Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World - Chapter 329

Chapter 329: Chapter 329
The signal to begin was given with a wave of the blue-robed woman’s hand.

Derek and Ludo hesitated for a split second, then lunged at each other with the clumsiness of desperation.

It was… fast, in the way two frightened animals might clash.

Their weapons collided with a dull clang—metal on metal, but not the refined hum of well-forged blades. It was awkward. Brute strength, poorly directed. Both missed their mark several times before either made a true connection.

Michael leaned back slightly, observing them with a detached expression.

They were older than most others here—likely already brushing the upper limit of the competition’s age requirement. In fact, they might already be past it.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched their movements.

They weren’t untrained.

Just… unpolished. Their footwork was too grounded. Their flow too stiff. They lacked the clean transitions of a real fighter—of someone who had lived with the blade, not merely learned it.

Early Primary Rank, Michael estimated.

Suddenly, a realization bloomed in his mind.

This trial… it isn’t just to reduce the number.

Perhaps….

It was to expose the unqualified.

To weed out those who had slipped past the first trial by luck, or cleverness.

Those two on stage?

They wouldn’t last in the next phase. Even if one of them won, they had already reached their limit.

They had no business standing before the Duke.

Michael’s brows lowered slightly.

But then, he paused.

There was stil a flaw.

Someone might not be at the Intermediate Rank… but if they had strength—they could still advance.

Michael’s eyes drifted back to the stage.

Derek stumbled as Ludo landed a shallow cut across his shoulder. Ludo followed up, swinging wildly with his chipped blade.

Derek ducked. Lashed out.

Ludo fell to a knee.

The match was almost over.

But Michael had already stopped watching.

He’d seen enough.

The outcome was inevitable.

Ludo swung again—too wide, too high. Derek stepped in, drove his shoulder into the older man’s chest, and knocked him flat. The crude spear clattered from Ludo’s hands and skidded across the arena floor.

A breath later, the blue-robed woman raised her hand.

“Winner: Derek Harn.”

A few polite claps rang out, mostly from the commoner side. There was no joy in it. No celebration. Just the sound of people acknowledging the result and moving on.

Michael didn’t clap. Neither did Renn.

Derek helped Ludo up with a shaky hand, and the two limped off the platform together. There was no pride in their movements. No fire.

Also, Michael noticed that a little distance away from the stage, the number tags of the two were taken. The winner wasn’t excluded.

He seemed to want to argue but for some reason didn’t.

The stage was cleared.

Another pairing would be called soon.

Michael’s eyes swept across the arena again.

The commoners were already tense, many of them clenching their weapons too tightly. Some were visibly sweating. But what was more interesting… were the nobles.

They looked confident. Too confident.

He figured this was natural.

If the nobles couldn’t perform better, he’d only be disappointed.

Michael leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The wind picked up faintly, brushing his robe.

Another match was about to begin.

And eventually, his name would be called.

“Next pairing—Theo Graeme vs Fen Arlo.”

The two stepped onto the platform, each from opposite sides. One with the quiet steps of a boy trying not to trip. The other with swagger.

Theo Graeme wore white and gold light armor, his family crest shining on the shoulder. A sleek saber hung at his waist, and he drew it with a fluid motion, letting the polished metal catch the sun.

His opponent, Fen, had no armor. Just a loose brown tunic and baggy trousers tucked into worn boots. His weapon was a curved dagger—old, slightly chipped, and poorly balanced. He held it in a reverse grip, crouched low like he was used to back-alley fights rather than arena duels.

The difference was obvious.

Even the audience—those who had been quiet—seemed to hum with silent expectation.

The blue-robed woman gave no warning. Just a flick of her wrist.

Theo moved before Fen could even react.

One step.

One arc of his blade. The flat side.

A clean strike across Fen’s chest that sent him sprawling before he could raise his weapon. The blow hadn’t been deep—controlled—but decisive.

Fen hit the ground, clutching his chest, groaning but alive.

The arena was silent.

And then Theo turned—not to leave.

But to face the crowd.

His sword still in hand, he raised it slightly and spoke, voice loud, clear, and condescending.

“Is this what we’re fighting?” His tone was smooth, almost theatrical. “Peasants with scrap metal and secondhand boots?”

The crowd stiffened.

“Tell me,” Theo continued, pacing along the front of the stage like he was addressing a classroom. “Did you all come here chasing a dream? Hoping for the wealth promised to the winner? For the title of Viscount? For a taste of the Duke’s favor?”

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Or maybe…” he paused, gesturing broadly toward the commoners’ side, “you want something else and thought—why not me?”

A few of the commoners looked away. Some glared.

Theo scoffed.

“You’re dreaming. You don’t belong here.”

He looked down at Fen, who was still groaning and trying to rise.

“This is mercy,” he said. “Better to crush your hopes now than let you step into a battlefield you’ll never survive.”

Then he turned to the officials.

“I’m done.”

He stepped off the stage.

Fen’s was taken without ceremony.

Michael watched the entire thing without blinking.

It wasn’t the words.

It wasn’t the arrogance.

It was the way Theo looked not at individuals—but at types.

People like Fen weren’t competitors in his eyes.

They were obstacles. Filler. Trash to be cleared before the real duels began.

Renn whispered, “Damn…”

Michael’s gaze remained steady.

That noble had just painted a target on his back.

And there were plenty of people in the arena who didn’t take kindly to being called trash.