The cold, impersonal instructions echoed through the loudspeakers throughout the camp, devoid of any emotion, clearly reaching the ears of every candidate.
"The first round of testing officially begins. All candidates, immediately remove all non-issued equipment and items from your body. Any form of additional implant will result in immediate disqualification upon detection."
The moment the order was given, the pre-deployed scanning arrays in the camp were activated simultaneously, and invisible detection waves swept across the gathered crowd.
Several servo-controlled skulls are suspended low in the air, their sensors emitting a faint hum to aid in accurate identification.
A brief commotion broke out, but it quickly subsided under the silent and dignified gaze of the Black Templar warriors.
The candidates began to move, placing their personal belongings at their feet—from the nobles' exquisite ornaments and hidden small weapons to the various tools and rudimentary electronic devices that the gangsters had concealed on their person.
The real elimination occurs during the implant testing stage.
As the scanning beam swept across some of the candidates' bodies, data interfaces implanted in their wrists or behind their necks, subcutaneous enhancements, or sensors disguised as scars triggered alarms.
The supervising technical priest apprentice calmly recorded the numbers, while the friars soldiers stepped forward and gestured for those marked to leave the line.
Most of those eliminated came from noble families in the upper hives or gangs in the lower hives that possessed certain resources.
Some of them turned pale instantly, while others tried to argue that the implants were "essential medical devices" or "family tradition."
However, all the appeals seemed pale and powerless in the face of the Mechanic's cold scan data and the Black Templar's unwavering gaze.
Rules are rules.
Approximately one hundred candidates, filled with resentment and humiliation, were led away from the camp in full view of the crowd.
Their trials ended before they even began.
The remaining candidates were still numerous, but the atmosphere had clearly become more tense.
They were asked to take off their original clothes and put on rough gray robes provided by the camp.
This fabric rubs against the skin and offers almost no protection.
Then, each person received an identical dagger.
The dagger is made of ordinary metal, with limited sharpness, and feels heavy and clumsy in the hand. It is more like a tool than a weapon.
"The test details," a Black Templar warrior stepped forward, his voice booming like a rock clattering through his helmet's speaker, "Cross the radioactive wasteland ahead and reach the designated coordinates. Straight-line distance: 100 kilometers. Time limit: 72 standard hours."
A huge holographic projection unfolded in front of the camp, clearly marking the start and finish lines.
Between them lies a vast, desolate area marked in deep yellow, representing high radiation, strong sandstorms, and unknown dangers.
"During this period, you may not seek or accept any non-designated assistance outside of the camp. Mutual assistance is permitted, as is attacking each other. Ultimately, the only criterion is whether you reach the finish line within the time limit. The process is up to you."
The rules are brutal and direct.
Survival and arrival are the only measures.
Cooperation or competition, even plunder and betrayal, have all become possible means.
This wasteland is not only a testing ground for the environment, but also a purgatory for humanity.
"Timer, start."
There was no extra encouragement or warning.
As those two words fell, the camp's exit barrier slowly rose, revealing the dim, lifeless world outside.
A scorching wind, carrying sand and radioactive dust, rushed in instantly, causing the candidates' robes to flutter wildly.
A brief pause.
Immediately, the crowd surged out of the camp like a flood bursting its banks.
Nearly 4,900 figures dressed in identical gray robes rushed into that hostile wasteland.
Initial chaos was inevitable.
With a large number of people pouring in at the same time, collisions and shoving inevitably occurred due to the lack of organization and clear routes.
Some physically strong individuals or those with experience surviving in the bottom hive quickly rushed to the front, attempting to gain the upper hand and create distance.
Many others seemed somewhat lost, either following the crowd or trying to find seemingly reliable companions.
Cesare Visconti struggles to maintain his balance in the crowd.
The rough cloth robe rubbed against his delicate skin, and the wind and sand made it almost impossible for him to open his eyes.
He gripped the cheap dagger tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.
With his family's guards and instructors not around, he truly realized the meaning of "relying solely on himself."
He forced himself to calm down and recalled the survival tips that Instructor von Kalk had given him on the fly: observe the environment, find cover, and plan a route.
He avoided the most crowded direction and chose a path that seemed to bypass some of the rugged terrain, and began his arduous journey.
Kax felt as if he had returned to a familiar environment.
He kept his body low to the ground, using the undulating terrain and the dilapidated metal structure as cover, moving quickly and silently.
Instead of rushing to the front, he keenly observed the surrounding crowd and environment.
He held the dagger behind his arm with his hand behind his back, ready to deal with any unexpected situation.
His goal was clear: to survive and reach the finish line.
Any person or thing that gets in the way is an obstacle that needs to be removed.
With his exceptional stamina, Groom steadily kept up in the middle to rear of the leading group.
He didn't have many complicated thoughts; he simply identified the general direction of the finish line and started running forward.
The endurance honed by Necromunda's arduous labor came in handy at this moment. He breathed steadily and walked with force, ignoring the sand slapping against his face and the faint, pungent smell of radioactive dust in the air.
The wasteland environment quickly revealed its harsh side.
The ground beneath our feet was uneven and soft, with hidden cracks or loose gravel.
Sandstorms whipped up by strong winds frequently struck, causing visibility to plummet and temperatures to fluctuate wildly.
The sparse vegetation is twisted and withered, and the occasional skeleton of a large mutated creature serves as a warning of potential threats.
Less than two hours after departure, the first conflict occurred.
A dispute arose among several candidates from different underworld gangs over ownership of a relatively secure shelter, which quickly escalated into a brawl.
The sounds of clashing, roaring, and screaming from the inferior daggers were particularly jarring in the sandstorm.
In the end, one person was stabbed and fell to the ground. The victor quickly plundered the wounded man's meager supplies and then disappeared into the rubble.
No one stopped to offer assistance; the other candidates either walked around indifferently or quickened their pace to leave this place of trouble.
The rules allow for attacks, and the wasteland amplifies the darker side of human nature.