The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Light from the torches flickered across the bloodstained sand, illuminating the battered forms of trainees, wolves, and Kobold corpses. A tense hush filled the coliseum, all eyes on the tall figure of Melo, who stepped onto the central platform. The chain that held the great gate slackened, leaving it half-open in the torchlit arena. The breeze from outside felt unnaturally cool after the chaos that had just reigned.

Melo took a steady breath, then raised his voice to address everyone present. "The second wave is concluded." His words washed over the stands and those huddled on the battlefield. "By order of the captains, the trial will not proceed to the planned third wave."

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A slight stirring moved through the stands. Some trainees stared, stunned to hear that the ordeal was suddenly over. A low murmur ran through those who had somehow mustered the strength to remain on their feet. Klaus, sword still in hand, exchanged a glance with Nicholas. Sarah sank slowly to her knees beside Kurt, her face a mask of exhaustion. Nearby, Alex's expression was unreadable, emotions locked behind a rigid posture.

High above in the gallery, several captains conferred in hushed tones. Melo, noticing their whispered final agreement, cleared his throat. "We realize how close many of you came to death this night," he continued. "The captains have decided enough is enough. No further waves shall be unleashed."

The battered trainees, some covered head to toe in blood and dust, exhaled a collective sigh of relief. A few even sagged to the ground in sheer exhaustion.

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In the stands, the members of various armed groups—Eclair, White Lion, Blue Eagles, Black Vipers, and others—rose from their seats. It began as a smattering of claps, but soon grew into a standing ovation that echoed across the night air. The applause filled the coliseum with a warmth that felt surreal after so much bloodshed.

"They fought with the courage of seasoned knights," one older soldier said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"At their age, I didn't have half their guts," a tall woman in dark leathers added, voice tinted with admiration.

"I would be honored if any one of them joined my squad," another man chimed in, his eyes scanning the trainees below.

The comments carried in low, fervent voices. Trainees who could stand found themselves staring up, hearts pounding for an entirely different reason now. They had expected scorn or at best stoic nods from these stern watchers, but instead, they saw respect, and maybe even a hint of pride in the older soldiers' faces.

Melo lifted an arm to signal the final step. "Medics, proceed," he called. "Everyone else, keep away from the wounded. Let the professionals do their job."

A group of white-clad healers hurried onto the field, each carrying pouches stuffed with high-grade healing potions. Some trainees gasped at the sight of those expensive bottles. Whispers flickered through the stands, as people realized the captains must have pooled their resources to cover such a costly measure.

"Bring them all back, even the ones who look gone," a firm voice commanded from the captain's gallery. "We decided on this trial—so we will pay for it."

The medics wasted no time. They spread out, kneeling beside each trainee who lay motionless or moaning in pain. Golden liquid poured onto wounds, or else forced gently between lips of the unconscious. Bruises dark enough to signal internal bleeding began to fade. Deep cuts sealed themselves in moments that seemed almost miraculous.

Kurt watched in awe as the boy named Gerald, who had been barely clinging to life, coughed and then drew a strong breath, color rushing back into his cheeks. "You're going to be all right," Kurt murmured, relief palpable in his voice. Gerald's eyes fluttered open, confused, then wet with tears when he realized he was still alive.

Throughout the arena, similar scenes played out: battered trainees finding their worst injuries melting away beneath the effect of the potions. It was a raw moment—some wept in disbelief, others simply lay there, stunned by the sudden absence of pain.

***

Though the potions were powerful, healing so many took time. For a full hour, medics toiled, kneeling in the bloody sand, ensuring each wounded trainee emerged free from mortal harm. The captains had gathered near the podium, speaking with low voices. Anyone glancing their way could see lines of worry, or perhaps guilt, etched in their faces.

"They almost died," a gruff captain muttered. "All for a demonstration. Maybe we took it too far."

Another captain nodded curtly, refusing to meet his colleague's gaze. "At least the potions were enough," he murmured. "We can't bring back the truly dead, but no one else will bear lasting scars."

One trainee—an older boy with hollow eyes—hadn't stirred even when doused with healing draughts. A hush lingered as the medics shared solemn looks, their attempts in vain. Quietly, they draped a cloth over him, the single fatality of the night. Despite the advanced potions, his spirit had already left this world.

For the rest, the difference after an hour was startling. Trainees who had been left gasping with shattered ribs or battered limbs now found themselves able to sit up, to breathe without pain. Healing potions and practiced medic skills had reversed the majority of the night's damage. The scene, though, remained somber. The pungent smell of sweat, iron, and the memory of that fallen comrade weighed on them.

By the end of that hour, Melo requested—through a courteous but firm announcement—those who had actively participated in the second wave's battle to return to the arena center. A sense of anticipation rippled among the fourteen who stepped forward. Each had been singled out by the chaos, some fighting on the front lines, others simply refusing to yield to despair. They reassembled near the podium, the night sky overhead now dotted with faint stars, the hour poised between twilight and true darkness.

Sarah stood beside Kurt, her rapier sheathed, the faint glow of her light yellow aura now resting. Nicholas, still a bit unsteady from the hidden runes' strain, took his place, casting a glance at Klaus. Klaus responded with the barest nod, acknowledging how close they had come to real tragedy. Alex lingered apart from them, arms crossed, frustration still visible in the set of his jaw.

No one spoke, not yet. The stands were no longer silent but subdued, a low hum of conversation passing through the armed groups. Some among them exchanged gestures or pointed at certain trainees with interest. They recognized courage, skill, or raw potential that might be molded into something greater.

Melo drew a breath and addressed them softly. "I know you've given everything," he said. "But the captains wish to see if your efforts will earn you a place among them."

The fourteen nodded, tension coiling in each heart. They had survived monsters beyond their training level, yet now faced a different kind of judgment. In the wavering torchlight, their faces shone with a mixture of resolve, exhaustion, and faint hope for a future they hadn't dared dream about. The trial was over, but the question of what came next weighed heavily.

And that question hung in the night air as the battered trainees awaited the captains' decision.