You may know how to fight, but are you fit to run?
Zoah had to be fit. He had to be more than strong. I repeated it like a prayer as the signal rang out and the race tore itself open.
The first wave of competitors exploded forward, reckless and hungry, feet pounding the ground as if speed alone could save them. Distance widened quickly, too quickly.
Desperation always runs first.
The others, the ones who understood, held back. They didn't run. They waited, settling into a slow, deliberate jog, eyes cold, breaths controlled.
I knew the truth they knew.
The bag was heavy, deliberately so. It dragged at muscles, punished haste, exposed arrogance. Speed was a lie in this competition. Endurance was the real weapon. The only victory that mattered was returning alive, the bag still in your grasp.
The sprinters would feel it soon, the burn in their lungs, the ache in their limbs, the creeping panic when their bodies betrayed them. Some would stumble. Some wouldn't finish at all.
This wasn't a test of courage.
It wasn't even a test of strength.
It was a calculated slaughter of the impatient.
And the competition would erase you without mercy.
The race was dull at first, too quiet for something meant to break people. Spectators murmured prayers under their breath, each clinging desperately to the hope that their candidate would survive this stage.
The massive screen before us tracked the racers' positions in cold, shifting numbers.
Zoah was near the back.
So were the wise ones.
They lagged deliberately, conserving strength for the final stretch of this brutal stage. I smiled faintly, whispering a silent prayer for Zoah before closing my eyes, trying to steady the tension clawing at my chest.
The world stilled.
The noise, the crowd, the competition, all of it faded. I found myself somewhere else entirely.
A universe that felt peaceful, breathtaking… and wrong. This wasn't Earth. It was another planet, tucked away in a distant galaxy, glowing with an eerie beauty that felt disturbingly familiar.
It felt like home.
No, it was home. I knew it with a certainty that scared me. Yet something kept forcing me away. Every time I tried to remain, I was dragged back, compelled to leave again and again until panic set in. I didn't want to be trapped here, suspended in nothingness. I deserved my universe, the one I belonged to.
A voice tore through the silence.
"You have to fight. Break the curse. Take your rightful place as princess."
"What curse?" I screamed back, my voice cracking.
"You can't miss this," my uncle said sharply.
Reality slammed into me.
I blinked. I was still on Earth. Earth. As if there were countless other planets capable of sustaining life. I almost scoffed, any medical student should know better than to entertain such thoughts.
I yawned, stretched, and lifted my eyes to the screen.
My breath caught.
This was the final round.
The racers had turned back. Whoever returned first would claim victory. Speed now mattered, but only for those who still had something left to give. Some competitors staggered, their bodies betraying them. Others had collapsed entirely, unable to continue.
Zoah was still running.
The clock began its merciless countdown.
Anyone who returned within five minutes would qualify for the third stage. Failure meant elimination, no second chances, no mercy. If no one returned before time ran out, the entire competition would end, forcing them all to wait another year to compete again.
The crowd fell silent.
The racers were still far, too far.
At exactly one minute, the stadium erupted.
Screams ripped through the air. Some people cried. Others fainted outright. History had been shattered.
Never, not once had anyone returned in one minute. The fastest record stood at two minutes, thirty seconds, set by last year's champion, the man who had dominated the competition five times in a row.
And yet here he was.
The new champion stood tall, barely breathing hard, not a single drop of sweat on his face. Awe swept through the crowd like a wave.
I leapt to my feet, heart pounding.
It was Zoah.
The clock continued to tick.
At exactly two minutes, the second racer arrived an incredible feat. He had pushed harder than ever before, shaving thirty seconds off his previous time. If not for Zoah, he would have broken the record.
I didn't need anyone to tell me the truth.
Zoah had just made himself a powerful rival.
The stage ended with thirty five champions standing.
As the officials announced a five minute break, the arena buzzed with speculations, congratulations mingling with fear, admiration tangled with dread, as everyone wondered the same thing:
Who would survive the third stage?
Another woman ascended the podium as the five minute reprieve expired. The room seemed to contract around her, the air thick with anticipation. She raised the microphone, and the faint hum of it sounded unnervingly loud in the silence. I forced myself to listen.
"We have reached the third stage of this competition," she said, her voice smooth, almost gentle. "Only thirty five candidates remain. From this point forward, no more than ten of you will survive this process."
She paused.
Not advance. Survive.
"This stage is designed to assess your competence in drug refinement." Her eyes glinted under the lights.
"The judges are in complete agreement: anyone trusted with a substance must also be capable of creating it. Ignorance is far more dangerous than malice."
A low, uneasy stir passed through the hall.
"We would rather entrust our drugs to those who understand every molecule they handle, those who can build, dismantle, and recreate them at will." Her gaze moved across us like a blade. "Yes, this is the first year we are enforcing this stage. Consider it… progress."
Her lips curved faintly. "I wish you the best of luck, my dears."
She bowed and left the stage. The echo of her heels lingered long after she was gone.
You have got to be joking.
Panic crept in slowly, like poison in the bloodstream. I could see it written plainly on the faces around me, trembling hands, clenched jaws, eyes darting as if searching for an exit that did not exist. Drug refinement was not merely difficult; it was unforgiving. One error in proportion could render months of work useless. One mistake in formulation could result in catastrophe.
Burns. Paralysis. Death.
This was not a test of intelligence. It was a measure of who could remain precise while staring down disaster.
The third stage wasn't meant to select the best.
It was meant to expose the weak and discard them.