"But as you see," the voice continued, "you can produce some things with this ability, limited to inanimate objects without a soul. You are, after all, a limited being. We could speak on this for days, but it would be a waste of our time. Do not speak such nonsense again, unless you see someone create a living fly before your very eyes. Only then can you make such a request of me."
Noor understood. The creation of even the smallest fly was a miracle of precision beyond any human capability. Scientists could try for a thousand years and not know where to begin. If they could create the simplest life, they could create anything. But they couldn't. Creating a fly was impossible, so what about a human? Every cell, every system, all working in perfect harmony. The best humanity could do was create an emotionless machine that mimicked behavior.
"I understand," Noor said after a long silence. "I didn't think it through. I apologize. What's next?"
"Apology accepted," the voice said calmly. "Now, make a pane of glass."
Noor tried, but creating the glass was far more difficult than the tennis ball. He failed several times, having to ask the voice for information about the internal composition of glass, until he finally succeeded, exhausted.
"And you wanted something more difficult," the voice mocked.
Noor had nothing to say to that. He just waited. "What's next?"
A month passed. A month of relentless practice, of creating objects from pure thought. The mysterious voice finally decided it was time to move on.
"You have progressed greatly," it said, assuming the role of a teacher. "You have mastered the creation of many things in record time. You have also read all the books I provided. Your mind can now create simple things without even closing your eyes. Your training in this room is over. Go to the next."
Noor got up from the bed he had created, yawning. He looked around at what he had made over the past month and felt a flicker of pride. He had filled the sterile white space with a life of his own making. He had built a small, rustic wooden house, like one from an old village. Inside, he had furnished it with a couch, a chair, and a simple bathroom. He had created clothes of different colors, artistic decorations, and even paper and pens to write down his notes.
He gathered his notes and tools, dressed himself in a set of newly-made, primitive clothes—blue woolen pants, a black woolen shirt, and simple wooden shoes—and walked out of his hundred-meter house into the wider marble room.
"I hope the next room isn't worse than this one," he muttered to himself.
A soft, cunning laugh echoed from the walls, a sound only he could hear. He furrowed his brows. What was coming was definitely going to be worse.
He approached the far wall of the room, closed his eyes, and imagined a door with perfect clarity. It shimmered into existence before him. He opened his eyes, grasped the doorknob, and pulled. A barrage of light blinded him for a few seconds. When the light subsided, he found himself in another white room.
He sighed, a wave of despair and boredom washing over him. "Really? What's the difference?"
"Do not worry," the voice said. "The upcoming tests will be easier. You have been through the worst. All that remains is to test what you have learned. Are you ready?"
"Do I have another choice?" Noor replied sarcastically. "Let's begin."
"Excellent. The first test will be about your speed in imagination and aiming."
Suddenly, three stationary targets appeared before Noor, the kind used for firearm practice. He shrugged. "What do you want me to do with these?"
"You will aim at them," the voice said.
"I don't have a weapon. How am I supposed to do that?"
"Make one," the voice replied dryly, "and stop making me think you're the stupidest person I've ever seen."
Noor felt a flash of irritation but held his tongue. He thought about what kind of weapon he could create. Rifles, pistols, rocket launchers—all were far too complex. The only thing he could reliably make came to mind, and he felt a flush of embarrassment. What a primitive person you are, Noor.
"I'll make a bow and arrows," he sighed.
He imagined the bow, his fingers tracing its shape in the air as the light took form. He grasped the finished bow in his left hand and created an arrow for his right. He stepped forward, taking an aiming stance. The grip felt natural, familiar, as if he'd held one a thousand times before—a flicker of the life he couldn't remember. He drew the string, aimed, and released. The arrow flew true, striking the first target dead center.
"Excellent, Mr. Noor," the voice congratulated him. "It seems you're a professional."
Noor trained for four more months. Fitness, meditation, concentration, creation. He grew stronger, physically and mentally. He even learned to create a version of himself made of pure light, a phantom he could control at will. After the long training period, the voice told him he was finished. He couldn't believe it.
"You have completed your preparations," the voice said, its tone laced with its usual arrogance. "But there is one final, major test awaiting you. In fact, I can say that this next test will determine your fate."
Noor's face tightened. "What do you mean… a test that will determine my fate?"
"You will see. But to be honest, you may not leave here if you do not pass."
A shiver ran down his spine. "What do you mean I won't leave?" he shouted, his anger finally breaking through. "I've been held here by force, and now you're telling me I can't get out? Damn you and your tests!"
"Don't be angry. I believe you have a great chance of passing. This isn't flattery; I don't care about your life at all. But you learn quickly, and that will benefit you."
Noor fell silent, his rage simmering. What could this decisive test be? "Fine," he said, his voice tight. "Take me to this test now. I want out."
"Very well. Enter the elevator to your right."
Noor looked over and saw an elevator he hadn't noticed before. He stepped inside. The elevator descended from the fifth floor to the second and opened into a vast white arena, much larger than any of the rooms he'd been in. And he wasn't alone.
His eyes widened in astonishment. A mixture of relief, confusion, fear, and hope churned within him. There were other people here, about fifty of them, emerging from other elevators around the circular arena. And their appearances were strange—some had wings sprouting from their backs, others had faces of blue and red. They didn't look like normal people at all.
He cautiously approached the group, his senses on high alert. Men and women, all wearing the same simple clothes as him, were grabbing black sportswear from open boxes. He did the same.
They must have gone through what I went through, he thought. Do they all have powers like mine? What is this place? Some kind of super-soldier project? Are we the test subjects? I always wished for a superpower, but not like this. Especially since mine isn't that special. It takes so much training to master…
Suddenly, a voice boomed throughout the hall, cutting through his thoughts and the nervous whispers of the crowd.
"Welcome to the final stage. You are the ones who have managed to reach this point. To leave this place, you must pass this final test. But first, I must warn you: this test is the most difficult. And if you are not careful, you may meet your demise."