A tense silence followed the middle-aged man's announcement.
No one moved at first.
But then—one boy stumbled forward. He was missing most of his sleeve.
The middle aged man had casted healing magic on all the participants showing his occupation as an healer.
But either he was unable to rejoin limbs or couldn't be bothered, those who lost it remained that way.
The boy's lips trembled, and though he tried to hold back, the words slipped out.
"I… I can't do this."
No one stopped him as he limped toward the exit.
That opened the floodgates.
Three more followed.
One by one, more participants left the arena, their faces a mixture of fear, shame, and bitter acceptance.
Some had even passed the trial—technically. But passing meant little if your spirit was broken.
Even those who had successfully slain their wolves weren't immune to the atmosphere. Blood had been spilled. Bones had snapped.
They'd all signed up for a competition, but now it felt more like a war.
