Heavy sighs, filled with endless disappointment and resentment, rose and fell one after another, weaving together a sorrowful symphony.
"Sigh..."
"I was so close to killing that Transport Insect! Why?! Why did I have to run into an Insect Race patrol right at the end?!"
"I didn’t even glimpse a Level 4 Transport Insect... The bugs in this damn place are just too cunning."
Young faces, once high-spirited and brimming with pride and confidence, were now clouded by thick layers of dejection and defeat.
They silently stared at their Subspace Networks, at the single, cold, glaring red word displayed there: Failed.
Then, they slowly rose to their feet.
They turned, casting a complex glance—a mixture of envy and jealousy—at the "victors" who remained in their seats, their faces either calm or overjoyed.
Then, they turned away. Dragging their feet, like a defeated army, they silently merged into the crowd and headed toward the designated exits of the plaza.
There was no crying, no complaining.
As the top geniuses from their respective planets, they clung to the last vestiges of their pride.
A loss was a loss.
And yet, their desolate silhouettes, their clenched fists, and their tightly bitten lips all spoke of a silent truth: this failure would become a scar they would carry for the rest of their lives.
Qin Feng quietly watched this stunning scene unfold before him.
The vast crowd ebbed away like a receding tide, wave after wave pouring out of the plaza.
Beside him, Tie Mu, Lei Meng, and the teammates who had fought alongside them also stood up in silence, watching these former competitors depart.
They knew full well that if their luck had been just a little worse, if their strength had been just a fraction less, they could have easily been among the ranks of that vast, defeated army.
Soon, the once-packed plaza became much more spacious.
When the last of the eliminated candidates had vanished through the exit and the plaza’s quarantine shields rose once more, everyone couldn’t help but gasp.
On the vast plaza, less than half of the original number of people remained.
Qin Feng did a quick mental calculation.
Of the original million prodigies, only about four hundred thousand were still left on the field.
In just six short months, the first two combat assessments alone had eliminated nearly six hundred thousand geniuses!
An elimination rate of three-fifths!
This number settled like an invisible mountain, weighing heavily on the heart of every survivor.
One had to remember that every single person standing here was at least a General Star-level figure from their home planet, the cream of the crop, one in hundreds of millions.
And yet, this group of heaven’s chosen were cut down like wheat, falling in swathes before they even crossed the threshold of Cannan Star Martial Arts University.
The first two assessment tasks were, as expected, nearly impossible.
Just as everyone was still reeling from the shock of the terrifying elimination rate, the voice of a volunteer Martial Artist rang out, pulling their thoughts back to reality.
"Congratulations, everyone, on successfully passing the most difficult combat screening."
"Next, we will proceed to the third assessment: the Physical Potential Test."
"All candidates, please follow the light markers on the ground and enter the bio-detection pods ahead in an orderly fashion."
As his voice faded, tens of thousands of futuristic, white, cocoon-like bio-detection pods slowly rose from the ground at the front of the plaza. Their doors opened automatically, emitting a soft, guiding light.
The third assessment had begun.
Compared to the first two combat assessments, which were filled with uncertainty and danger, the content of this test was much simpler and more straightforward.
Physical potential.
It was one of the most fundamental and crucial metrics for measuring the upper limits of a Martial Artist’s future growth.
Cannan Star Martial Arts University’s requirement wasn’t particularly harsh—as long as one’s physical potential reached the "Pure-Blooded Human" level or higher, they would pass.
This was because as long as a Pure-Blooded Human was willing to put in the time and didn’t die prematurely, they could almost certainly become a Planet-level Life Form. Of course, factors like opportunities, resources, and combat techniques all had to be taken into account.
Those with stronger combat techniques and more resources would advance faster, perhaps reaching the Planet-level Life Form stage in just a few hundred years.
Those with fewer resources, or who were just unlucky, might take several thousand years to reach the Planet-level Life Form stage.
The average time was about a thousand years.
For the more than four hundred thousand geniuses who had survived the first two brutal rounds of screening, this standard posed almost no difficulty at all.
Everyone knew that this round was less of a "screening" and more of a "baseline assessment," designed to give the instructors a more direct understanding of the overall quality of this year’s student cohort.
"Let’s go. Time for the test."
Tie Mu clapped Lei Meng on the shoulder and was the first to step forward.
The others immediately followed, forming tens of thousands of queues of varying lengths according to the instructions.
Because there were so many pods—tens of thousands operating simultaneously—the testing process was extremely fast.
Almost every few seconds, another batch of students completed the test and emerged from the other side of the pods.
And above each pod, the tested candidate’s potential level was displayed in real time.
This transformed what would have been a tedious test into a unique kind of "genius showcase."