Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World-Chapter 315

The two stepped through the iron gate into the arena's inner ring, greeted immediately by a wave of murmurs and the faint clatter of footsteps on stone.

The arena, vast and circular, stretched high above them with tiered seating packed with young competitors.

A youth in red robes waited near the entrance.

"Sirs," the red-robed youth gestured. "Please find your seat and wait. You'll be called when it's your turn."

Michael gave a short nod and walked past him without a word.

Renn, however, paused to ask, "Do you know what the trial will be?"

Michael internally sighed. He didn't even need to look at the red-robed boy's face to know the answer.

Predictably, the youth replied, "You'll find out when it starts."

Michael rolled his eyes—quietly, of course.

He didn't bother waiting for Renn and simply moved on toward the seating area, weaving past others as he picked an isolated corner with a good view of the arena floor.

Renn, as if magnetized by the decision, conveniently followed and sat beside him.

Fortunately, once seated, Renn fell quiet. Instead of rambling, his amber eyes roamed the surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Michael did the same, though with a more calculated gaze. There wasn't much of interest.

The arena floor was bare—no weapons, no obstacles, no markers—just smooth stone. However, the large cage doors embedded into the walls drew his attention.

Michael's eyes lingered on them.

Unfortunately, he was able to gain more information just by looking at them.

After looking around a bit more, he closed his eyes to rest and wait.

Time dragged on. The sky shifted from pale morning light to the brighter blaze of midday, but still, no trial began.

They waited.

And waited.

The entire arena—nearly filled to capacity with youths—had long since turned restless.

While no one dared complain openly, the subtle signs were everywhere: the tapping of boots against stone, the low hum of impatient murmurs, and the occasional frustrated sigh.

It created a constant backdrop of noise, like a hive of uneasy bees.

Even Michael was beginning to grow tired of it. He shifted slightly in his seat, stretching his legs out before pulling them back in.

Still, he said nothing.

He knew better.

Complaining wouldn't bring good news.

So instead, he stayed quiet and let his thoughts drift.

Specifically, to his rank advancement quest.

This one was very similar from his last.

However , unlike before, where the mission duration was shorter, this one came with a much longer deadline—an entire year.

On the surface, that made it seem easier. But Michael wasn't naive. Ten Rank 2 undead wasn't an easy feat, no matter how long the time frame.

Sure, he had the means to do it.

With the evolution points he had saved up, he could easily evolve several of his undead to Rank 2 if he wanted. Some might even become stronger than that, depending on how he invested the points.

But that wasn't the goal.

10 Rank 2 undead wasn't his goal.

Not this time.

Michael wanted another perfect performance rating.

It wasn't arrogance. It was logic. He had the tools, the timing, and the knowledge.

Anything less than a perfect rating would be a waste of his advantage—and worse, a personal disappointment.

Also, there was another reason.

Perfect is said to be the highest rating.

But Michael couldn't help but get curious if that was truly the case.

The last time he could only increase the quest difficulty to having 20 rank 1 undead and them moment he was done the quest was automatically completed.

Was this because that was them limit or because he only had 20 undead max then?

Or both?

Could he go beyond this time?

Michael wanted to try.

That was why he was accumulating his evolution points.

At the very least though, he needed a perfect rating.

The "extra levels" that came with it would do a lot for him.

There was also a matter of timing.

The Awakeners Academy entrance examination wasn't far off.

Michael wasn't worried about missing it, but he still wanted to enter the academy with his advancement complete. That way, he wouldn't just be catching up to the elite peers who had awakened two years ago—he'd be stepping onto the same stage.

From there, he could finally slow down. Not because he planned to relax, but because the mad sprint would no longer be necessary. With the right foundation laid, his rise could be consistent… and terrifying.

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint creak of the massive iron gate entrance.

Two figures stepped through, instantly drawing attention. They wore deep-blue robes marked with silver trim.

A man and a woman.

They both looked middle aged.

Their appearance didn't quiet the arena, but it did shift the tone. Murmurs grew more curious. Movement slowed.

Even those who had been chatting mindlessly now sat straighter in their seats.

Michael leaned forward slightly, watching them.

Still, nothing started.

Just more waiting.

Eventually, Renn stirred beside him. "Think they're stalling because they're not ready?" he muttered.

Michael didn't answer.

However, he had his own suspicions.

One of them was relating to the number of youths around him.

The middle aged woman in blue robes finally stepped forward, raising her hand for silence.

Her presence alone commanded attention, and while the noise didn't vanish entirely, it dulled enough for her voice to carry through the open-air arena.

"Welcome, all of you," she began, her voice clear and authoritative, carrying across the massive space without needing to shout. "On behalf of the Duke of Evermoon, I welcome each and every one of you to the First Round of the Selection."

Michael's eyes sharpened. Finally.

She didn't bother with pleasantries beyond that, her gaze sweeping across the crowd of seated youths like a blade. "Since you are here, I assume most of you already have some idea of what this event is. I will not waste our time explaining every detail. You want something. And to get it, you must prove yourself."

She paused briefly, letting the words sink in.

"However," she continued, her tone hardening, "some among you seem either ignorant of the most basic requirements… or worse, have chosen to ignore them outright."

Murmurs flared again. Michael saw heads turning, people exchanging glances, some faces twisting in confusion or dawning realization.

"I'll repeat them for clarity," the woman said. "Firstly, all participants must be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five."

A beat of silence.

She continued, "There is an exception, however. The Duke has graciously allowed those younger than eighteen to participate—though it must be made absolutely clear that those younger than the official minimum should not expect any form of reward. If you are here to test yourself or spectate from within, you may stay."

Renn frowned beside Michael, his brows knitting. "So basically, kids are allowed to play pretend."

Michael didn't reply, but the woman's next words echoed his thoughts.

"As for those older than twenty-five who dared step into this arena..." Her voice dropped, icy and sharp. "Leave. Immediately. Or face the consequences."

Michael noticed several people stiffen. A handful even rose hesitantly from their seats, faces pale.

The woman gestured casually, and a group of armored guards began to fan out across the arena, their expressions stone-cold.

"No exceptions," she said.

The tension in the arena thickened. A pair of older-looking youths near the western edge tried to argue, only to be forcibly removed by guards without a word. The message was clear.

Once the brief purge was done, the woman clasped her hands behind her back. "Now that that's settled...perhaps," she said with a mysterious smile only those with excellent eyesight could spot, "let us begin."

She stepped aside, and the man in blue robes—who had remained silent until now—finally spoke.

The man in blue stepped forward with deliberate poise, his eyes scanning the arena with a critical gaze that made more than a few participants squirm. His voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth and firm—laced with a subtle edge that demanded attention.

"As Lady Serel has made clear, the age requirement is only the first of several filters. The next is perhaps even more important—strength." He paused. "To be eligible for true consideration, you must be, at minimum, either an intermediate-ranked mage or knight."

A quiet wave of murmurs swept the stands. Some looked to their neighbors, others shifted in place uncomfortably. The unspoken truth was settling in fast.

"There is no leniency on this point," he continued, tone unyielding. "In a competition like this, without sufficient strength, you are just useless. If you do not meet this threshold, I suggest you take your leave now."

Renn let out a low tsk beside Michael, crossing his arms. "Good luck to all those poor kids who thought they stood a chance," he muttered.

Michael remained quiet.

"In the first official trial," the man went on, "one hundred youths will enter the arena as a team. Your task is simple: work together to defeat ten intermediate-class monsters."