Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

The effect was instant.

Outrage erupted like wildfire across the arena.

“What?!”

“Ten? All at once?!”

“That’s insane!”

The man’s response was immediate. He raised a single hand—and unleashed a subtle pulse of mana.

Silence.

The uproar died abruptly as the pressure in the air spiked. Conversations were cut off mid-sentence. It wasn’t an aggressive aura, but it pressed down enough to still the crowd.

Michael didn’t even flinch. To him, it was like a breeze.

The man’s eyes narrowed, his voice now sharper. “Did you think this was a game? A fairground contest? You’re here seeking rewards from the Duke of Evermoon. Do not expect them to come cheap.”

He let the silence linger before continuing. “If you’re afraid of death, you still have three minutes to leave. No shame. But once the trial begins, that door closes.”

Many heads turned toward the exit. Some hesitated. A few stood. When it became clear the man wasn’t bluffing, dozens more joined them. The clamor of departing footsteps echoed through the stands.

But Michael didn’t move.

Nor did Renn.

And neither were alone.

Still, the arena looked notably more empty afterward.

Once the last group exited, the man gave a faint nod of satisfaction. “Now then. With that out of the way, let me make something clear.” His voice grew calm again, but with an undertone of cunning. “Though this step is dangerous, you are not alone. Lady Serel and I will be overseeing the event. If something… unacceptable is about to occur, we will intervene.”

He paused, then added with a faint smile, “However, if we do intervene to save you, consider it an automatic disqualification. Strength means surviving without a guardian.”

At this, Michael’s lips twitched faintly.

“Cunny bastard,” Renn whispered beside him.

Michael let out the faintest breath of agreement.

The man’s expression remained calm, almost bored. “If any of you also believe the Duke will hand out equipment or rewards like charity… then perhaps it’s best you leave now. You weren’t forced to come here.”

There were movements in the audience—shuffling feet, sideways glances, subtle murmurs—but it didn’t escalate into another uproar. Everyone understood the implication.

The man gave it a few moments after more people left then raised his hand again. “Now then. In just a few minutes, the first trial will begin. With reduced numbers, we need to confirm who’s participating.”

What followed was slow and methodical.

One by one, number tags were verified.Once again, they saw the same middle-aged man and youth in red robes from earlier. Both nodded without expression and moved on.

It took almost half an hour for the entire process to complete.

After the final participant was recorded, the announcer finally spoke again. “We now have a total of 1,033 participants. However, as stated before, only one hundred will proceed to the next stage. That means thirty-three of you will pass this round… if you’re lucky.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

The middle-aged man stepped forward once again, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The first trial begins now,” he declared, his voice steady and cold. “If your number is called, step forward onto the stage.”

Numbers were then being called.

“023. 114. 298. 306…”

The numbers continued, each one drawing murmurs or gasps from the crowd.

One by one, youths began to stand and make their way down toward the central stage—some with nerves in their eyes, others brimming with confidence.

Michael watched closely as the list continued.

“…512. 649. 700. 701…”

As more numbers were called, Renn began to lean forward, anticipation on his face. But by the time the final number was spoken, neither Michael nor Renn had been chosen.

Renn leaned back, breathing out. “Hah. Lucky us.”

Michael didn’t respond right away. His eyes remained on the group gathering below. After a moment, he said quietly, “Maybe.”

Renn blinked. “What do you mean maybe?”

Michael’s gaze was steady. “It’s not bad to sit out the first round. We get to observe.”

A hundred youths now stood on the main platform, spread out in rows of ten. Michael’s eyes swept over them.

Some looked older, well-trained, even arrogant. Others stood nervously, gripping weapons they clearly weren’t comfortable with.

Renn followed his gaze. “You think any of them stand a chance?”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Hard to say. Some look strong… but looks don’t decide strength.”

“True,” Renn murmured, nodding in agreement. “Still…”

He hesitated, then turned to Michael again. “There’s something I’ve been wondering. What if someone’s strong, but they get ganged up with weak teammates? This trail feels unfair.”

His words hadn’t even fully left his mouth before the middle aged man spoke again.

The man’s voice echoed across the arena once more, cutting through the thick silence.

“If you’re worried that weak teammates will drag you down—don’t be.”

His tone was sharp.

“This isn’t a test of teamwork. We are not asking you to win as a group.”

He let that sink in before continuing. “Ten minutes. That’s all you need. Hold out for ten minutes, and you’ll have proven yourself. If you can’t endure for that long without crumbling, then you don’t belong in the next round.”

Murmurs returned, though far more subdued now.

“And yes,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “if you kill the monsters, all the better. In that case, your entire group qualifies. But that’s not the goal. The goal is to showcase your capabilities.”

His eyes scanned the hundred youths on the platform below. “Stand out.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He understood now.

This wasn’t just about fighting.

This was about performance.

They just needed to prove, no.

They just needed to show.

Yes.

That was the word.

They just needed to show they had intermediate rank abilities at least.

If this is the case then it should really pick out who and who actually had the required strength requirement.

In the case someone was able to kill the monster quickly, then it was good luck to the others for having a good teammate or two.