The Exam

If I had to explain the course: there’s nothing below—just a drop. You have to keep your balance the whole time so you don’t fall.
In the first stage you slide down a slope, weaving under and over obstacles; some are hollow, some you have to clear with a jump.

In the second stage the path splits in two.
Route 1: The floor is spiked. You hang from the bars above and swing your way forward.
Route 2: There are spaced pillars; you have to leap from gap to gap. Both routes meet at the same place.

I make a third route: I leap straight across.

I can do it. I will.

My fingers barely hook the concrete. The slick surface burns my palms, but I don’t let go. Risky move; worth it. I’ll finish faster. The door’s ahead.

As I close in, the walls start sliding inward. I have to speed up. My elbow scrapes the edge—pain sparks like a fuse. The gap’s shrinking.
One last burst. I drive my shoulder through the opening and slip inside. The lock clicks.

I stop to catch my breath and look up at the digital display above the door: 2:30. Longer than I expected—I thought I could do it in two.
No problem. I’ll aim higher in the power test.

About two hours later, everyone finishes the first section. We started with more; some must’ve been cut.

The proctor lifts the megaphone:
“Congratulations to everyone who cleared Part One. Now for Part Two—the power test. When your name appears above the door, enter.”

An hour later, I see my name. I stride up; inside, five dummies are lined up.

So these are what I’m supposed to hit.

The proctor’s voice comes through the mic:
“You have five minutes to prepare. When time’s up, you begin. Understood?”

“Understood,” I say—steady voice. The room is smaller than I expected, just five dummies in the middle. All of them waiting for my move.

The start signal blares. I sprint into the first dummy. Keep your balance. Left straight—clean. Without slowing, I flow to the next; my footing holds, my breathing’s in rhythm. Three, four… guard up, strike-and-go.

I slow for the last one. Pour everything into the fist.
WHAM! The jolt in my wrist feels good; the sound ricochets off the wall. When I turn, the last dummy is shattered. Solid hit.

The proctor reaches for the mic again:
“Congratulations, you’ve cleared Part Two. Proceed through the door ahead and move on to Part Three.”

I push the door open. A few who’ve finished Part Two are already inside; I take a seat off to the side and wait.

An hour later, everyone’s in. The proctor begins:
“Congratulations on passing Part Two. Now it’s time for Part Three. But first, you’ll form teams. You have thirty minutes to assemble your squad.”

I don’t know anyone. How’s this supposed to work?

“Hey, hi,” someone says. I turn—Ayame. “I saw you before the exam started. Want to team up?”

Not a bad idea. We talk a bit. She’s frank, calm; there’s a strange kind of innocence about her.

Kiyoshi: “Sure, good idea.” I nod.
Ayame: “Glad to hear it, but there’s a problem; we need three more.”
Kiyoshi: “We’ll ask around. I’ll start looking now.”

Finding teammates is hard. I usually handle everything on my own. If they want teams for this part, they’re probably measuring how we work together.

I eventually find three. All three look like washouts; not surprising if they don’t make the cut.
“Guys, I’ll handle the sign-up. Objections?”
They all say “Nope” at once. We head to the stand.

Without looking up, the staffer says, “Here you go. Your team number is 12.”

“Thanks,” I say. We take our number and get in line.

While we wait, another team pulls up—Number 6. One of them steps toward us. Red hair, big frame; he’s going for the intimidation stare. Doesn’t work on me.

Red-hair: “So this is the leftovers team, huh?”

“We are,” I say. “Formed to keep guys like you at a distance.”

He takes another step. “Watch the smug talk. I’ll put you under my heel, loser.”

My lips pull tight. My voice goes cold: “Try it and see what happens—you stupid son of a—”

Shoulders collide; the air tightens. Shoving starts. As the staff scramble to get in between—Fweee!

The proctor’s whistle slices the room. The mic crackles on.

Proctor: “Team Twelve and Team Six, stand down! Fighting in the exam area earns a warning. Do it again and you’re disqualified.”

Red-hair grumbles but backs off. I don’t break eye contact.

The proctor continues: “Registration is complete. Final notice before Part Three: Team leaders will collect the equipment cards in two minutes. When the starting bell rings, everyone will be in their own corridor. Understood?”

A ragged “Understood!” rises from the crowd.

Ayame leans in to whisper, “You be the leader. We’ll handle the gear.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll grab the card and come back.”

Red-hair is still staring from a distance. I don’t forget that smirk.
We’ll see.

We’re last in line. The five of us head to the door together. As we go in, they hand us some suits. “Put these on,” they say. We gear up.
The room for Part Three opens into a wide space. Smooth floor, high ceiling. This is a simulation… they’re going to test our teamwork.

The proctor taps the mic:
“I’ll explain Part Three—listen carefully. This is a simulation chamber. You’ll be hit with escalating challenges; last as long as you can. At the end, the screen will show your total survival time. Any questions?”

Kiyoshi: “What are these suits for?”

Proctor: “As for the suits… they’ll grant you power inside the simulation. Power use is allowed—this is a sim. Before you begin, the system will ask you to choose a color; your power is assigned by color. So choose carefully.”

Kiyoshi: “Understood.”

The power screen flares to life. Each color has the same set of shades, ranked like this:
Light → Slightly Light → Medium → Slightly Dark → Dark

Descriptions are the same:
Red: Fire · Blue: Water · Brown: Stone/Earth · Gray: Air/Wind · Green: Healing
A blinking note at the bottom reads: “The darker the tone, the stronger the power. Black locked.”

We lock our picks:

Me: Red — slightly dark
Ayame: Green — medium
The others: One Blue — light; two Brown — light

The display shows our lineup: Red (🔴 slightly dark) – Blue (🔵 light) – Brown (🟫 light) – Brown (🟫 light) – Green (🟢 medium)

I think to myself: there are two who’ll carry this team—me and Ayame.
Loadout is clear: I’m pressure and finisher; Ayame is the safety line that stretches our time.

“Same plan,” I say, clipped. “Browns make cover; Blue slicks the field. I’ll tunnel the flame with high pressure. Ayame, keep a constant mid-tier passive heal—priority is pulling up anyone who drops.”

Heads nod. The countdown lights up: 3… 2… 1…
The floor shudders. We begin. “Tight formation,” I say. “Close range.”

A shock-caster slams down; thick torso, armored joints. Brown drags his foot; a low stone platform rises like a step. Blue throws a thin film of water over it—to give me slide-speed.

“I’m going in,” I whisper. Heat gathers in my palms, but I cap it to a pulse. Ayame behind me: “Shield up.”

First step—accelerate along the platform and crash the body. Right shoulder in, low kick to the left knee.
THUNK! The armor flexes. I pack the heat into my fist—a micro-burst.
THWACK! The varnish at the joint blackens. My hits leave deeper marks.

The shock-caster swings; a metal strip grazes my cheek. Ayame’s heal seeps in; the sting snuffs out. “Keep going,” she says, calm.

“Lock it!” I bark. Blue lashes its wrists with water; Brown turns the water to mud, cinching half-rings around the joints.
Close range. I drive my elbow into the ribs—stab. A single-beat flare.
CRACK! Armor sprays. Hot air climbs over my shoulder; a tiny alert flashes: HEAT +1. I’m in control.

It staggers back, trying to shove us off with a ring of electricity. We don’t have Gray; we trim the surge with Ayame’s shield. “Wall!”
Brown shoulders out a stone bulwark; I use it as a step and vault.

In the air, my knee clips the side of its helm—micro-burst on contact.
TOONG! The mask slides; the eye-grille opens. I draw a short line of flame across its face. It reels and drops to a knee.
My blows bite; the others’ setups just make openings. Pressure stays with me.

The Brown next to me throws a straight; the armor rings but doesn’t crack. I hit the same spot—short heat pulse, left hook.
SNAP. The plate breaks. “That’s enough,” I say.

Snarling, the shock-caster spreads its arms; the floor sensors glow red: HEAT-SENSITIVE ZONE. If I go long-flame, it’ll blow.
“No long burns!” I warn. “Wrists!”

Blue spins water around the wrists; the mud cuffs cinch tight. I slide in and run an elbow–knee–head chain into the body, half-pulse on each touch.
THOK—THWACK—CLANG! One of the coils tears free.

Ayame’s hand taps my shoulder; my breathing evens. “One more hit,” she says.
Correct angle: the lower edge of the chest plate. I plant my knee and drive my left fist with a tight burst.
BOOM! The torso bows back; sparks leap from the joints. The screen flips green:

MINI-BOSS NEUTRALIZED — TIME: 02:04

I step back; steam ghosts off my palms. The warning fades.
Red-hair’s team is watching from the stands; there’s a thin smirk on his face. Don’t miss your turn.

The ceiling opens again. This time, two close-combat types spring from side hatches—blade arms, fast.
“Shrink the circle!” I call. “I’m front, Ayame rear. Short bursts, rapid strings!”

I set my stance. Heat blooms in my hands again. We begin.