Thirty minutes had passed since the trial began. The morning sun filtered through the dense forest canopy, casting shifting patches of light on the uneven ground. Most teams had decided to take a short break, spreading out to rest and catch their breath.
Michael and Torren had found a quiet spot near the edge of a shallow ridge. A fallen tree made for a makeshift bench beneath the shade of a broad-leaved oak. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of birds or footsteps far in the distance.
Michael leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow, then looked over at Torren, who sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the woods in silence.
He hesitated for a moment before speaking. "That mage… the white one. You really knew him, didn't you?"
Torren's head turned slowly. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his jaw tensed. For a few seconds, he didn't say anything. Michael could almost see the thought passing behind that cold stare.
"Stay out of it," Torren said flatly. His voice was firm, but not angry. It sounded tired—almost burdened.
Michael exhaled quietly, not pushing further right away. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's just… you reacted so strongly back then. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Torren cut in, but not sharply. He looked away again, gaze fixed on the dirt. "You'll never understand what people carry inside their heads. Especially the ones you once looked up to."
Michael went silent. He felt like pressing the subject would only make things worse. There was something fragile in the way Torren spoke. Not weakness, but the kind of pain that didn't want to be uncovered.
"…Alright," Michael said after a pause. "We'll rest a few more minutes, then keep moving. I think we're getting closer."
Torren gave a single nod but said nothing more.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—but it was heavy. Michael stared off into the forest, trying to shake the feeling that the white mage was more than just some distant figure from Torren's past.
There was something deeper there. Something personal.
The breeze stirred the leaves above as the two sat there, side by side, lost in their own thoughts beneath the trees.
Deeper in the forest, away from the other teams, Rob and Ralph had found a small clearing by a dried-out stream. The silence around them was thick, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the crunch of Rob's boots as he paced.
Ralph sat on a half-buried stone, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the ground.
"You've been quiet," Rob finally said, stopping just a few steps away. "That's rare for you."
Ralph didn't look up. "I'm just thinking."
"About our last fight?"
A bitter laugh escaped Ralph's lips. "Of course I am. You let that guy win. Michael. You could've beaten him, but you held back."
Rob folded his arms, raising a brow. "And?"
Ralph's head snapped up. "And?! What was that? You're not the type to go easy on people."
"I wasn't going easy," Rob replied calmly. "I was curious."
"Curious?" Ralph echoed, incredulous.
"I wanted to see what he'd do. What he'd become if pushed hard enough." Rob turned, glancing through the trees in the direction Michael had gone earlier. "I saw something in him, something I haven't seen in a while. That kind of fire… it's not common."
"That 'fire' nearly got you knocked out."
"Nearly." Rob smiled faintly. "But it didn't."
Ralph stood up now, frustration simmering in his voice. "This isn't a game, Rob. We're not here to inspire each other. We're here to win."
Rob met his eyes, calm but unmoving. "Winning doesn't mean destroying everything in your path. Sometimes it means stepping back… and seeing what deserves to stand."
Ralph scoffed and turned away. "You've changed."
"No," Rob said. "I've always been like this. You just stopped noticing."
Ralph went quiet again, shoulders tense. A gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the scent of moss and damp bark.
"I don't like it," he muttered after a while.
Rob looked up at the sky, clouds drifting lazily above. "You don't have to."
They stood there in silence for a moment longer, neither ready to move yet—but both knowing they'd have to soon.
The trial was still underway.
And no matter how much tension hung in the air between them, they were still a team.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, far beyond where the contestants searched, the light shifted through the trees in thin beams. The underbrush was untouched here, as if even the animals avoided the space.
Then—a faint crunch.
A boot pressed into the mossy soil.
The cloaked man moved quietly, each step measured. His long coat brushed against branches without a sound, and his face, hidden beneath a deep hood, remained in shadow.
He stopped.
Before him, nestled between the roots of a gnarled old tree, was the object all the teams sought: the sphere.
It glowed faintly, pulsing with soft blue light. Not large—perhaps the size of a clenched fist—but unmistakably out of place among the forest floor.
The man crouched.
"Found you," he whispered, his voice low and cold.
He reached out with a gloved hand and lifted the sphere, holding it up to the filtered light. Its glow brightened at his touch, reacting—almost recognizing the presence of something… wrong.
His lips curled into a twisted smile.
"Let's see who comes looking."
Still crouching, he turned his head ever so slightly, as if listening to the wind. There was no one near. Not yet.
But they would come.
And he'd be ready.
With that, he stood, sliding the sphere into a small satchel at his side, then vanished silently into the thick woods, like a shadow slipping through fog.
The true hunt had just taken a darker turn.