fulcrum, she nudged the trajectory of his 'First Slash' by the barest, most crucial margin.

The terrifying, sonic-boom-generating strike didn't impact her head or shoulder as intended. Instead, the humming, tearing arc of magnetic force and steel sliced through empty air just beside her ear, the wind of its passage whipping her hair across her face.

The instant the blade passed her, Bell's hand was already moving. The partial draw became a lightning-fast, precise resheathing. The blade slid back into the magnetic sheath with a soft, resonant thump, the sound almost lost in the echo of River's sonic boom, but deeply significant to anyone who understood Paryi.

River, blinded by the speed of his own attack and expecting an immediate capitulation or a messy block, found himself overextended, his immense momentum carrying him forward, his back momentarily exposed to Bell. He hadn't just missed; his most powerful, signature move had been not blocked, but sidestepped by an invisible magnetic force, leaving him off-balance and vulnerable.

The hall was silent for a beat, then a new kind of murmur erupted, louder than before. Not fear, but astonishment. They had expected Bell to be overwhelmed, to be easily defeated by the legendary 'First Slash'. Instead, she had countered it using the very principles River had dismissed: adaptability, subtle redirection, control, and the unique mechanism of the Dead Blade.

River spun around, his smug expression entirely gone, replaced by shock and then a flush of angry disbelief. His eyes narrowed, his earlier forced confidence shattered. He hadn't just missed; he had been read. His technique, honed for swift, overwhelming victory, had been neutralized by a style he considered obsolete.

Bell stood calmly in the center of the arena, her hand back on her hilt, her posture relaxed yet utterly ready. She hadn't struck a single blow. She hadn't needed to. She had survived the 'First Slash' and turned River's most significant strength into his first weakness.

The duel was far from over, but the narrative had irrevocably shifted. River's path to victory was no longer the simple, dominant display he had envisioned. Bell had shown that Paryi was far from obsolete. It was waiting. Waiting to respond, waiting to redirect, waiting for the precise moment to let 'basic' become something devastatingly effective.

The silence in the hall had returned, thicker than before, charged now with anticipation and a grudging respect for the quiet girl who had just weathered the storm and remained standing. The assessment had truly begun.

[Bell Obius]

The test bout had only just begun. Moments before, River had unleashed a signature move, the Kaminami First Slash – a technique known for its sudden, overwhelming magnetic thrust, designed to obliterate initial defenses. But Bell hadn't been overwhelmed.

"I don't think I've ever seen a Kaminami First Slash dealt with so... effectively," one of the proctors murmured, their voice barely a whisper carried by the low murmur of anticipation from the onlookers below.

"She's Benemaru's kid. Wouldn't that make her your niece? Starshadow..." the other proctor continued, their gaze drifting towards a figure seated slightly apart from the others, a blade master whose prowess was near mythical. Aside from Xera, who maintained a detached air, this proctor wore a striking half-gold, black mask – Nexilon Obius, known throughout the realm as Starshadow. His skill was said to be surpassed only by the Obius and Vesta Crowns themselves.

"...." Starshadow offered no verbal reply. Yet, his silence was a palpable weight. His gaze, sharp and intense behind the mask, narrowed fractionally as he observed the girl on the floor. His focus was absolute.

River, his initial, potent move thwarted with an economy of motion he couldn't quite comprehend, scowled. Frustration tightened his features. "What kind of trickery are you pulling, Bell?" His voice cut through the hushed hall, loud and challenging, seeking to provoke a reaction, to shatter the quiet confidence she exuded.

"It's called skill, River," Bell replied calmly, her voice clear and even, carrying an unexpected resonance given her stillness. "Maybe if you spent more time polishing your blade instead of your tongue, you'd have more of it."

"Why you!" River's frustration boiled over, spilling into raw aggression. With a snarl, he attacked, a blur of controlled magnetic force and rapid motion. Guided by his Magnetism Anthem, three sharp Ferrosilk needles shot towards Bell's center mass, aimed with ruthless precision. Simultaneously, a wider band of shimmering metallic material swept low across the obsidian floor, a feint designed to trip her, a calculated double threat. It was aggressive, multi-directional, and designed to overwhelm – a perfect reflection of River himself.

But Bell didn't dodge in the way River expected. There was no wide sidestep, no leap to safety. Her movement was minimal, almost imperceptible from the distance the onlookers and proctors observed—a subtle shift in weight, a tiny, precise adjustment of her stance, barely a millimeter. The needles hissed past her, one narrowly missing her shoulder by what seemed like a hair's breadth, the other two sailing wide.

The low sweeping band of Ferrosilk met her leg not with the expected trip or forceful collision, but with a slight displacement of force, an echo of resistance without confrontation. Her Ferrosilk wristband, simple and understated, pulsed with a barely-there counter-frequency. She didn't try to overpower his immense magnetism; instead, she subtly redirected its effect on her body, letting his force flow around her rather than collide with or control her.

River's nascent smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he masked it with bluster. "Too slow, Bell!" he called, his voice carrying across the hushed hall, attempting to regain control of the narrative, to make his failed attempt seem like an intentional near-miss. His Ferrosilk reformed instantly, swirling into a rapidly spinning shield before him, a dynamic, visually impenetrable barrier. From the swirling mass, a whip-like strand lashed out towards her head, a contemptuous strike seeking to enforce his dominance and punish her perceived slowness.

Now, Bell moved. It wasn't a sudden, explosive burst like River's, but a swift, precise release of coiled energy. Her hand went to her sword hilt – not to draw it yet, but her thumb brushed the polished metal, silently acknowledging her intent. In that same instant, she ducked beneath the whipping Ferrosilk strand, her body a fluid, controlled line, and took a single, focused step towards River. As she moved, a technique emerged, her "Dance of the Fallen." Placing naten at the bottom of her heel with each step – a subtle energy placement – she moved with a slight, almost musical cadence.

This rhythmic placement generated a series of afterimages, ghost-like illusions tethered to the faint energy signature of her subsequent steps. These illusions moved, each following the echo of her path, a beguiling and disorienting spectacle. It was a technique designed to confuse, to sow disarray, to induce panic in the opponent, provoking them to either attack blindly or disrupt their guard and focus, creating an opening for an offensive response. It was a challenging technique to master, especially for Bell, who was naturally prone to discombobulation in complex movements. Yet, once she entered her unique trance-like state, she could perform it with a beguiling and otherworldly grace.

Seeing the familiar, complex move—Benemaru's signature specialty—Starshadow's interest deepened visibly behind his mask. His intense gaze sharpened further, and he observed Bell like a hawk, dissecting every nuance of her movement, every flicker of naten energy. The silence from the proctors' platform was absolute, the usual murmur of assessment replaced by focused observation.

River's shield was up, a shimmering wall of metallic threads designed to absorb or deflect any frontal assault. Bell didn't hesitate. Her free hand, the one she'd arced outwards subtly earlier, moved with impossible speed. Her fingers didn't touch the Ferrosilk shield, but moved nearby, performing swift, almost invisible gestures in the air. It wasn't the grand, overt manipulation of River's Anthem, but something else – hyper-focused, micro-adjustments of the magnetic field, amplified by her own subtle Ferrosilk thread embedded in her wristband, a silent partner to the dance. She wasn't pushing his shield away; she was finding the infinitesimal gaps between the threads, the precise points of weakness where the magnetic force was least dense, where the weave was thinnest despite its visual density.

And then, with the rhythmic pulse of the Dance guiding her, she drew her sword.

The burgundy blade unveiled as she performed her technique "Withered Rose; Repeating Blossom." Bell conducted a series of blinding sword attacks by visualizing a withered flower dying and blossoming repeatedly, creating a fearsome array of slashes that could completely eviscerate her target were it not a test bout. Moving guided by the intricate magnetic adjustments her free hand carved into the air, the blade slipped through the visually impenetrable Ferrosilk shield where her hand had identified the weakness. It didn't cut or shatter the threads; it simply passed through, finding the narrowest possible path as if threading a needle through fine silk, propelled by the blossoming cadence of her technique.

River's eyes widened in shock, the confidence draining from his face. His shield, so solid and reliable moments ago, offered no resistance to the precisely guided tip of her blade. It was bypassed, its defensive integrity entirely circumvented.

The sword's tip wasn't aimed for a killing blow, which would have been a disqualification. Instead, it was aimed for his weapon-wielding hand, the source of his prodigious control over the Ferrosilk. But at the last possible second, Bell redirected the blade just slightly upwards. It didn't strike his hand; instead, the flat of the burgundy steel met the core of his Ferrosilk manipulation – the dense cluster of threads closest to his palm, the very heart of his Anthem's control.

There was no loud clang, no explosion of force. Instead, an odd, jarring thrum filled the air, a sound that vibrated in the teeth of everyone present. Bell's sword, her chosen medium, resonated with a specific frequency that clashed violently with River's overt Magnetism Anthem. It wasn't an attack of brute force, but an attack of disruptive precision, a targeted harmonic dissonance disrupting his flow. His carefully controlled magnetic field wavered violently, destabilized by the specific, focused energy she channeled through her blade.

River cried out, not in physical pain, but in startling frustration and shock, a guttural sound of disbelief. His intricate Ferrosilk constructs dissolved, collapsing into a tangled, inert mess of metallic threads at his feet. His shield evaporated into shimmering dust. The whip fell limp. For a crucial second, his Magnetism Anthem was thrown into complete disarray, his connection to the metal severed by the subtle, disruptive force of her blade's resonance.

Bell didn't press her advantage with further attacks. Her sword was already halfway back in its sheath, her movement economical and complete, the 'Dance of the Fallen' ending as quickly and gracefully as it had begun. She stood perfectly balanced, poised, her breathing even, the last of the naten-fueled afterimages fading behind her like smoke.

River, momentarily stunned and utterly disarmed of his primary weapon – his control over Ferrosilk – was left blinking, his face a mask of disbelief and simmering anger. The profound silence that had held the hall listening broke into a stunned murmur, the onlookers realizing the fight was over. The outcome was decisive. It wasn't a long fight, certainly not flashy in the way River's dominant techniques were, but it was utterly conclusive, a demonstration of control, precision, and disruptive mastery that left a lasting impression.

Above, Starshadow remained silent, his half-gold, black mask utterly unreadable. But his gaze lingered on Bell, a spark of something unidentifiable flickering in the depths behind the mask. The 'Dance of the Fallen', the subtle manipulation of the magnetic field, the precise, disruptive force channeled through the blade... it was a mastery he recognized, a legacy unexpected in its execution. Benemaru's kid, indeed. And perhaps, the proctor thought, something far, far more.

[Bell Obius]

"Contestant River... you have been bested."

Xera's voice echoed through the vast, silent room. The air crackled with anticipation, now settling into stunned quiet. River stood opposite Bell, his face a mask of fury, teeth gritted with enough force to chew through steel. He hadn't been physically knocked out, no. Bell, with an exceptional curve of skill, had managed not only to disarm him of his gleaming blade but also render inert his Ferrosilk, the sentient metal that was both weapon and armor, currently limp and unresponsive around him. Without either, he felt exposed, useless, as threatening as a blind duck out of water.

"I... no." His whisper was raw with disbelief and anger, a palpable force in the sudden stillness.

Across the dust-motes dancing in the overhead lights, Bell released a deep sigh. As the apprehension and tension drained from her body, a sharp, searing pain surged through her. Strain from the intense, almost impossible focus required by her sword style. Though undeniably effective, the trade-off for that hyper-precision and control was a cruel toll on the physical form. She still needed to train more, to hone her body into a vessel capable of unleashing the full, devastating potential of her techniques without such immediate consequence. But even as unrefined as they were, they had proven their worth today. They had shown that the founding style, her father's style, was just as prevalent, just as potent, as it had ever been. That her father was far more than the punchline of the Astral comedy scene he had become.

"The Winner is contestant Bellamarasu!" Xera's voice swelled, finally breaking the spell.

The crowd erupted. A deafening roar washed over the arena. They could scarcely believe it – not only had she won, but it had appeared to be a one-sided blowout, despite River's fearsome reputation. Bell refused to let the sheer exhaustion racking her body show on her face. Though she had made the evasion of River's opening, terrifying slash seem like child's play, the effort had taken a tremendous toll. Had his arrogance and predictable attack patterns not made him vulnerable, dealing with that technique could have proved nearly impossible. She knew, with sobering clarity, that against a master practitioner of the Kaminami style, evasion on that scale might not even be possible. There was still so, so much for her to learn.

"Impossible," River finally spat, his fists balled at his sides. His eyes, fixed on Bell, screamed for understanding, notes of retribution lacing his tone. "For what... for what reason do you even wield a sword? What gives you such... conviction?"

Bell's intense aura, the focused energy of the fight, faded. She returned to her normal soft-spoken tone. The match had ended; there was no reason for her to hold onto the hostilities of combat.

"Preserve your own light," she said, turning fully to face him. Her mahogany gaze met his, provoking not vengeance, conveying not superiority, but simple, quiet affirmation. "Never compromise your values to fit in or be accepted."

She took a small step towards him, her voice dropping slightly, though the words were unmissable, cutting through the lingering noise of the crowd as if speaking not to his flesh, but to his very spirit. "Don't abuse your powers or position. Use your abilities for the greater good, not for personal gain."

Her gaze swept over the other contestants still standing nearby, then back to River. "The sword is a vessel for the strong, to cut down the foes of the weak. Always stand up for those who cannot defend themselves."

Starshadow, standing at the periphery of the arena, felt a sudden chill. His eyes narrowed slightly as Bell spoke. Those words... they rang with a dangerous, ancient familiarity.

"And most importantly," Bell finished, her voice gaining a quiet strength that belied her size, "Loyalty is the root of human connection. Maintain strong and trustworthy relationships."

She paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Whether you or the others want to accept it, River... we are all family here. We are only as strong as the softest of us. If you cannot wield that sword with pride in defense of others... then why do you truly wield one at all? To be seen... to be... valued? Who are you loyal to?"

Bell straightened, her shoulders squaring. "Those are the tenets my father lived by his entire service to the Obius crown... and he was rewarded with ridicule and spite for it. But I do not find embarrassment in being called the Dead Blade Daughter... it is a mark I wear with honor. It is the fountain of my pride as a swordsman."

Before the murmurs from the crowd could build into a wave of questions, Xera's voice boomed out once more, carrying a distinctly different, almost cheerful tone.

"Alright hopefuls, this concludes the assessment! You ALL are accepted!"

A murmur blossomed through the arena, quickly escalating into surprised gasps and excited chatter. Accepted? All of them?

Xera laughed, a booming sound that cut through the noise. "Haha! Ars is open to all with the heart of discovery beating within them! This was just our way of gauging what kind of folks you all are, bwahaha! Now, please return to your dorms. Your classes will begin tomorrow! It will be up to you to determine your path!"

Bell offered a small, genuine smile to River, the weariness still etched subtly around her eyes. "I hope one day... we can be friends." She gave him a small, respectful bow.

River stood frozen for a moment, the fire in his eyes banked by a strange, festering sense of comfort after hearing Bell speak of her reasons, her father, her conviction. He glanced down at his hand, then at his own Ferrosilk, which seemed to gain life once more, the dark metal snaking gently around his arm.

"To be seen?... Valued?" he whispered faintly to himself, the words echoing Bell's question.

He turned slowly, ignoring the surprised calls of Kayla and Meredith from across the arena, and walked towards the exit, lost in thought. The taste of defeat was bitter, but Bell's words had planted a seed of something new, something confusing, in the fertile ground of his pride. The contest might be over, but his understanding of why he held a sword had just begun. Starshadow gaze lingered on Bell a bit longer, the scrutiny of his gaze prompting her to look up but when she did, there was no one there. Her eyes scanned the area a bit longer before dismissing it as just tired jitters. She decided to find her dorm room, needing to plant her face in a pillow before she collapse on the floor.

"...Did you see me? Father? Mother? Shoto?"