Talent couldn't be judged easily.
Some people had obvious talents, like Celeste from the Veritas Clan, but not everyone's talent stemmed from a great bloodline, physique, or affinity.
Talent came in many forms, to the point where it was rarer to find someone without any talents than someone with one.
Therefore, Damien didn't make his tests where only the strong could win. It wasn't a place where obvious talents would shine, for those didn't need his light.
The three tests were based on three aspects Damien considered important for troops under him. They didn't have to fit all of them perfectly to be accepted. They didn't even have to pass one. But everything from the way they went about their tests to the order they took them in gave Damien ideas on who fit his requirements.
Hershel's first test was soul.
His body and mind disappeared, and his soul was temporarily erased of all ego.
It was then placed in a new body, the body of a man with great power.
When Hershel opened his eyes, he was left with nothing more than his base instincts.
"Where am I?"
He didn't stutter anymore, for the fears of his mind were gone.
However, his curious tone and slight wariness towards everything were still absolutely present.
He stood up, getting off the rickety straw bed he was lying on, and walked out of the small, wooden room he was in.
He found himself in a city, bustling with life in every way.
Stalls lined the streets selling assorted snacks and markets were open everywhere, crowded with people going about their days.
Hershel walked through the city without knowing what to think. He didn't know who he was or where he was, but his first instinct was to look around and see what he could gather.
But what was there to gather?
No matter who he asked, nobody knew who he was. No matter what he did, nobody came after him.
It was like his presence only half existed in this world.
But despite his state, he could still feel it.
The mana coursing through his veins.
It was plentiful. He felt like he could level the city with a single flick of his finger.
It was calm now, flowing smoothly like a stream, but the second he decided to mobilize it, it would become a weapon of absolute destruction.
That ferociousness hidden in the mana was enough of an indicator of the type of life he lived.
But he didn't remember it, nor could he associate himself with such a persona.
He walked until the sun went over the horizon. He didn't have money, but a few kinder stall owners assisted him and gave him meals when they noticed his aimless expression.
The sun came and went to show the passing of time. Hershel continued to wander the city, and eventually, his face became one remembered by the residents.
He didn't do much. He spent every day simply wandering, going about the same aimless routine, but something about him drew people towards him.
He developed a slight attachment to the place.
It was a good city filled with good feeling.
But the power rushing through his veins kept begging him to take it down.
Every time he saw injustice, every time he saw unfairness, he realized he was above these people.
Because the second he unleashed himself, everything here could be his.
Any problem could be solved, any woman could be his, and any luxury became dirt.
He felt the itch in his fingers.
The itch to dominate.
The itch to kill.
BOOM!
A loud bang broke him out of his unstable state.
His head snapped in that direction, and he immediately saw the massive fire enveloping the guard walls.
Before he knew what was happening, he was already rushing over.
Past families desperately protecting their children, past homes being engulfed in flames, and past the bodies of guards who died in combat, he ran.
Until he reached the edge of the guard wall, the opening that had been created by the explosion.
'They're fighting. No, they're being massacred.'
The guards were surely mana users. They were powerful enough to be tasked with protecting such a big city, but they weren't nearly enough to fight those who attacked them.
'The enemy group has roughly 100 members, but they are all powerful enough to slaughter the people here in no time.'
He didn't realize how fast he summarized the situation.
The city wasn't strong enough to fight these people back, even if there were only one hundred of them.
He had the power to fight them and win if he wanted to, but he would probably sustain critical injuries in the process.
He was left with three options.
He could fight. He could protect the city and the people living within it, if only at the cost of his health.
He could run. The city would be destroyed and the people would either die or be enslaved, but he would live.
Or he could dominate. The city would be injured but not conquered, the enemy force would be eliminated, and he'd gain control over the people.
But the last option required him to throw away his morals and conquer through fear, becoming a ruler by subjugating and plundering everything the city had.
There was no other option. Hershel could feel it instinctively. He wasn't allowed to choose a fourth path.
He didn't want to run.
His soul was itching for blood, so he had to choose either the first or third choice.
Did he want to be righteous, or did he want to be corrupt?
Whichever one he chose, the people would still live as he intended. The only difference was the amount of power he held, the kind of person he would be.
This moment felt definitive. He felt like he had to choose without an ounce of hesitation.
It was difficult.
With the power he had, the third option seemed tempting. The more he thought about it, the more the feeling of power and domination seduced him.
His greed reached an all-time high. He forgot about the people who'd treated him well, and he'd forgotten about the city where he made his home after losing his everything.
He only thought about personal gains.
The opportunity to become great.
The opportunity to have everything.
He stepped forward.
His choice had been made.
"I…"
Hershel spoke out loud for no particular reason other than his own satisfaction.
He drew the sword that appeared on his hip before he even realized it wasn't meant to be there.
"...will fight."
He would not abandon his morals for greatness. He wanted blood, but he didn't want it from innocents.
Something in his soul was absolutely repulsed by the thought.
He would fight for the people. He would be injured, sure, but it was fine as long as he didn't die.
His feet followed his will. He moved one step after the other, until he was already in the midst of the enemy, his sword already slashing.
The cuts and gashes accumulated on his body. His blood painted the ground. But his enemies fell one by one. Their heads accompanied his blood.
He practically lost sight of reality within the pain, killing just to kill, only regaining his senses when the deed was already done.
He kneeled in a river of blood, a hundred headless bodies surrounding his person.
And as his blood dripped down to join theirs in a picture of brutality, he collapsed to the ground.
The last thing he saw as his consciousness faded was the sight of tens of guards rushing towards his falling body.
