"All candidates, please enter the venue in an orderly fashion with your admission tickets. Possession of communication devices or related materials is strictly prohibited. Any violation will result in immediate disqualification."
The loudspeakers across the plaza continuously looped the exam regulations.
Before entering, each section's entrance was guarded by pairs of invigilators. One checked tickets while the other used a handheld scanner to ensure no candidate was smuggling contraband.
Stepping into Section C, Byrne truly grasped the scale of the event. The once-vast Imperial Plaza had been partitioned into several independent exam zones by temporary metal frameworks.
In Section C alone, the area was roughly the size of half a football pitch. Rows of desks and chairs were arranged with a one-meter gap between them, each bearing a prominent seat number in the upper right corner. Following his ticket, Byrne quickly located his spot: Section C, Number 378.
As other candidates found their seats, invigilators in uniform gray fatigues began patrolling the aisles. Byrne leaned back and closed his eyes to rest. Every required piece of knowledge was already etched into his mind; all he needed now was a clear head.
A few minutes later, an electronic chime signaled the official start of the exam. Invigilators pushed small carts down the aisles, distributing the test papers.
When Byrne received his, he noticed it wasn't what he expected. Instead of traditional paper, it was a flexible electronic screen with a matching stylus. He was briefly surprised but quickly rationalized it. In the Imperium of Man, technological levels varied wildly between worlds. While Korol sat on the fringe of the Gothic Sector, as a Beta-class Industrial World, producing flexible displays was well within its capabilities.
Byrne laid the screen flat and scanned the questions. The exam was divided into four parts: multiple-choice, fill-in-the-blanks, short answers, and long-form essays. The volume was immense, and the difficulty was higher than he had anticipated.
But for Byrne, currently enhanced by NZT-48, this was trivial.
Leveraging his absolute mastery of the material, he breezed through the objective sections without needing to pause for thought. When he hit the tax rate conversion problems requiring heavy calculation, his brain functioned like a precision logic engine, outputting perfect results instantly.
Around him, other candidates were scribbling furiously. A few, clearly less prepared, were already scowling at the first few pages. Time ticked by, the silence of the plaza filled only by the scratching of styluses and the rhythmic footsteps of the guards.
As fatigue began to set in for many—some rubbing sore eyes, others biting their lips in frustration, and a few even slumping over their desks in defeat—Byrne's pace remained lightning-fast.
Nearly an hour passed. Byrne had completed everything except for the final three essay questions. His hand never faltered; his logic remained flawlessly consistent.
A few minutes later, he finished the final essay. After a quick review to ensure no technical errors, he raised his hand to signal the invigilator.
In the dead silence of the exam hall, the gesture was conspicuous. Dozens of eyes snapped toward him—expressions ranging from shock to utter disbelief. It had been barely over an hour. Many were still struggling with the short-answer section; how could this man be finished already?
The nearest invigilator walked over, his expression stern. "Candidate, think carefully. Once you submit, there are no revisions."
"I'm certain." Byrne nodded, handing over the screen and stylus. His expression was calm, devoid of the frantic energy of someone rushing. He looked like a man who had simply finished a mundane task.
The invigilator took the screen, his pupils shrinking slightly as he scrolled through. Every field was filled. The logic in the short answers was impeccable. He scrolled to the essays and found long-form, rigorous arguments that cited obscure clauses from the Imperial Tax Law Compendium—details no one could simply "wing."
"Very well." The invigilator suppressed his surprise and fed the screen into the collection slot.
Byrne's early exit sent ripples through the remaining candidates.
"Who is that guy? Did he give up, or is he a genius?"
"He didn't look like he gave up. Did you see the look on the guard's face? He's a ringer."
Ignoring the stares, Byrne stood up, straightened his clothes, and headed for the exit. He had only taken a few steps when the invigilator called out to him.
"Candidate, wait."
Byrne stopped and turned. "Is there an issue with my submission?"
"No," the guard said, waving a hand. "I'm just reminding you that scores will be released shortly after the session ends. The top one hundred candidates will move on to the next round of testing."
Testing? Byrne frowned. "I hadn't heard of this. Is it a new requirement?"
The invigilator nodded. "Yes. Because of the unprecedented number of applicants, the Minister added a practical phase."
"What are the specific contents and criteria?" Byrne pressed. He needed to know so his NZT-enhanced brain could begin preparing. He couldn't afford to trip at the finish line.
"The specifics are confidential. You'll find out when the time comes." The guard waved him off, clearly unwilling to say more.
Byrne realized further questioning was futile. "Understood. Thank you."
Knowing there was a second phase, Byrne didn't leave immediately. He sat on a nearby bench and watched the other candidates. Most were still agonizing over their screens, some letting out muffled sighs of despair. Many of those who had only signed up to dodge the draft had already effectively quit.
Seeing the state of his competition, Byrne felt a surge of quiet confidence.
Heh. This is a sure thing.