The sound of heels striking the cold floor echoed through Flare Hall. The vast chamber was the embodiment of fire itself. Though no heat source was visible, a bead of sweat trickled down the forehead of the petite figure walking its length. Her sharp blue eyes remained fixed ahead, untouched by the grandeur around her. Priceless artifacts lined the hall, but none drew her attention, as if this wasn''t her first time here.


    At last, the sound of her heels ceased. She stopped before the figure at the end of the hall and bowed deeply.


    That being could not be described by the most intelligent scholars, yet even the illiterate sang of it. No artist could capture its face, nor could the most advanced technology, but its image was etched into every person who laid their pitiful eyes on it. That being was the subject of adoration and fear, of awe beyond measure. It was biologically a human, but no biologist would dare claim it as one.


    "Lord, the preparations for the National Talent Assessment are complete. We are expecting you to uphold your end of the deal," the woman spoke with a voice so unwavering that one would think she was not in the presence of an indescribable being.


    A sound rang through the hall. A laugh? A roar? It carried no clear emotion—perhaps it held all emotions at once.


    "Yes. Though I must say, I dislike the idea of restricting my family," the being replied. No human, be it Awakened or Normal, would be able to interpret the emotions carried by those words.


    "You will be fairly compensated, as discussed previously," the woman responded, still bowing.


    The being nodded. Or did it shake its head? Regardless, that thing had confirmed their deal.


    "Thank you, Lord." The woman stood straight and retraced her path to leave the hall. During her short visit to the Flare Hall, the woman never once dared to look at the being''s face.


    That being, whose words elude the wisest minds, yet children mimic its tongue with ease. That being, whose mere presence banishes all darkness, yet the shadow it casts can swallow even the brightest light.


    There was only one word in the human vocabulary that could even remotely describe it—


    The Sun.


    ********


    "Kevvy! You''ll be late again, hurry up!" My mom shouts as I almost trip while wearing my shoes.


    "Bye, Ma!" I say, as usual, before sprinting down the damp apartment staircase. My mom is behaving normally. She hasn’t mentioned the firing. In fact, the way she acts makes me question my memory of last night. But I know it was real. The proof is right there—the admit card for the NTA on my phone.


    I unlock my bicycle and take off like a dysfunctional rocket. A quick glance at the speedometer—20 km/h. Not enough. I shift gears, feeling the resistance change under my legs. Pedal faster. 60 km/h. Good enough. The faint hum of the gears fills my ears as the torque amplifier kicks in, boosting my momentum.


    My mom says that back in her day, bicycles didn’t have torque amplifiers. I’d have definitely been expelled if I had to ride one of those.


    I take a sharp turn and merge onto the main road. Traffic is as chaotic as ever. I squeeze between the vehicles, almost scraping a brand-new bright red supercar that probably costs more than my entire family tree combined. Why is a supercar even in this traffic? Shouldn''t you be using the aerial road if you can afford a car like that?


    I branch off from the main road, slowing down as I enter the plaza. The white brick floor makes for a bumpy ride, and I swerve left and right to dodge pedestrians and vendors selling all sorts of trinkets, flowers, and food. The air is thick with the scent of spice and freshly baked bread as I exit the plaza and finally reach the road leading to my college.


    I quickly make my way to the parking space, lock my bicycle with a fingerprint scan, and rush to class. The entrance to the official campus was guarded by a 6-foot-tall, black cylinder. Endearingly called BBC by the college students. Well, the male students, specifically. The Braindead Bot of the Century. A fitting name, considering it hadn’t been updated in a decade and was practically a fossil compared to the state-of-the-art security bots in use today.


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    I flash my ID at the bot, and it beeps in approval before letting me through. I break into a sprint toward the Engineering block, actively ignoring the monstrosity that is the Art block. Even a passing glance at that godless structure makes me nauseous. No sane person would design something like that. It looks like someone superimposed all of Van Gogh’s paintings and then forced them into three dimensions.


    I exhale in relief as I step into the Engineering block—where buildings are made of proper materials like concrete and steel, not whatever unholy amalgamation those Arts students worship. Reaching my classroom, I peek inside.


    Not Bach. Thank God.


    I stroll in casually and take a seat at the back, next to Virav.


    He glances at me. "Why are you only ever this late for Bach’s classes?"


    I take a moment to catch my breath. "You don’t want me to be?"


    "I never said that."


    We snicker for a bit before I hesitantly say, "I need to talk to you about something."


    ********


    It was lunchtime. Virav and I sit on one of the public benches around the campus, as usual. This is one of the only benches safely out of the unholy Arts block’s visual range.


    In the vast campus garden, artificial butterflies frolic among real ones, their metallic wings catch the sunlight as they move through the air. I watch them in silence, the robotic ones seamlessly aiding their living counterparts in harvesting nectar from the flowers. One of the artificial butterflies struggles midair before dropping to the ground. Out of charge, probably. The garden-keeping bot will pick it up for a recharge later.


    We had just finished eating and were now killing time before the next class.


    "Seriously, though—Kevin Sathel, enrolling for the NTA. One of us must have lost our sanity," Virav sighs for what had to be the millionth time.


    "That’s good, though. Who knows? Maybe it''ll be a written engineering exam. You''re at the top of the class—you should at least rank under 600,000. Maybe," he adds.


    "Maybe," I echo.


    I haven’t told him the real reason for my application yet. Call it ego, call it pride—I just don’t want my best friend to pity me.


    I glance at him as he sprawls across the bench like a homeless man getting his first real sleep in weeks. "Since you have so much experience, don’t you have any tips for a newbie?" I ask innocently.


    He lazily turns his head and gives me a deadpan look. "Pray."


    I grimace, pushing away his legs as he tries to rest them on my lap. "Come on, have you noticed any patterns? Any kind of recurring trend?"


    Instead of answering, he moves his legs away—only to wrap them around my shoulders instead. "There are only two patterns. One, no Normal ever reaches the top 1000. Hell, not even the top one million. Keep in mind, on average, there are around ten million applicants. Two, the top 1000 is dominated by certain families and organizations. You might not know this, but the top 800 spots are as good as taken. The rest of us fight for the remaining 200."


    "Bribery?" I ask, still trying to free myself from his grip.


    "Maybe. But even if that''s not the case, it’s hopeless. The National Scientific Institute sends its students every year. Those guys modify Awakened—and even Normals—with tech, implants, and all sorts of experimental drugs. And before you ask, yeah, it''s legal. How? Apparently, they have the consent of all parties involved—the students, their families, the whole shebang. And there’s never been a casualty. There''s even a clause stating that if a single death occurs, the NSI will be shut down, so they’re extra careful."


    So now I have to compete against cyborg Normal and cyborg Awakened, on top of the regular ones. Wonderful.


    Then, before I can react, he pulls me into a headlock.


    "Anyways," he continues, like he isn''t actively choking me, "those guys make up about 10% of all applicants and usually secure a 100 spots in the top 1000. Next are the Legacy Families. Enough said, really. These families have the wealth, knowledge, and resources to groom their heirs for the assessment. Some of them literally plan childbirth around this exam. The youngest applicant so far was 12 years old. And even though Legacy Families only make up about 0.5% of all applicants, they approximately take 600 spots out of the 1000."


    I struggle to escape his hold. "That ratio is insane. 600 spots? Are there even that many Legacy Families?"


    Talk about getting your money’s worth. 600 out of 50,000 might not sound like much, but when you compare it to organizations like the NSI, who send millions of applicants just to secure around 100 spots, it’s clear who really runs the show.


    He sighs, tightening the headlock. "There are, but not all of them are a part of that 600. In fact, out of all Legacy applicants, 80% are affiliated with the Flare family. And 10% are usually in alliance with them. So, you could say more than half of the top 1000 is controlled by the Flares—the oldest Awakened family in the country."


    I twist slightly, subtly shifting my arm. My fingers creep toward a very sacred place. A place no one should ever dare defile. I aim, tension building in my middle finger like a loaded spring.


    "The rest?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.


    Unaware of the impending disaster, Virav tightens his grip even more. "Foreigners. Any foreign national can apply, provided they agree to change their nationality if they get selected for Indat University. Other than that, the same rules apply to them."


    "I see," I murmur.


    And then, with a single flick of my finger—


    Time slows.


    A ripple of kinetic energy passes through his clothes and strikes the forbidden pendulum.


    Virav makes a sound I had never heard before. I can almost see something leave his body. Is that what they call a soul?


    I almost feel sorry for him.


    Almost.


    4 days left for the commencement of the NTA.