Chapter 20. The Group Falls Apart

Bracing for the worst, Sumarel barely had time to react before Alpha lunged at the attacker. His clenched fist shot forward, intent on crushing any defiance with a single blow.

But something went wrong.

Alpha's hand, almost at its target, suddenly jerked sideways. His fist swept past his opponent's face by four inches, cutting through empty air. The guy—stocky, with short red hair—smirked and seized the moment. His fist slammed into Alpha's solar plexus with a dull thud, driving the air from his lungs. Alpha doubled over, gasping for breath, while his opponent was already raising his leg for the finishing blow.

"Killing is permitted," the Etherean's voice rang out with a barely perceptible note of satisfaction.

Sumarel reacted instantly. Her body moved before her mind could process the information. She shot forward, intercepting the attacker's leg mid-kick. Using his own momentum against him, she pivoted on her supporting leg, pulling him along. The guy lost his balance and crashed to the floor with a startled cry.

Without losing a second, Sumarel grabbed his ankle with both hands. A sharp, precise movement—and the crack of breaking bone echoed through the hall. The guy screamed, clutching his leg, now twisted at an unnatural angle.

If not for the Etherean's last words, Sumarel's display of brutality might have worked as a deterrent. But now their group, minds suppressed by mental influence and emotions cranked to maximum, seethed with jealousy and the desire to be center stage. Permission to kill had unleashed them.

"The next one will be dead," she said, slowly rising and sweeping her gaze across those present.

But passion, amplified by collective madness, could overcome even fear and established hierarchy. The group members exchanged glances, as if synchronizing with each other, then turned to look at her like a single organism. Now she knew for sure—at the core of any mob lay emotions and sensations, an ancient mechanism of collective synchronization.

And the only thing that could save her and Alfa was the answer to one question: which of these brave souls would charge first? She kept her gaze steady, understanding—whoever came at her first had to be intercepted and killed quickly and coldly. The only way to neutralize a mob was to show the price of attack.

"I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU!" Alpha's furious roar came from behind her.

"Of course," flashed through her mind, and she rolled her eyes. "Fifteen to twenty people against two, brilliant idea!"

But Alpha was already charging toward the nearest opponent, like a berserker who'd lost his last shred of reason. His attack provoked the others—now they had no choice but to join the fight.

"Need to close the distance, in the middle of the field with mental effects affecting our movements, we don't stand a chance," the thought barely formed before she was already moving, closing the gap.

Alpha crashed into a group of three guys like a battering ram. First strike—elbow to the temple of the nearest one, a tall brunette. He swayed, but Alpha didn't let him fall, grabbing his collar and using him as a shield against the other two. The second attacker's fist smashed into their own comrade's face.

"Bitch!" yelled the short-haired blond, trying to get around the improvised shield.

Alpha flung the stunned brunette aside and met the blond with a knee to the stomach. But the third—a guy with a shaved head—managed to land a blow from the side, splitting Alpha's lip. Blood sprayed the floor, but Alpha didn't even flinch. Instead, he bared his teeth in a bloody grin and lunged at his attacker.

Sumarel strategy was completely different. Where Alpha was fury and chaos, she was cold calculation. A girl with long black hair tried to grab her hair—classic female move. Sumarel ducked, letting the hand pass overhead, and delivered a precise strike to the solar plexus. The girl doubled over, gasping for air, and Sumarel finished her with an elbow strike to the base of the skull.

Two guys attacked simultaneously from different sides. Sumarel stepped back, making them collide with each other, then struck the nearer one's throat with the edge of her hand. He wheezed, clutching his neck, while she was already turning to the second, aiming her fingers at his eyes.

"Ahhh! Bitch!" he howled, covering his face with his hands.

But there were too many. While she dealt with two, three more surrounded her. And then she saw the glint of metal.

A skinny girl with freckles held a shiv—a crudely made blade wrapped with cloth instead of a handle. The others pressed Sumarel, driving her into a trap.

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"Smart," she noted to herself, deflecting another blow.

The girl with the shiv waited for the moment when two guys simultaneously attacked Sumarel from the flanks. She parried both strikes but was momentarily exposed in front. The shiv slid between her ribs with a wet sound.

The pain was sharp. Sumarel felt the cold metal penetrate her flesh and warm blood begin to soak her clothes. But instead of recoiling or screaming, she stepped forward, closing the distance.

The girl with the shiv hadn't expected this reaction. Her eyes widened in surprise, which immediately turned to pain when Sumarel's elbow crashed into her throat. The crack of breaking cartilage was barely audible over the din of battle, but the result was obvious—the girl collapsed, clutching her neck, from which more gasps escaped.

Sumarel didn't pull the shiv from her chest—that would have led to severe bleeding. Instead, she continued fighting, ignoring the throbbing pain with each movement.

"Hey! She's got a knife in her chest! Finish her off!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Alpha meanwhile had turned into a bloody mess. His face was smashed, left eye swollen shut, blood streaming from his nose. His shirt was torn, exposing a chest covered in bruises. But he kept fighting with the fury of a cornered beast. One opponent lay unconscious with a dislocated arm, another writhed clutching his groin, a third tried to stop the blood from his broken nose.

"More! Come on, more!" Alpha snarled, spitting blood.

Sumarel gradually retreated, parrying attacks and delivering precise counterstrikes. Her goal was the edge of the hall—where the mental magic effect was minimal and where she could keep her head cold rather than rely on distorted instincts.

A young guy with long blond hair tied in a ponytail tried to hit her from the side. She intercepted his arm, twisted it, making him drop his weapon—a piece of rebar. Without wasting time, she grabbed the improvised weapon and drove it into the next attacker's knee. He howled and collapsed, clutching his leg.

But then one of the attackers—a short but wiry guy—pulled out his own shiv. The blade was clearly sharper.

"Let's see how you fight with two holes, bitch," he hissed, circling her.

Sumarel waited for her moment. When he lunged, aiming for her stomach, she shifted aside just enough for the blade to pass by. Her hand slithered along his forearm like a snake, fingers closing on his wrist. A sharp jerk, a crack—and the shiv was in her hand while the guy howled, holding his broken wrist.

But her strength was running out. The wound in her chest throbbed with each heartbeat, breathing became shallow.

"ENOUGH!" a piercing cry suddenly filled the dojo.

The familiar voice made the fighters freeze for a moment. Their leader—that same unremarkable guy—stood beyond the finish line, the first to complete the trial. The combatants instinctively began increasing distance from each other, breathing heavily and assessing damage. The hall plunged into tense silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded and dripping blood.

Perhaps they remembered his connections to important people, or perhaps it was simply that he stood alone beyond the line—the first to pass the trial not far from the Etherean, who watched the carnage with a detached air, as if the chaos didn't concern him at all.

"Whoever starts fighting..." their unremarkable leader cast a fleeting glance at the Etherean, as if seeking approval, "will have a very bad time in the coming days."

He paused, apparently expecting some reaction from the examiner, but he remained impassive.

"So pass the trial, and that's it," the leader finished, shifting his gaze intently from one person to another, making it clear—he was serious and would brook no argument.

The fight ended. Everyone began moving forward, trying not to look at the bodies—the girl with the crushed throat, the guy with his leg twisted at an impossible angle, two more who were no longer breathing.

As they'd already discovered, after halfway—about ten meters—the body stopped obeying, making useless movements. They were lucky no one had initially decided to run this distance—an unpleasant fall would have been guaranteed.

"How did he pass?" the thought flashed by, immediately lost in a sea of others, when Sumarel looked at the unremarkable guy. Unsociable, seemingly weak, he'd surprisingly quickly succeeded, not succumbing to the mob's passion, and during that time passed the trial. Obviously not someone to underestimate, whom she unfortunately hadn't had the chance to get to know.

This time, not holding Alpha's hand and showing no signs of sympathy, she looked at his beaten face and merely closed her eyes.

"Thank you. Go without me, this is a solo trial," she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the pain from the wound.

To her surprise, he didn't insist. Apparently internally satisfied that he'd defended her, and thus no longer needing to prove anything, he nodded and moved forward, only casting a worried glance at her wound. His goal now was to reach the finish second, which he successfully accomplished despite his limp and numerous wounds.

Sumarel was left alone with her thoughts and pain. Each step came with difficulty, the shiv in her chest reminding her of itself with burning pain. But she understood the key to this trial—will. The more you think and the more emotions you experience, the less resource remains for will, which ultimately prevents making the necessary movement.

Emptying her mind, turning herself into an empty vessel driven by the one goal—to reach the end—she slowly but steadily moved forward. Step by step, ignoring the distorted movements, pain, fatigue.

When she finally crossed the finish line third, the others either laying on the floor or not being able to overcome the mental influence, trapped halfway, prisoners of their own fears and desires.

The Etherean watched her with something resembling interest—an emotion she saw on his face.

"Curious," he said quietly. "Very curious."