The Namilian morning, bathed in a cool, pre-dawn glow of lamplights, brought with it a renewed sense of purpose. Adam woke feeling surprisingly refreshed, the deep sleep of the previous night having largely banished the bone-deep weariness of the Azron Woods. He stretched, feeling his muscles ache in a satisfying way—the ache of effort, not injury.
He found his companions already up, a quiet, focused energy permeating the cabin. Julian was meticulously checking his gear, his movements precise. Astrid was doing light stretches, her lithe form flowing through the motions. Panchenko was making short work of some leftover rations, his usual jovial mood tempered by a noticeable determination. Tom was reviewing a map of Namil, his brow furrowed in thought. Edward, as always, was a silent, imposing presence, his crimson eyes fixed on the distant horizon, as if already assessing the challenges to come.
"Morning, everyone," Adam greeted, his voice firm. "Ready for round two?"
Panchenko swallowed a mouthful of rations. "Ready as I'll ever be, Adam. My stomach's a bit nervous, but my legs are feeling stronger than yesterday."
"The body feels prepared," Julian stated, his voice calm. "The mind, too. We have faced worse than a simple race."
Astrid gave a confident nod. "It's just endurance. We've endured a lot worse than a run and a climb."
"Let's hope Fyodor's idea of 'endurance' isn't too… creative," Tom muttered, folding the map. "His reputation suggests a more psychological approach, but this sounds purely physical."
Edward finally turned, his gaze sweeping over them. "Do not underestimate a test of endurance. It is often the simplest trials that break the strongest wills. When your body screams for rest, and your mind begs for surrender, that is when the true test begins."
They shared a quick, Spartan breakfast, conserving their energy, and then set out for the Adventurers' Guild. The city was still waking up, its streets quieter than usual, the pre-exam tension palpable even in the pre-dawn stillness.
The Adventurers' Guild was, once again, a hub of activity. But this time, the crowd was noticeably smaller, a more hardened group of the five thousand who had survived the first culling. The atmosphere was different too—less chaotic, more grimly determined. A quiet tension, like a coiled spring, permeated the vast hall.
Natasha was at her usual post, her expression professional and encouraging. She spotted them immediately, her welcoming smile a familiar comfort.
"Good morning, survivors!" Natasha greeted them, her voice warm. "Looks like the Azron Boars didn't break your spirit. Excellent! Follow me, please. Sir Fyodor is already on stage."
She guided them through the remaining applicants, all of whom seemed to be assessing each other with a mixture of rivalry and nervous anticipation. They passed through the archway and into the massive exam hall, its dome-like ceiling stretching high above. The sheer number of applicants still present, though halved, was still impressive, filling the arena floor and a significant portion of the tiered seating.
On the central stage, Fyodor stood alone. His semi-long purple hair framed intelligent brown eyes, and his black hat was tilted at a confident angle. He exuded an aura of calm intellect, a stark contrast to Nietzsche's rigid intensity. The hum of thousands of nervous breaths filled the vast space.
Fyodor raised a hand, and the murmurs died down instantly. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly soft, yet it carried an undeniable authority that captivated the entire hall.
"Welcome, applicants, to the Second Stage of the Adventurer's Exam," Fyodor began, his voice calm and even. "Yesterday, you proved your cunning and your basic hunting skills.
Today, we will test the very limits of your physical and mental fortitude. This is a challenge of Endurance."
He paused, letting the word hang in the air, allowing its weight to settle over the thousands of aspiring adventurers.
"This exam," Fyodor continued, his brown eyes sweeping over the vast crowd, "is designed to break you. To see if you possess the raw, unyielding will to push past pain, fatigue, and despair. It is a single, continuous trial, consisting of three distinct phases."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the hall.
"First," Fyodor announced, his voice gaining a slight edge, "you will run 30 miles. This course will take you through varied terrain, designed to test your cardiovascular limits and your sheer stamina."
A wave of groans and mutters swept through the crowd. Thirty miles was a considerable distance, even for trained athletes.
"Upon completing the 30-mile run," Fyodor continued, unfazed by the reactions, "your journey will lead you directly to the coast, where you will face the second phase. This is a 5-mile swim."
The groans intensified, replaced by gasps of disbelief. A 5-mile swim after a 30-mile run? This was pushing beyond mere endurance and into the realm of extreme physical challenge. Many exchanged worried glances.
"And finally," Fyodor's voice became almost chillingly calm, "upon completing the swim, you will have reached the base of Mount Kabuku. Your final task will be to hike 30,000 feet up Mount Kabuku and reach the peak."
The silence that followed was absolute. Thirty thousand feet. A mountain climb of that magnitude, after a marathon run and a grueling swim, was an almost unimaginable feat of physical and mental resilience. Many applicants visibly paled, their faces etched with dawning horror.
"I will be awaiting you at the peak," Fyodor stated, his gaze meeting the stunned silence of the crowd. "The first 2,500 applicants to reach the summit will pass. The other half, unfortunately, will fail."
A fresh wave of shock rippled through the hall. Half again. Another brutal cut.
"You have precisely 18 hours to finish this test," Fyodor concluded, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "The starting gates will open in five minutes.
Good luck."
With that, he stepped back, leaving the thousands of applicants to grapple with the enormity of the challenge ahead.
Adam looked at his companions, their faces a mixture of grim determination and stunned disbelief. Even Edward, typically unperturbed, had a thoughtful expression.
"Thirty miles, a five-mile swim, and thirty thousand feet," Panchenko muttered, his eyes wide. "He's trying to kill us, isn't he?"
"It's a test of will, Panchenko," Julian stated, already beginning to stretch. "They want to see who breaks first."
Astrid let out a long breath. "We just ran and fought for 24 hours straight. This is going to be… another level."
"Mount Kabuku is known for its treacherous terrain and unpredictable weather patterns," Tom added, his voice serious. "And 30,000 feet… that's almost orbital altitude. The air will be thin, and the cold intense."
Edward's voice was calm, cutting through their apprehension. "This is a test I understand well. It is not about speed. It is about rhythm. About conserving energy. And about refusing to yield when every fiber of your being demands rest. Focus on one step at a time. One stroke. One climb. Do not look at the summit until you are upon it."
Adam took a deep breath, steeling himself. Edward was right. They had faced worse, endured more. Kazakhar had been a test of survival, a constant fight for life. This was different, a controlled environment, but no less challenging.
"Alright," Adam said, his voice firm, drawing their gazes. "We stick together as much as possible. We conserve energy. We pace ourselves. And we do not stop until all six of us are standing on that peak. Understand?"
A chorus of determined nods met his words.
The starting gates, wide and numerous, began to open, revealing a long, winding dirt track stretching into the distance. A low, persistent hum filled the air as thousands of applicants began to jog forward, a collective surge of bodies.
Adam, Edward, Julian, Astrid, Panchenko, and Tom merged with the flow, becoming part of the massive, sweating, panting river of humanity and other species.
The 30-mile run began. The initial burst of adrenaline from the crowd carried them for the first few miles, but soon, the sheer distance began to assert itself. The terrain shifted from flat dirt paths to rolling hills, then to rocky, uneven ground.
Panchenko, for all his strength, struggled with the sustained pace, his heavy breathing audible. "I think… I'm gonna… regret that extra bacon… Marcus gave me…" he gasped, trying to keep up.
Astrid, light on her feet, glided effortlessly, but even she began to show signs of fatigue as the miles piled up. Julian maintained a steady, disciplined pace, his movements efficient. Tom, surprisingly, held his own, his lean frame proving more enduring than his build suggested, though he was clearly focused on his breathing.
Adam found a steady rhythm, pushing through the growing burn in his legs. He kept one eye on Edward, who, with his vampiric physiology, seemed to glide effortlessly, his pace unflagging, his breathing even. Edward was their silent anchor, a constant reminder of their goal.
"Conserve your water," Edward rumbled, his voice calm despite the exertion. "Small sips. You will need it for the swim."
Hours melted away, marked only by the shifting light of the Namilian sky and the increasing numbers of exhausted, defeated applicants falling by the wayside. Some collapsed, gasping, unable to continue. Others simply stopped, staring blankly ahead, their dreams of becoming adventurers evaporating with each passing minute. The course was littered with discarded gear, empty water skins, and broken spirits.
The relentless pounding of their feet on the ground, the burning in their lungs, the constant battle against their own bodies' demands for rest—this was the true test.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the terrain began to slope downwards. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of salt and fresh water. Before them stretched a vast, shimmering expanse: the ocean. And in the distance, a dark, imposing silhouette against the horizon: Mount Kabuku.
"The swim," Adam muttered, stripping off his outer layer of clothing, revealing the lighter, more practical gear underneath. His legs screamed in protest, but the sight of the water, and the knowledge of the next phase, pushed him forward.
The water was cold, a shock to their heat-exhausted bodies. The 5-mile swim was a grueling test of endurance, rhythm, and sheer willpower. The current, though not treacherous, was constant, requiring sustained effort.
Panchenko, surprisingly, was a strong swimmer, his powerful build serving him well in the water. He plowed through the waves, churning towards the distant mountain. Astrid was like a fish, her movements fluid and effortless. Julian, always disciplined, maintained a steady, powerful stroke. Tom, though not as fast, kept a consistent pace, relying on technique.
Adam focused on his breathing, each stroke a silent battle against the cold and the growing fatigue. His arms and shoulders burned, his legs, already exhausted from the run, now ached with the effort of kicking.
Edward, as expected, was a natural in the water, his movements as graceful and powerful as any aquatic predator. He swam effortlessly, setting a strong pace, occasionally glancing back to ensure the others were keeping up.
The sun was nearing its zenith as they finally hauled themselves onto the rocky shore at the base of Mount Kabuku. They were drenched, shivering, and profoundly exhausted. Their bodies screamed in protest, their muscles trembling with fatigue. Many applicants had already quit during the swim, carried away by rescue boats. The shore was littered with those who had made it this far, only to collapse, utterly spent.
Mount Kabuku loomed before them, its peak shrouded in distant clouds, an impossibly high, daunting challenge. Thirty thousand feet. The air was already thinner here, prickling their lungs with each breath.
"No time to rest," Edward stated, his voice still steady, though even he showed a subtle tension in his jaw. "The mountain will not wait."
They began the hike, a slow, painful ascent up the treacherous slopes of Mount Kabuku. The initial path was steep, rocky, demanding careful foot placement. The air grew colder with every upward step.
Panchenko struggled the most, his powerful build becoming a burden against the relentless climb and the thinning air. He gritted his teeth, his face a mask of determination, pushing one heavy foot in front of the other. Astrid, though light, also felt the strain, her movements becoming less agile, more deliberate. Julian, ever stoic, simply kept moving, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Tom, surprisingly, found a new rhythm here. His lean frame and focus on breath control allowed him to maintain a steady, if slow, pace. He calculated their ascent rate, their remaining time, always keeping an eye on the clock.
Adam forced himself to keep going, using his sword as a makeshift walking stick, digging his hands into rocky crevices, pulling himself higher. The burning in his legs and lungs was constant, a fiery agony that threatened to overwhelm him with every step. He could feel the altitude, a dull throb in his temples, a slight lightheadedness.
He kept thinking of Harry. Of Jones. Of Demons. Of the freedom they fought for.
"Don't look up," Edward advised, his voice a low rumble, always just ahead. "Focus on the next handhold. The next step. The summit will come, if you do not break."
The hours crawled by. The landscape became more barren, more hostile. Jagged rocks, patches of snow, and icy winds replaced the trees and greenery. The air was frigid, biting at their exposed skin.
They saw others on the mountain, scattered like ants, some still climbing, others huddled in defeat, unable to take another step. The thought of being among the 2,500 was a constant, driving force.
As the black sun began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of black and purple, the peak of Mount Kabuku finally came into view. It was still impossibly far, but it was there, a sharp, challenging silhouette against the horizon.
"Almost there," Adam gasped, his voice raw, his lungs burning.
Panchenko stumbled, then pushed himself back up, a desperate fire in his eyes. "Not… stopping… now!"
Julian, though his face was pale, his eyes still held their resolute spark. Astrid, shivering, pulled her thin jacket tighter, pushing herself forward. Tom, his breathing ragged, calculated the remaining vertical distance.
The climb continued, one agonizing step after another, a silent, individual battle against their own bodies and the unforgiving mountain. Fyodor awaited. And the clock, now showing less than 18 hours, was relentlessly ticking down. They were a shattered, exhausted group, but their will remained unbroken. The peak, and the promise of the next stage, beckoned.