Chapter 22: Hour 7
Harrowood – Hour Seven
The forest fell silent.
Even the fighting stilled as the earth gave a low, guttural tremble beneath their feet—barely perceptible, but unmistakable. A primal warning that set every nerve on edge.
Then came the roar.
It split the morning calm like a thunderclap—deep, layered, and bone-rattling. A sound not meant for mortal ears. Somewhere in the east, just beyond the line of dense trees, something massive moved.
Basil rose from his crouch atop the ridge, arms crossed.
Lace was still watching the melee below, but the sound drew his attention too. "That wasn't a wolf."
"No," Basil said, calm and certain. "That was a Rock Lion."
Lace blinked. "Those inhabit this forest?"
"Barely. There's only a few. Territorial, and pack-minded. They only come out when something disturbs their nesting ground."
Lace turned his gaze back toward the forest's eastern edge, eyes narrowing. "You sent the captains near there…"
"I did," Basil replied. "And now the real test begins."
Down below, the crowd had grown restless. Some were already backing away from the clearing, clutching bruised ribs or torn satchels. Others had stopped fighting entirely, eyes scanning the trees as the sound of snapping branches echoed through the distance.
A second roar followed. Closer.
More trees shook. The birds didn't just scatter this time—they fled in frenzied clouds, wings slicing the air like knives.
Then the canopy broke.
A massive shape surged through the underbrush with terrifying speed—twelve feet tall at the shoulder, its rock body armored with moss-draped, stone-like plates and eyes like molten gold. Its tusks jutted forward in a jagged arch, glinting wetly in the morning light. The mana in its veins crackled visibly, threading like lightning beneath its translucent hide.
Rock Lions.
They flooded in by the tens.
They slammed through the trees with the force of a siege ram, crashing into the far edge of the clearing. Several applicants barely managed to scatter in time. One wasn't fast enough—his arm disappeared beneath the creature's claws in a spray of blood and bone.
Panic erupted.
Screams.
Shouts.
Dozens fled back into the woods, some abandoning their rations, others clutching them like lifelines.
But not all ran.
A small cluster of applicants, maybe twenty in total, held their ground—among them, the giant still clutching his sacks, and the hunter with the bloodstained stick.
The lion bellowed again, rearing up to its full height. Mana surged from its throat in a violent, rippling wave. The air grew thick, crackling with pressure.
"Shit," Lace muttered, one hand instinctively going to his weapon. "They won't survive that without any gear!"
"Let's just watch, and we'll step in at the last second if we need to," Basil said coolly, sticking out his arm to signal Lace to wait.
Sure enough, the hunter moved first.
He threw his ration pack behind him, barked out a quick command to a few nearby, and sprinted right. The others followed without hesitation—splitting into two groups. One ran wide, drawing the lion's attention, while the second group used the distraction to slip behind it.
The giant didn't move at all. He stayed right in front of the lion.
He simply dropped the food, rolled his shoulders, and marched straight toward the creature.
Basil tilted his head, intrigued. "He's either brave or stupid."
"Or both," Lace muttered.
From their vantage point, they watched as the lion lowered its massive head and charged.
The earth shook with every step.
The giant met it head-on.
At the last second, he planted his feet and let out a roar. They slammed into each other. A thunderous sound echoed throughout. Surprisingly, the giant man didn't move back at all. Instead, he grabbed the long two teeth of the lion, lifted the head up slightly using the momentum from the charge, and then slammed it down into the ground, placing his foot on top of it to keep it pinned.
That was all the distraction the others needed.
From behind, the hunter leapt, planting one sharpened stick directly into the joint of the creature's back leg. Another applicant followed, driving a rock into the lion's side where its plates thinned near the ribs.
The lion roared in fury, spinning in place.
One of the attackers was flung ten yards and didn't rise.
But it was wounded.
Bleeding.
And now, wary.
The rest began to circle it, moving with the coordinated precision of people who had stopped thinking like individuals and started moving like a unit.
Basil allowed himself the smallest nod.
"There they are," he murmured. "Leaders."
Lace glanced at him. It's like he's a whole different person. Ever since this started, he hasn't cracked any jokes, and his playful attitude is completely gone. I wonder what's changed for him to act this way. "Are we gonna intervene if it gets worse?"
"No," Basil replied. "They'll either find their limits… or they'll die trying."
Another lion tore through the clearing.
The ground splintered beneath its claws as it emerged from the east, fur matted with morning dew and streaked with mana-glow. This one didn't hesitate—it lunged for a nearby cluster of applicants too slow to scatter.
Most of the clearing had already emptied. The brawlers and cowards alike had retreated into the trees, leaving only the strong—or the foolish—behind.
Across the far side of the glade, another group was handling things differently.
Rather than fight, they coordinated with quiet precision. A young woman stood at their center, her arm raised in command.
Lace's eyes narrowed. "I think that's her," he muttered. "The one who left the charm on your desk."
Basil didn't respond. He was already watching her.
While one applicant darted in and out of the lion's reach, throwing rocks and shouting to keep its attention, two others knotted together lengths of rope torn from ration satchels. They moved fast—looping, twisting, binding.
Then, on the signal, they ran forward, tangling the lion's legs in a series of rapid, low passes. The beast tried to pivot but caught itself in the web of ropes, stumbled, and collapsed with a howl of rage.
The group didn't waste time celebrating.
The healer was already moving, pressing her hands against bleeding shoulders and bruised ribs, weaving soft green light into flesh as they withdrew into the treeline.
Meanwhile, the first group had drawn the attention of two lions.
The second lion circled wide, flanking from the rear while the first thrashed and bled from its wounds. The hunter had lost one of his sticks but still fought with sharp, calculated movements, his remaining weapon striking with surgical precision.
The giant moved like a mountain in motion—slow, deliberate, but unstoppable.
Together, they turned the tide.
The first lion went down with a howl, half-beaten to death, dragging itself back into the underbrush. The second lost an eye to the hunter's strike, stumbled in confusion, and was driven off by the rest of the group working in tandem.
Rather than chase it, they turned and helped the remaining applicants—those who hadn't run far—escape into the woods.
Basil watched, arms folded, as the last few lions slowed.
The clearing quieted.
The final beasts sniffed around the open space—massive heads swinging low, tasting the air—before deciding the battle was no longer worth the effort. One by one, they turned, bodies low and heavy with fatigue, and disappeared into the eastern forest.
Only silence remained.
Basil and Lace followed the groups into the woods.
The first and second groups—those who had stood and fought—crossed paths at the edge of the glade. Eyes met. No words were exchanged, just the quiet nods of people who understood that this trial was about teamwork and unity.
They merged without discussion, melting into a single unit as they disappeared into the trees together.
Basil and Lace followed them—still hidden, but close enough to observe every step.
"Not bad," Lace muttered, scribbling rapidly. "Tactics. Brawn. Coordination. And leadership."
"They'll need it," Basil replied.
⸻
Deep within the forest, far from the battle and bloodshed, another group moved under the shadows of the trees.
They were a large party—nearly a hundred strong. Not one of them had set foot in the clearing. They hadn't needed to. By sheer volume, they had combed more ground than any other team, sweeping the terrain in tight, efficient formations.
Already, they had found over forty ration satchels—some stashed under roots, others hidden in the hollows of old trees. They split the finds evenly—no hoarding, no arguing.
That order stemmed from one man.
Their leader was older, maybe in his late forties, with a short gray and black beard braided into twists and a jagged scar down his right eye. His frame was thick with muscle, the remnants of a warrior's prime, though still small compared to the giant man back in the clearing.
He didn't speak much.
He said what he needed to, and the rest he showed with his actions.
The others followed him instinctively, his calm presence and sharp mind keeping them steady.
As the group made their way back toward the trial's starting point—knowing time was nearly up—they stumbled across a narrow ravine filled with long grass and low-lying fog.
And there, grazing peacefully among the trees, stood a herd of deer.
But they weren't normal deer.
They were sleek, yellow-and-black creatures with branching antlers that shimmered faintly in the light. But their eyes were wrong—too large, too bright, too deep. If you stared too long into them, something stared back.
One of the younger men stepped forward, eyes locking with one of the creatures.
He froze.
His mouth twitched.
Then he laughed.
Softly at first. Then louder. Hysterical.
The older man was at his side in an instant, breaking eye contact, gripping the boy's jaw, forcing his gaze down.
"Don't look into their eyes," he growled. "They're hollow-stags. They'll cause you to hallucinate and attack your friends. Their gaze draws out your deepest fears… and makes your allies appear as monsters. Either way, you won't be yourself when they're done."
The boy nodded shakily, wiping at his mouth.
They gave the creatures a wide berth.
No one else dared look up.
And then the sound of laughing and fighting could be heard in the back of the group. One of the members had stared too long and started attacking his comrades. The middle-aged man told his front forces to go on ahead, and he took a few of his stronger men to tame the chaos in the back of the group.
By the time they arrived, three or four of them in the rear had already gone berserk, taking down a few people. One of the madmen was a dwarf with insane strength—he was picking people up and throwing them into trees every time they got close enough.
"You two, take care of those three. Get help from the others already over there. Knocking them out should do the trick, and we'll carry them back with us. The rest of you, with me—we'll have to circle up on the dwarf," the middle-aged man commanded as they split into two groups.
The first group surrounded the dwarf in a semicircle and charged him at the same time. They brought him to the ground and piled on top of him, taking around four people to pin him down. The middle-aged man walked up to him as the dwarf grunted and snarled, trying to break free. He took a rather large stick and crashed it down onto the dwarf's head, breaking the stick in half and knocking the dwarf clean out.
The second group had gotten the others under control in a matter of minutes—holding them from behind and having the strongest member knock them out cold.
They threw them over their shoulders and continued marching forward, approaching a clearing.
—
Back in the forest's western ridge, Lace finally lowered his scroll.
"That's it," he said. "Hour nine's almost over."
Basil remained silent, watching the trees sway gently in the wind.
"Not bad," he murmured. "We've got hunters. Strategists. Leaders. Survivors. And a surprisingly good healer."
He turned, disappearing into the brush.
"Let's start heading back. I imagine most are returning by now."
⸻
Harrowood – Hour Nine
The forest breathed again.
Wind stirred the canopy. The scent of blood and moss faded, replaced by morning dew and the distant cry of birds returning to still branches.
Basil and Lace moved silently, weaving through the undergrowth with the ease of seasoned predators. Observation had become second nature by now. They weren't looking to intervene—they were looking to understand.
It was then they saw her.
A lone figure moved between the trees with fluid precision—a dark elf, lean and composed, with a single satchel slung over one shoulder. Her steps were nearly soundless, each movement blending seamlessly with the forest. Even her breathing matched the rhythm of the wild.
Basil stopped.
His eyes narrowed, following her every step.
She paused ahead, one hand brushing against a nearby trunk. Her head tilted. Listening.
Then, without a sound, she dropped the satchel and shifted into a low fighting stance.
"What's she—?" Lace started, but Basil raised a finger to his lips.
From a patch of shadow, darker than night and twice as fast, a Shadow Panther lunged.
It leapt with feline grace, claws extended, jaws open.
She didn't flinch.
The beast collided with her, slamming her to the ground. Leaves flew in a spiral of chaos. They rolled once—twice—before she twisted beneath it, bracing her hands against its shoulders and kicking it off with a controlled burst of force.
The panther landed hard, snarling.
She didn't hesitate.
With a running start, she bounded up the side of a tree and launched herself off a high branch. Her knee connected squarely with the beast's skull mid-pounce. There was a dull crack, and the Shadow Panther collapsed, unmoving.
She exhaled once, retrieved her satchel, and continued on her way—calm, focused, not even a glance back.
"Did she just—?" Lace blinked.
"Yes," Basil murmured, a flicker of satisfaction in his voice. "Another one to watch."
They pressed forward.
—
By the time they reached the forest's edge, the Capitol walls were just visible in the distance—sunlight catching on their black stone towers like molten gold on steel.
Men and women of all sizes and races were spilling out of the trees. Some limped. Others marched. A few bore others across their shoulders, refusing to leave anyone behind.
Dozens peeled off from the main flow—wounded, disheartened, and tired. They didn't speak. They didn't argue. They simply walked past the staging area, heading home, heads bowed, trial failed.
Lace counted as they came in.
By the time the tenth hour struck, just over 5,500 stood in formation.
Others trickled in late, glancing toward the line, understanding without needing to be told. They nodded to themselves and kept walking.
Basil didn't raise his voice.
He simply gestured, and his captains moved.
They went into the trees, found the last stragglers, and pulled them out—carried or walked, it didn't matter. Each one received water, healing, and a quiet word of dismissal.
Go home. You did well. But you're done.
Basil stood in silence as it all unfolded.
More had survived than he expected.
But that wasn't a bad thing.
He stepped forward as the final groups settled into place. Dust swirled in the air. Silence fell. Five thousand faces stared back—bloody, bruised, battered, but standing.
He let the silence stretch.
Then, he spoke.
"You passed," he said. "The last hard trial is over. You've endured Harrowood. You've proved your instincts, your resolve, your ability to adapt under pressure, and your discipline."
Some straightened. Others simply breathed in relief.
"But make no mistake—the worst isn't behind you. It starts now."
He raised his voice slightly, letting it carry.
"The next and final trial will decide your place. Not just if you join the Legion… but where."
He pointed across the clearing.
"You'll form into five groups. Roughly 1,000 in each. Within your group, select one to act as squad leader. Someone who proved themselves today. Not just strong—but level-headed. Someone you'll follow without question."
He paused, letting that settle.
"You have one hour. When I return, I expect you to be ready."