Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

### I hope the planned pace is a bit better now.

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Maybe it was because he was never the first to come out in the previous trials, Michael was a little taken aback.

But it didn’t take long for him to recover.

Immediately he stood up.

His grip tightened around his spear and he continued listening to the commentator.

“Second member… Frell!”

A lean youth with sun-darkened skin and mismatched boots stood up beside Michael. He gave a short, awkward nod. A commoner, from the look of him—one of the quiet ones.

“Third—Rago Varun of the Earth Dragon Kingdom!”

A tall, broad-shouldered boy with gold-threaded armor and a curved blade strapped to his back stepped forward confidently. He didn’t spare Michael or Frell a glance.

“And lastly… Tyran Vell, also of the Earth Dragon Kingdom!”

This one was smaller, wiry, his silver-plated gauntlets humming faintly with energy. He joined the other three in silence.

Their moment had come.

They stepped through the entrance hall.

The gates creaked open.

As one, they stepped out into the light.

The crowd greeted them with cheers.

Several people in the audience with tools that looked like telescopes quickly zoomed in on the entrance.

The four strode side by side—two Earth Dragon elites, one rugged commoner, and a youth clad in black armor, his long dark hair drifting slightly in the breeze.

The commentator leaned in, smiling like he was holding onto a secret he could finally share.

“Well, well, well…” he said, voice thick with mischief. He raised his hand and pointed directly toward the young man at the front.

“You there, in the black armor—what’s your name, young sir?”

Michael stopped.

He took a small step forward, raised his head—and spoke.

“Mic Nor,” he said clearly, voice low but firm.

The crowd hushed slightly at the name.

And then came the commentator’s grin.

“Mic Nor, is it? Let me tell you all a little secret,” he said, his voice dropping into a hushed tone—loud enough to echo through the arena, but soft enough to feel conspiratorial.

He turned slightly, his gaze now focused in on Michael’s face.

His pale skin looked almost polished beneath the sunlight. Delicate features—beautiful, even.

“A face as fair as a noble lady,” the commentator mused aloud. “Skin so pale it’s like he’s never stepped outside. Hair like a painting. If this was a beauty pageant, I daresay he’d steal the crown from half the princesses.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

But then—the tone shifted.

“Ah, but don’t be fooled,” the commentator continued, now more serious. “You see, despite looking like a porcelain doll, this one here? You shouldn’t underestimate him.”

The crowd leaned in.

“In fact, between you and me… I’ve heard whispers. And not just the idle kind. No, no, no—serious whispers. That this boy in black might just be faster than our little shadow dancer from earlier.”

A roar broke out from the commoner stands.

“Faster than Lige?!”

Now the gossip began.

From one end of the stands to the other, whispers turned to gasps, which turned to full-blown chatter.

But it wasn’t just the commoners.

Up in the noble balconies, the atmosphere darkened.

Some sat still, brows furrowed in thought.

Others whispered to aides.

They’d heard about what happened to Leonard yesterday.

Rumor said it had been a very effortless win.

And now the boy who had done it stood calmly in the arena.

“Mic Nor,” one noble lord muttered. “So he’s real.”

Another nodded slowly. “I didn’t believe the rumors. But if it’s true—”

Among them, a few had even darker expressions.

Because they’d heard other things.

Those lords watched Michael now with narrowed eyes.

Today, they would find out if the whispers were lies.

Down in the arena, Michael barely reacted.

He simply stepped back into position with his squad, spear resting against his shoulder, expression unchanged.

To him, it was simple.

Talk was talk.

Now was the time to act.

The commentator clapped his hands together.

“Alright, alright! Enough secrets, let’s get to know the rest of the squad, shall we?”

He swept his hand toward the others.

First was Frell.

The lean youth took a hesitant step forward. His boots scraped slightly on the stone floor, and he gave a brief, almost bashful nod to the crowd.

“Frell…,” he said. “I’m… uh, here to give it my best.”

The crowd gave a few encouraging claps, mostly from the commoner stands.

There was something honest in his awkwardness that earned a smattering of support.

The commentator grinned. “Ah, the humble ones always surprise us! Let’s hope that quiet spirit hides a sharp blade!”

Then came Rago.

He stepped forward like he owned the arena. Head held high, golden armor glinting under the sun, his sword resting against his back like a sleeping beast.

“Rago Varun, Earth Dragon Kingdom. I’m not here to lose.”

The commentator let out a soft whistle. “Well, well. Confident! And why not? A blade that heavy usually comes with the strength to back it up!”

Then Tyran Vell stepped forward.

His silver gauntlets sparked faintly as he flexed his fingers.

“Tyran.”

The line was sharp—almost threatening.

It drew a mix of reactions.

The noble stands, however, simply watched, unmoved.

The commentator chuckled. “Ohoho! Looks like the Earth Dragon Kingdom didn’t come to play today, folks! Fire and frost in one squad!”

He stepped back, throwing his arms wide.

“And there you have it! Frell, Rago, Tyran… and Mic Nor.”

He turned toward the crowd, his voice rising again.

“…Let’s hear it for Team B!”

Cheers, whistles, and scattered applause burst across the coliseum.

From the far end of the arena, the youth in red robes stepped forward once more—his expression calm, his posture precise—as he reached into the fourth bowl.

“All right,” he said, voice magically projected across the stadium. “Representing Group D…”

A hushed silence swept through the stands.

The youth pulled a slip of paper and unfurled it smoothly.

“First—Aren Valcrest of House Valcrest.”

“Second!” the youth in red called, drawing the next name. “Mike Deneil of House Deneil!”

The third name came quickly.

“Dren Voss of House Voss.”

“And finally…” the youth in red reached into the final bowl. “Cael Rynth. Of House Rynth.”