The first 24 hours passed.
The air inside the arena was thick, hot, and motionless. The stone walls trapped every ounce of heat, and without windows, fans, or airflow, the arena slowly turned into an oven.
By the time the giant clock—mounted high above the entrance—ticked its 24th hour, ten people had already given up.
The first was the woman who had begged to use the bathroom.
Then a man who kept pacing until he fainted.
Others followed—some from impatience, some from dehydration, some simply from mental collapse.
The exit door remained open. A silent invitation to quit.
Zor sat with his back to the wall, beside Ikana. He was sweating, but calm. His skin, hardened from years of working the farm, seemed to embrace the heat.
"Thank the stars I was raised on a farm," he said, grinning as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Being under the sun all day—this is nothing."
Ikana, by contrast, was suffering silently. Sweat dripped down her neck. Her face was pale. She avoided eye contact and barely moved.
"Are you okay?" Zor asked.
She lifted a hand, stopping him gently. "Speak less," she whispered hoarsely. "Talking makes you thirstier. Conserve your water."
Zor nodded, pulling his satchel a little closer to his chest.
A few more hours passed.
The silence was broken only by groans, shifting feet, and the occasional collapse. Twenty-five more people left—dragging their exhausted bodies to the exit, eyes full of shame and regret.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Then, chaos struck.
Near the center of the arena, a commotion broke out. Voices raised. A scuffle. Gasps.
Zor leaned forward slightly to see. A small group—four rough-looking men—had cornered a teenager with a massive backpack. The teen was clean, well-dressed, and had a tablet clutched in his arms. His pack looked stuffed with supplies—toiletries, snacks, even energy bars.
"Give it here, kid," one of the men growled. "Unless you want your face smashed in."
The boy backed against the wall. "Do you know who I am? My family—!"
"We don't care who your mommy is," another man sneered. "Out here, we're all the same."
The first punch landed hard, and the teen crumpled. His screams echoed in the arena as the group kicked, stomped, and beat him down. One of them yanked the backpack from his shoulder while the others ripped the tablet from his hands.
Defeated and crying, the teen crawled toward the exit.
The guards didn't interfere.
He crossed the line and was gone.
The rest of the examinees watched silently.
Some looked away. Others closed their eyes.
No one dared step in.
Helping would only make them a target—and in a test like this, energy was everything.
Zor gritted his teeth.
Ikana muttered beside him, voice bitter: "Idiots."
Zor glanced at her.
"Not just the attackers," she continued quietly. "The boy too. Flashing that much gear in front of starving people? Might as well wear a 'rob me' sign."
"But… they didn't have to go that far," Zor replied.
"No," Ikana said. "But this isn't about right or wrong. It's about surviving the pressure. The rules are changing. And this…" She motioned to the arena around them. "This is just the beginning."
More hours passed.
The sun had long since set, but the heat inside the sealed arena remained. Oppressive. Stagnant. Suffocating. The only sound now was the occasional groan or shuffle as someone quietly gave up and walked toward the exit.
They were now over thirty hours in.
More than seventy people had dropped out.
And the trial hadn't even officially begun.
Zor sat quietly, back against the wall, his breath steady. He glanced at Ikana—still quiet, still unmoving. Her skin was slick with sweat, but her gaze remained focused, sharp, calculating.
He admired her resolve.
Then, a shadow loomed over them.
A tall man, thin but muscular, with a dusty cloak slung over one shoulder and a satchel strapped across his chest, knelt near them. His voice came out in a hushed whisper.
"I've been watching you two," he said, eyes flicking around the room. "You've stayed calm. Smart. I've got food and water… more than enough. But I'm getting looks from some of those people over there." He nodded toward a group of rough-looking individuals—hungry eyes locked onto his bag. "I need cover. I thought maybe… if I sat with you, people would hesitate. You seem kind."
Zor's face brightened. "That's alrigh—"
But Ikana cut in, voice like a blade. "No."
The tall man blinked.
"Why would a man like you sit with a ten-year-old and a girl?" she said coldly. "You'd just paint a bigger target on us. We're holding on fine. You'd bring trouble."
Zor turned to her. "Ikana, maybe if we all stick together—"
She didn't look at him. "You want to get beaten like that rich boy earlier? Because this is how it starts."
Zor went silent.
The man's expression tightened, but he didn't argue. He gave them a polite nod, stood, and moved along, trying his luck with another group.
Zor glanced at his satchel, thinking about the dried jerky tucked inside. He wanted to help. But he knew Ikana wasn't wrong.
Hours dragged on.
Then, trouble returned.
The same four men—the ones who had beaten the well-dressed teen—now circled a chubby man sitting cross-legged by the corner wall. He wore a worn vest, had curly black hair, and clutched a bulky backpack.
"Hey, fatty," one of the men snarled. "We know you're hiding food in there. You're too round to be starving."
The chubby man raised his hands. "I-I'm not hiding anything. Just water. I can go without food for weeks. My body'll just eat my fat!"
The men sneered and laughed.
"Let's check for ourselves," one said, stepping closer.
The man opened his bag slowly and pulled out a large plastic jug—filled with water.
"See?" he said with a sheepish grin. "Told you. Water only."
But the four men didn't care. One shoved him hard. He stumbled and collapsed. "W-wait—!"
A fist slammed into his temple. Another into his stomach. The man groaned once, then went completely still.
Whether he passed out or just gave up, no one could tell.
The four men took his jug and began chugging it like wolves who found prey.
Zor watched, disgusted. He clenched his fists. "They just keep getting worse…"
But then—minutes later—the men began to shift uncomfortably.
One of them doubled over.
"Ugh… what… what's this pain—?"
Another fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. "My gut—it's burning!"
One by one, the four collapsed to the floor, groaning in agony, their faces twisting in pain.
Laughter rang out.
Low. Deep. Triumphant.
The chubby man slowly sat up, brushing the dust off his vest, grinning ear to ear.
"Oh, don't worry," he said. "It's not fatal. Just a little something to keep your stomach... busy."
Zor's eyes widened. "He… poisoned his water?"
Ikana smirked. "Smart."
The chubby man stood up and bowed dramatically toward the suffering thieves. "I knew I'd be a target with a big bag and a round face. So I prepared. You're not the only ones who can play dirty."
Some in the arena laughed nervously.
Others now stared at the man with fear.
No one approached him again.