However, the way the trial was conducted still raised some suspicion in Michael.
Based on the tricks the middle-aged man had used earlier—like secretly sending people out of the arena and subtly manipulating others to withdraw—it felt like they were deliberately trying to reduce the number of participants.
Now, this would make sense if it were simply due to the overwhelming number of applicants. But Michael didn't believe that could be the sole reason.
He didn't doubt it was a reason—just not the reason.
The real issue lay in the nature of the competition itself.
One of the grand prizes was the hand of the duke's daughter.
Even ignoring the viscount title also being offered, Michael couldn't believe the princess wouldn't attract many suitors.
But would the duke truly allow that? The possibility of any random person having his daughter?
Even if the duke hated his daughter, she was still tied to his face, his pride, and his political standing.
From his many discussions with Mage Lian, although the grand mage never stated it outright, Michael had pieced together the truth: this competition was some sort of political maneuver.
It was entirely possible that the winner had already been chosen behind the scenes.
"I should be careful... lest I get 'disqualified' for no reason."
Michael had no interest in the duke's daughter, and he figured that as long as he made that clear, he'd be safe.
And if things still went wrong—well, he had a grand mage behind him.
In any case, while he might be entangling himself in deeper political currents, Michael wasn't too worried.
In a few more days, he wouldn't need to fear this kingdom or its people the way he did now.
By then, even if he couldn't walk around arrogantly doing whatever he pleased, he'd at least have the freedom to act on his own terms.
For now, he simply wanted to maintain a relationship with a grand mage—until the day it no longer proved useful.
The hundred chosen participants stood upon the massive stone platform, each group of ten gathering instinctively into tight clusters.
At first, it was spontaneous—natural. People gravitated toward those who looked strong or familiar.
They whispered hurriedly, eyes darting between faces, trying to assess allies and threats alike.
Some even laughed nervously. It was clear many believed that sheer numbers would be their strength.
Ten against one monster? It sounded doable.
But reality came crashing down the moment the caged walls on all four corners of the arena cracked open with a screech of grinding metal.
Not just any wolves—these beasts were massive, twice the size of normal ones, with dark steel-gray fur and jagged teeth.
Their bodies were lean and whipcord-thin, built for nothing but speed and slaughter. Their eyes glowed with a cold, blue light that sent shivers down the spines of even the boldest participants.
The moment the gates opened, they didn't hesitate.
With explosive bursts of speed, the wolves leapt forward, crashing into the disorganized clusters of youths like living missiles.
Weapons were drawn late.
The groups had barely even taken stances when the wolves were already among them.
One youth was immediately tackled, his arm torn open before he could even scream.
Another rolled backward just in time to avoid fangs snapping shut on his throat.
A girl shrieked as a beast barrelled into her shield, sending her flying into another group.
The assumption that numbers equaled strength shattered in an instant.
But not all was lost.
Some of the groups responded well.
A pair of twin spear-wielders launched into a coordinated defense, fending off one of the wolves.
Another group had a sword user with remarkable footwork, weaving between bites while slashing at joints.
Even so, blood began to stain the white stone beneath them.
From the judging seat, the blue-robed observers watched intently. Their expressions remained passive, hands twitching only slightly—but they didn't intervene.
Michael leaned forward, his eyes glued to the chaos below.
"They're fast," Renn muttered under his breath.
Michael gave a small nod. "And smart."
Indeed, the wolves didn't behave like mindless beasts.
They darted and weaved through their targets, never overcommitting.
They seemed to assess each group quickly, targeting the weakest with frightening precision.
But the worst part wasn't the speed. It wasn't even the ferocity.
It was the coordination.
The wolves had no rule against working together.
When one group faltered, another wolf would swoop in to support its kin.
The effect was immediate—group cohesion shattered wherever two wolves joined forces.
Still, miraculously, no one had been disqualified yet.
Injuries mounted. Limbs were bloodied. Faces were pale with terror. But no one had been rendered helpless enough for the blue-robed observers to move.
Below, the battlefield had shifted.
Groups that failed to adapt were clearly on the brink of collapse.
One boy had already dropped his weapon and begun running in circles, screaming as a wolf chased him in lazy arcs.
Another participant had frozen entirely, eyes wide, hands trembling as he stood amid the chaos.
A faint shimmer crossed the platform—and the blue-robed observer nearest the judges' seat vanished.
A second later, the screaming boy disappeared in a flash of blue light.
It was like a switch had been thrown.
The instant the first participant was removed, pressure intensified across the entire arena. Some fought harder. Others cracked. But one thing became clear.
No one wanted to be next.
More groups faltered. Another youth vanished. Then another.
Still, the remaining participants fought with growing determination.
The tide slowly began to shift.
One group, led by a girl with flame-tipped hair, coordinated their attacks flawlessly.
Her fire spells illuminated the arena, carving molten streaks across the floor while her teammates struck from behind.
Their wolf lay charred and unmoving by the eight-minute mark.
As for why girls were also competing in a marriage competition, it was beyond Michael.
Others groups weren't as clean though.
One group lost four members before the wolf was finally skewered on a glaive, leaving the remaining six panting and bloodied—but alive.
By the time the ten minutes passed, only twenty of the original hundred youths stood upright and uninjured.
The silence afterward was louder than the battle itself.
Then came the slow clap.
The middle-aged man from before stood once more, smiling faintly. "Well done. I see some of you still believe in grit."
He let that hang in the air before continuing, "Those of you still standing—congratulations, you've passed. As for those with missing limbs or more serious injuries, don't blame me, this is not child's play."
"So I'll say this one more time. The last chance, if you want to leave, do so now."