The dawn of the second day brought no solace, but only illuminated the despairing landscape once more.
The chill of last night had not yet completely dissipated from my bones when the scorching heat of the day eagerly took over this wasteland once again.
As physical strength continues to be depleted and drinking water resources become nearly exhausted, conflicts become more frequent and intense, fueled by resource scarcity and survival pressures.
On a relatively open, gravelly, dry riverbed, a typical conflict broke out.
A small group of five bottom-hive youths, along with another makeshift team of about seven or eight people, mainly middle-hive workers and a down-on-his-luck nobleman's son, discovered almost simultaneously a small puddle of murky water with obvious radiation markings in the crevice between the rocks.
"Get out of the way! We saw this puddle first!" The leader of the bottom hive was a boy with old scars on his face. He was hunched over like a wild beast ready to pounce. The dagger in his hand trembled slightly from being gripped tightly, reflecting the dim light of the day.
"Bullshit! What's this about first come, first served? Whoever has the strongest fist gets to go!" From the Necromunda group, a broad-shouldered young man named Brent stepped forward. His bare arms were bulging with muscles, and his voice was hoarse from dehydration and anger.
His companions immediately dispersed in a semi-circle, their eyes fierce.
Without further warning or negotiation, driven by the near-limit of thirst and the primal desire to reach the finish line, the battle erupted instantly like ignited explosives.
Shadows mingled, and roars and cries of pain replaced words.
A poor-quality dagger slices through the air, flashing cold light, relying more on brute force for thrusts and swings.
The robe was easily torn, revealing a emaciated body beneath, emaciated from hunger and exhaustion.
Blood began to splatter, landing on the gray gravel and rocks, leaving dark red stains.
The battle was brief but brutal.
The bottom-hive youths were more ruthless, adept at using terrain and cunning, but the middle-hive group had the advantage in numbers and sheer physical strength, especially Brent, who stood at the forefront like a rock, knocking down an opponent with a heavy shoulder charge, even though he also cut his own arm.
Ultimately, at the cost of two people being cut by daggers and their sleeves soaked in blood, the Necromunda group successfully drove away the five members of the Dichao group.
The victors did not cheer; they merely panted heavily, watching warily as the losers disappeared behind the pile of rocks. They then immediately swarmed around the puddle, greedily drawing water from any available container. Some even lay down and drank deeply, ignoring the strong metallic smell and radiation warnings in the water.
Similar small-scale conflicts continued to emerge like festering wounds on the second day of the journey.
Bloody fights can erupt over a cave that offers a moment of shade, over a few stray, hard-shelled radiant cockroaches, or even just for a better spot on the path ahead.
The rules tacitly condoned all of this, and the wasteland amplified the most primal survival instincts of humanity to the extreme.
However, this somber picture is not only filled with bloodshed and darkness.
A glimmer of light occasionally flickers in dire circumstances.
The following evening, Groom discovered a nearly abandoned young nobleman in the shadow of a weathered rock pillar.
His robe was torn to shreds and stained with filth.
His face was ashen, his lips were cracked and bleeding, his eyes were unfocused and lifeless, and he lay limp on the ground, too weak to even lift his arm.
Groom stopped and stared at him silently for a few seconds.
His face, roughened by wind and sand, showed no expression; he simply looked up again at the seemingly endless wasteland ahead.
Finally, he squatted down and untied the leather water pouch from his waist—it was almost empty.
He carefully lifted the nobleman's head and slowly poured the last few mouthfuls of water, mixed with sand and with a strange taste, into the man's chapped lips.
The young man's Adam's apple bobbed, and he made a swallowing sound that was almost a sob.
Then, without a word, Groom rested his arms on his broad shoulders, supporting most of his weight, and continued walking slowly but steadily toward his goal.
Meanwhile, Cesare Visconti is also using his own methods to survive.
He managed to gather three or four companions, who were also from the upper-class city but whose physical strength was nearing its limit, thanks to the vague concepts of class and exchange of interests instilled in him by his aristocratic education and a lot of empty promises about "future returns from the Visconti family".
They formed a small, fragile group.
Cesare was in charge of making decisions—though most of them were flawed judgments based on book knowledge rather than practical experience—and they shared the few, barely edible radiated lichens they found or the multi-legged arthropods whose shells they painstakingly peeled open, while also taking turns sipping the precious drops of water.
Cesare would occasionally try to boost morale with a deliberately calm voice, talking about the bright future after passing the test, trying to use illusory hope to offset the physical pain, and struggling to maintain the group's cohesion and motivation to move forward.
Kax, on the other hand, continued to adhere to his lone wolf philosophy.
He completely avoided all paths and crowds that could lead to entanglement, moving like a gray streak of smoke between ruins and shadows.
He survives by catching slow-moving mutant lizards in rock crevices or by digging up bloated, water-rich plant roots.
His gaze was sharp and focused, fixed only on what was ahead, regarding all other candidates as potential dangers or fleeting resources to be exploited, never investing any unnecessary emotion or trust.
In the distant command center of Dorne's Spear fortress, all of this was coldly observed and recorded.
High-altitude surveillance probes silently swept across the sky, while hidden sensors scattered throughout the wasteland captured even more subtle movements and vital signs data.
On countless holographic split screens, the candidates' movement trajectories, heart rate, body temperature changes, and real-time images of key areas are displayed in real time.
Sigismund's gaze, as cold as his power armor, slowly swept over the screens displaying conflict, looting, and even the near-death experiences, which were indifferently ignored.
His face showed no emotion, as if he were watching a drama that had nothing to do with him.
In his view, this is not pointless cruelty, but an absolutely necessary selection process.
The future of the Astartes, the Empire's sharpest sword and strongest shield, requires no weakness, hesitation, or superfluous compassion.
Only individuals who can maintain a clear goal and an iron will under such extreme pressure are worthy of investing in those precious genetic seeds.
Osiris' massive mechanical body stood in front of the main control panel, and the scarlet optical lens swept across the waterfall-like data stream with superhuman efficiency.
His focus is more complex and systematic.
He not only records the speed and position of the leading group, but also pays attention to the vital signs of those who have fallen behind but have not given up. He analyzes individuals who demonstrate special adaptability, calm judgment, or leadership potential in extreme environments, or who can effectively coordinate others in a small area.
For him, genetic compatibility was merely a necessary biological threshold. The pure willpower, decisiveness in critical moments, and most fundamental survival instincts demonstrated in this brutal wasteland trial were the key factors that ultimately determined who would obtain the seed that symbolized power and responsibility.
Data is outlining a deeper contour of the soul that goes beyond the genetic map.