Monster Evolution System: I became a Rat-Chapter 80: Slug Fest

After Kirata’s escape, the city was placed under lockdown to search for any trace of him. However, as a week passed with no results, the authorities eventually abandoned the search. Even Rosacer was allowed to leave the station, as there no longer seemed to be any danger to him.

Rosacer stepped out of the station, his coat gleaming under the sunlight.

"Looks like he made it out," he muttered.

If Rosacer wished, he could track Kirata using Oblivion and dispatch Arcis. Now that Kirata was beyond the city, it would not matter even if Arcis brought destruction upon the ocean. No one would pursue him.

But for now, Rosacer chose otherwise.

Instead, he planned to visit the Adventurer Guild. The time for his examination had arrived.

Today was the 30th of January, 2040. He found the date oddly coincidental, as the calendar closely resembled that of his own world.

Rosacer questioned several stationed guards and officers about the governing system. From them, he learned that the jurisdiction of a single police station extended over the entire city.

To him, everything seemed inefficient, even outright foolish. The city’s planning itself felt flawed, as if someone had deliberately turned a dial and made everyone duller.

A question arose in his mind. What had happened after the war? It had to be the war that caused this. If not, then what else could it have been?

Lost in thought, he walked toward the guild. A board displayed its name in Ermanji: Khamosh.

When he stepped inside, the guild was crowded. Lines had formed before the counters, and everyone looked busy and preoccupied. He stopped a random person and asked about the test for new registrations. The man pointed toward the back, where a guard was inspecting people as they passed through.

Rosacer joined the line along with others who had come for registration. Unlike him, everyone else carried a weapon. Some bore swords, others bows and arrows, while a few wore lavish artifacts. The most common weapon was the sword, and nearly half of them adorned heirlooms of their own.

He overheard one of the newcomers boasting that he had been trained by a Slayer. At his words, those around him reacted with astonishment, praising him, while a few suspected he was merely bluffing.

Unknown to Rosacer, he asked the person standing in front of him, "What’s a Slayer?"

Upon hearing the question, the stranger appeared more astonished than Rosacer himself. He whispered through clenched teeth, "You don’t know who the Slayers are?"

"No." Rosacer replied, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice at the man’s tone.

The man noticed it and raised his hand in a calming gesture. "It’s alright. I was just surprised."

Then he began to explain. "The Slayers were once a group of assassins who lived in the eastern continent. They were called Head Hunters because of their tradition of taking heads as trophies. Even after migrating to the western continent, they kept that tradition alive. Now, here in the west, they are known as the Slayers."

Rosacer remembered the migration and the role these Head Hunters had played during the war. They had been used by the Rise Kingdom to launch their campaign against the eastern continent itself.

He nodded in return.

Seeing Rosacer’s expression, the man said, "You should visit the library sometime. Eren would help you out."

He paused.

"If you don’t know Ermanji, ask the mages around. They will help you for a couple of coins. If possible, use Ernest Coins. Mages love them."

He made an expressive gesture with his hand. "As a matter of fact, mages love everything about Ernest. A fair trade might help you learn something of real value."

As he spoke, the line began to move again. Slowly, people passed through the entrance leading to the back of the guild.

Soon, Rosacer’s turn came. The guard looked him up and down, called out his number, nine, and then waved him through.

Rosacer stepped past the entrance. Light fell sharply upon his eyes. He called the system inwardly and summoned an item.

An obsidian blade appeared in his hand. He slid it into an inner pocket of his coat.

Before him lay a small, circular arena. Standing within it was a tall man with a handlebar mustache. His frame was gaunt, his expression hardened by years of discipline. His head was completely bald, and his blue eyes shimmered like polished gems. Had it not been for the bald head, he might have resembled a distant, handsome prince.

He wore no armor. From his presence alone, it was clear he was the test taker, the instructor.

The man roared as the last of the line ended and the doors closed behind Rosacer. He was the final entrant.

"Everyone, attention. I am your instructor for today, Michael Asmond."

"The test will take place in three phases. First phase." He paused, scanning the group.

After a moment, he roared again, "A slug fight. Enter the arena. Anyone who cannot stand or is thrown out of the arena will be disqualified."

"And whoever disqualifies another the most by throwing them out or rendering them unable to move will skip the last two phases entirely and be directly appointed as an Adventurer of Vermis."

"If there are any questions, you have ten minutes to ask." He finished and looked over the crowd.

His gaze was piercing.

A silence followed.

And no one raised a hand. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Some exchanged nervous glances between themselves, but no question was raised in the end.

When the time passed, the candidates slowly began to gather toward the arena.

When everyone was inside the arena, Michael raised his hand and shouted, "Begin."

Just then, chaos erupted. Magic spells flew, swords clattered, and shields were banged against skulls.

People rushed forward without thinking. Someone tried to cast a spell and failed, the magic sputtering uselessly before vanishing. A sword slipped from trembling hands and clattered against the ground. A shield struck a man in the head, not as an attack, but because both of them lost balance.

Rosacer stood at the corner, injecting mana into the Daken knife over time and delivering small cuts and doses to anyone who came near him. The poison was too strong most of the time, leaving the targets in seizures. Medics and healers had to come and rescue them, and soon after witnessing this, others did not try to approach Rosacer.

The instructor from the sidelines watched.

He muttered, "A Slayer’s knife. How did that guy get a hold of it?"

A medic beside him replied, "Maybe he is the renowned student of the Slayer."

Michael scoffed. "No, it’s not him. The student is there." He pointed toward a man wearing assassin-like garb. The man used nimble and quick steps, dodging and moving between enemies, his strikes aimed at the back of the neck. His skill showed that he was the real deal, the true instinct and style of a Slayer.

But even he did not possess a Slayer’s knife. He was fighting with a shadow knife.

Slowly, the number of participants thinned. One by one, fighters were dragged out, carried away, or helped to their feet by medics. By the time the dust settled, only seven people remained standing in the arena.

The instructor raised his voice.

"Over!"

The remaining fighters froze, chests heaving, hands trembling as the tension finally broke. Some looked around in confusion, others in quiet relief.

The instructor scanned the arena, his gaze sharp and calculating. Then he announced, "The person with the most knockouts is Armen Squach."

A low murmur spread through the spectators.

The assassin stepped forward slowly.

He did not look proud, nor did he celebrate. His movements were controlled, his face calm, as if this result had been expected. He followed the instructor out of the arena without a word.

The rest of the participants were dismissed and instructed to return in two days for the next phase.

Rosacer exhaled quietly and turned toward the exit.

No one stopped him.

The medic and helpers saw the whole fight and knew he wasn’t really hurt, so they kept their distance, partly because they were also a little scared.

He left the building unnoticed, his steps steady, his expression unreadable.

Behind him, the remaining participants exchanged uneasy glances. Fear lingered on their faces, thick and unspoken.

"That monster didn’t make it..." one of the warriors muttered. His legs were lined with shallow cuts, the marks left by the assassin’s swift movements.

If it weren’t for his shield, now lying broken on the ground, he might have lost his legs to Armen’s earlier attack.

Behind him a voice rang out, "Yeah..." a mage replied, swallowing hard. "He was standing by the side the whole time." His robes were half burned, blackened from his earlier misfire.

One of the others spoke up, voice low. "I hope there isn’t another fight between participants. I don’t want to go against that monster."

Another shook his head. "I think it’s just his knife. That thing is too strong. Maybe he isn’t strong himself."

The last of them broke, his voice cracking. "I don’t even want to think about it. If I have to fight him, I’ll quit."