On the third day, when the star rose again, it shone upon a team on the verge of collapse.
The final twelve hours are no longer a contest of physical strength, but the ultimate test of willpower.
The intense marches, lack of water, and hunger over the past few days have pushed the physical strength of most candidates to their limits.
Their bodies seemed to be nothing but empty shells, each step they took was like squeezing the last drop of water from a dried-up well.
The simple boots on his feet were worn through, and the wounds mixed with blood and pus rubbed against the rough soles repeatedly. Every step was accompanied by a clear and piercing pain, leaving intermittent dark red marks on the sand behind him.
Dehydration caused chapped lips, a throat that felt like it was being sanded, and difficulty swallowing.
Vision began to blur, tinnitus rang, and some candidates even experienced hallucinations, muttering to themselves at the empty sand dunes or mistaking distant rocks for an oasis.
A sense of despair spread like a plague among the staggering crowd.
Some could no longer hold on, their knees buckled and they collapsed to the ground, letting out suppressed, tearful gasps. Their eyes stared blankly at the gray-yellow sky, letting time slip away, passively accepting their fate of being eliminated.
However, even amidst these ruins of will, many more embers continue to burn tenaciously.
Despite his cloudy, bloodshot eyes and swaying body, something still burned deep within his pupils—perhaps a pure yearning for extraordinary power, perhaps an extreme obsession with escaping his original social class, or perhaps simply an innate, stubborn refusal to bow to fate.
It was this very thing that enabled them to squeeze out the last bit of energy from their muscle fibers, dragging their heavy bodies—which seemed not to belong to them—in a slow but resolute, almost crawling motion, inch by inch, moving forward.
Fall down, struggle to get up, fall down again, get up again... repeating this cycle until the end, or until you completely lose consciousness.
The finish line was set on a flat sandy area outside an abandoned mining outpost, with a white lime line drawing a glaring boundary against the dim yellow sky.
Several Black Templar Astartes stood solemnly behind the line like steel statues, their crimson visors gleaming with an inorganic light in the shadow of their helmets.
Their heavy power armor was covered in sand and dust, but it did not diminish their majesty in the slightest.
Several mechanic priests were operating portable testing equipment nearby, while the servo skull hovered in the air, emitting a low hum.
When the clock struck sixty-two hours and seventeen minutes, the first figure stumbled and rushed across the white line.
It's Kax.
His gray robe was now just tattered strips, his exposed skin was covered with abrasions and bloodstains, and his face was covered with a thick crust of dust and sweat.
Only those eyes remained as sharp as ever, quickly scanning the surroundings the moment they crossed the finish line, assessing every detail.
He didn't stop to celebrate; instead, he suddenly bent over, gripping his knees tightly with both hands, his chest heaving violently as he gasped for breath.
Groom also reached the finish line.
The worker from Necromunda practically carried and dragged a young nobleman who was on the verge of unconsciousness across the finish line.
After completing this action, he placed his companion on a relatively flat surface, then sat down silently, closed his eyes, and began to regulate his breathing.
His movements were so steady that it was as if supporting the weight of two people was just another task to be completed.
In the following hours, more people began to appear at the finish line.
A boy from the bottom nest dragged his injured right leg, using a scavenged metal pipe as a crutch, and slowly moved across the white line; several workers from the middle nest helped each other up and almost simultaneously fell to the ground; a nobleman's son trudged along alone, his once-refined face now showing only numbness and exhaustion.
Cesare and his small group finally appeared on the horizon, supporting each other, about seventy hours later.
Their situation was worse than others—they were ragged, their faces were gaunt, and every step seemed incredibly difficult.
The moment they crossed the finish line, several people collapsed to the ground almost simultaneously, too weak to even maintain their sitting posture, their chests still heaving violently.
More and more candidates are arriving.
Everyone who crossed the white line looked utterly devastated: some knelt on the ground retching, some fainted, and others lay on the ground digging their fingers into the sand, silently venting their emotions.
A young gang member remained in a defensive stance after crossing the line, gripping his dagger tightly; another candidate, who looked like a scholar, lay on his back, muttering to himself as he gazed at the murky sky.
When the clock struck seventy-two, the entrance to the wasteland was officially closed.
The Imperial Guard stepped forward and erected an isolation barrier, ruthlessly shutting out those figures still struggling hundreds of meters away.
The statistics quickly came in: the number of candidates who successfully reached the finish line was 3,127.
The warriors of the Black Templar recorded the final data expressionlessly, as if performing a routine procedure.
Their gazes swept over the arriving passengers lying haphazardly, without any expression, as if they were merely a pile of supplies that needed to be inventoried.
The mechanical priests then began directing the servo skull and automated equipment to begin their work.
Cold, mechanical tentacles roamed over the exhausted bodies of the candidates, performing basic vital sign scans.
The disinfectant spray hissed, and the pungent smell of the radiation purifier filled the air, mixing with the strong smell of sweat and blood to create an unpleasant odor.
The entire process was efficient and indifferent, devoid of any human compassion.
There was no congratulatory applause, no inspiring speeches, and not even a clear announcement that they had passed this round.
A soldier from the Missionaries' Guard used a loudspeaker to broadcast a monotone electronic message informing all arrivals that they would have six hours to rest, could collect a fixed amount of water and nutritional paste, and were instructed to "remain on standby and await further instructions regarding the next round of tests."
The first round of wasteland trials has ended, but the air is filled not with ease, but with a deeper unease.
The survivors lay on the hard sand. Although they were free from the direct threat of the wasteland, the excruciating pain throughout their bodies and the deep-seated exhaustion prevented them from truly relaxing.
Kax leaned against a broken wall, his sharp eyes scanning his surroundings.
He noticed that the cyborg priests were isolating several severely injured candidates, a discovery that made him unconsciously clench his fists.
If the next round of tests is even more severe, will getting injured directly lead to elimination? He began to reassess the risks of maintaining his solo strategy.
Groom silently chewed the nutritional paste that had been given to him, feeling his strength slowly returning.
I can't help but wonder what the challenges will be like if nearly half of the people have already fallen in the first round?
He touched his injured ankle and, for the first time, began to doubt his own stamina.
Cesare and his small group huddled together, exchanging their concerns in hushed tones.
"This is just the beginning," a companion said in a hoarse voice. "I've heard that the trials of Astartes will last for months, and what follows will only get worse."
Cesare didn't answer, but he unconsciously touched the empty water pouch at his waist, recalling the thirst he felt in the wasteland, and his stomach clenched.
The air was filled not only with the smell of chemicals, but also with silent anxiety.
Each survivor gazed at the fortress' somber outline with blurred vision, knowing full well that crossing this lime line was merely obtaining a ticket to the next, perhaps even more brutal, furnace.
The three days of hardship they just endured may have been merely the gentlest warm-up before the real forging began.