The Black Fang Trials.


    Unspoken to the public. Hidden from even the regular nobles.


    An invitation-only proving ground run by the old noble families—those who built kingdoms in shadows and buried enemies in gold.


    The prize?


    A Crown Mark. A symbol of future rule.


    And more importantly—sponsorship from the Houses That Rule Without Names.


    But this year, there was a twist.


    The trials demanded duality.


    Each candidate needed two sponsors.


    Two sides of power.


    To survive, you had to prove your worth in combat… and your influence in shadows.


    Caelan entered as Ghost.


    Deadliest rising blade of the underworld.


    The one who gutted E-rank dungeons solo and held off an A-rank lich.


    The masked killer.


    Caelan entered as Vaal.


    The mysterious noble funder.


    Unknown family. Unlimited gold.


    A tactician who brokered arms between warring street clans and bought out assassination contracts just to reassign them.


    Two names.


    One man.


    No one knew.


    <hr>


    The First Move


    The Trial was divided into three branches:


    The Crimson Arena – for physical warriors, assassins, Aura weaponmasters.


    The Grey Court – political warfare, asset control, influence games.


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    The Black Gauntlet – hybrid chaos missions. Survival and betrayal. Often permanent death.


    Each participant must enter two.


    Ghost entered Crimson Arena and Black Gauntlet.


    Vaal entered Grey Court and Black Gauntlet.


    Split identities. Split roles. But one goal.


    No one thought it odd—they all believed Ghost and Vaal were bitter rivals. In fact, the underground betting forums exploded. “Who’ll win? Vaal or Ghost?”


    The odds changed daily.


    <hr>


    Round One: The Arena of Chains – Crimson Arena


    Ghost stepped in, blades at his hips, no armor, just his eyes—


    —and across him stood Ryven Talorr, a noble brat in gilded steel, famous for killing a wyvern in training with nothing but his aura-laced fists.


    “Come, peasant,” Ryven smirked. “Let’s see what garbage moves like.”


    Ghost didn’t speak.


    He blinked once—and vanished.


    Three steps. One spin. One slice.


    The audience didn’t even understand what happened.


    Ryven dropped to his knees, coughing blood. His pauldron had been torn clean off. His rib shattered. His pride bled from his mouth.


    Ghost moved past him like a shadow.


    Never stopping. Never speaking.


    <hr>


    Round One: The Council''s Gamble – Grey Court


    Vaal arrived in silk robes. Half-mask of gold. No weapons. Just a cane he never used.


    Ten others stood in a circle. They had to present a proposal on war-time logistics. The test? A fabricated political crisis: supply chains to a border war were sabotaged, and peace talks loomed.


    While nobles bickered about funding, logistics, and troops—


    Vaal bought the enemy.


    Within twenty minutes, his solution: “Why fund a war when we can buy the enemy commander’s debt and chain him through his heir’s marriage contract?”


    The judges stared in silence.


    One whispered: “This isn’t politics. This is blackmail in perfume.”


    Vaal smiled.


    And the room chose him as the winner.


    <hr>


    The Twist


    In the next phase, contestants had to nominate their chosen enemy.


    And guess who Vaal chose?


    “I nominate Ghost.”


    And Ghost?


    “I nominate Vaal.”


    The audience went feral.


    Betting houses updated their odds by the second.


    Caelan watched both names rise into infamy—and smiled.


    He wasn’t just fighting anymore.


    He was writing a war.