Chapter 5: Competition
Second Trial: Planks
After resting and recovering as much strength as possible, the teams were lined up and left waiting. In total, one member from each team stood spread across the large field while the professor's assistants went to fetch exercise mats.
The plank was an exercise both Beltrán and the owner of his alternate memories knew very well. Unfortunately for Beltrán, that knowledge would offer little more than slight support in enduring the pain.
The exercise consisted of supporting oneself on both forearms against the ground, using the feet as the second point of support while keeping the back as straight as possible. It was a basic endurance exercise, yet notoriously torturous, as the pain usually began building after barely thirty seconds.
"Beltrán!"
A familiar voice called out.
Beltrán, who was waiting for his mat, immediately recognized Larson's voice. The boy stood off to the side along with the others who would not be participating in the trial. Irritated, Beltrán turned toward the more physically developed youth.
"I hope you're not getting full of yourself just because a teacher praised you," Larson said mockingly. "Anyone can impress a teacher once. For your own good, don't try to stand out too much."
Beltrán stared at him for a few brief moments, his disdainful gaze fixed on the taller boy.
For an instant, ignoring the comment seemed like the wiser option. Keeping a low profile and pretending everything was fine as long as no one bothered him—that cautious instinct, inherited from the owner of his alternate memories, whispered that as long as he didn't stand out, no one would have a reason to target him.
However, Beltrán's volatile emotions and contradictory nature pushed him to answer. To challenge Larson. To provoke him.
It didn't take long for him to find a reason.
If he didn't force change, then everything would remain exactly as it was.
If this were only about grades or social standing, he wouldn't care. But Larson—and the others—believed they could trample him, despise him, humiliate him endlessly, pushing him until he reacted and stooped to their level.
And then what?
They would win.
You need to be smarter, Beltrán.
He told himself, barely keeping his impulsive nature restrained through sheer reason.
"Strong words from someone whose only distinguishing trait is being bigger and fatter than everyone else," Beltrán replied simply.
Silence fell over the area.
The other children turned to look.
Larson's smile twisted, baring his teeth in a feral expression as his jaw tightened. For a brief moment, Beltrán was reminded of videos of agitated monkeys.
Larson took a step forward—then abruptly stopped.
His expression returned to normal.
"Clever," Larson said flatly. "I'll break you when the time comes. I think that's when you'll finally understand your place in this institute."
Beltrán resisted the urge to click his tongue.
Larson had reached the same conclusion he had, restraining himself from acting impulsively.
He might appear to be all muscle and no thought, but Beltrán knew better. Larson possessed sharp instincts, capable of reaching complex conclusions with surprising speed—perhaps even faster than Beltrán himself.
Beltrán sighed inwardly while outwardly pretending to ignore him.
Inside, however, resentment pressed hard against his reason.
In this trial, Beltrán did not stand out, placing around the average among the students.
The only noteworthy detail was that the same two boys he had noticed earlier lasted the longest. Like Beltrán, they had been allowed to participate despite lacking full teams.
At best, Beltrán managed to keep pace with the average.
His body was still weak due to his prana deficiency. Physically, he knew he lagged behind the others.
Everything hurts.
His forearms.
His back.
Even after the previous trials, the pain had not faded. Massaging his sore muscles, Beltrán sat down, still refusing to give up.
Third Trial: Sack Carrying and Shield Dragging
Beltrán cursed under his breath when he heard the name of the next trial.
He glanced at his trembling forearms. Blocking the instructor's attacks and supporting himself during the planks had left a persistent ache.
Taking slow breaths, he tried to think of a way to conserve energy as the trial was explained.
The exercise consisted of two stages and required two participants.
The first participant had to carry a heavy sack roughly fifteen meters to their teammate. Upon contact, the second participant would equip a shield and run back to the starting point. Then they would reverse roles, returning the sack and switching again.
The trial demanded physical condition, endurance, and coordination.
Since he was alone, coordination wouldn't be an issue.
But in exchange, he would have to perform nearly twice as much work.
Still displeased, Beltrán quickly began forming a strategy.
He didn't need to be the best.
He just needed to avoid being among the worst.
"Ready… Begin!" Professor Axcel shouted.
The selected students surged forward, lifting the sandbags in various ways. Some slung them over their shoulders, others hugged them to their chests, while some hoisted them repeatedly in short bursts.
None of these methods seemed especially wrong.
However, Axcel quickly noticed something peculiar.
Beltrán, visibly exhausted from the previous trials, advanced at a much slower pace.
And the way he carried the sack was… unusual.
How is he even doing that?
Axcel—and the other instructors—watched in stunned silence.
The sandbag rested atop Beltrán's head.
Balanced.
Stable.
He walked calmly, much slower than the others, allowing the weight to settle naturally across his back and distribute more efficiently.
Yet the balance he maintained was remarkable.
"Hahahaha!"
Laughter erupted immediately.
The other children pointed at him, mocking the bizarre method.
As the distance closed, the first wave of students reached their partners and handed off the load.
The second group grabbed their shields and sprinted back.
By the time the first runners began heading back, Beltrán had only just reached the exchange point.
Most of the others were already halfway through their return.
A rather peculiar method… but eccentricity doesn't equal efficiency…
Axcel muttered.
Once Beltrán secured the shield to his forearm, he started running.
The shield swung awkwardly at first, threatening to throw him off balance.
So he adjusted.
He moved his forearm behind his back, letting the shield rest against it while he jogged, minimizing its movement.
Because of the way the trial was designed, Beltrán had a severe disadvantage in the final stage. To compensate, he was allowed to reverse the order using a second set of equipment prepared in advance.
By the time Beltrán had crossed half the course, most students had already completed their exchanges.
Some forced themselves onward despite exhaustion.
Others paused briefly to catch their breath.
Axcel narrowed his eyes.
Beltrán, despite starting at a major disadvantage, maintained the same slow but steady rhythm.
And that consistency was closing the gap.
So he conserved most of his strength for this moment. But will it be enough?
Axcel understood something important.
They were still children.
Beltrán lacked the physical conditioning and experience to dominate outright.
This was the kind of trial Axcel disliked most—when individual ingenuity was often crushed beneath sheer numbers and brute effort.
By the time Beltrán reached the exchange point again, he was exhausted.
He dropped the shield.
His body trembled.
Sweat poured down his face, his lungs burned, and his skin had gone pale enough to make Axcel hesitate.
For a moment, the professor considered stopping him.
But whether it was the boy's stubborn determination—or simple curiosity—
He didn't intervene.
My body feels heavy. I think I'm pushing too hard.
Beltrán muttered inwardly.
Still, he couldn't stop.
Lifting the sack again, he adjusted it onto his back.
He nearly stumbled.
His coordination was poor.
His reflexes and training were nowhere near those of an adult.
He hated being trapped in a child's body.
But he kept moving.
Not yet… come on, body. Give me a little more. I haven't treated you well today, but what doesn't kill me makes me stronger.
When the seemingly endless distance finally ended, Beltrán wanted nothing more than to collapse.
But he refused.
Defeat wasn't a luxury he could afford.
He grabbed the shield and tightened the strap around his forearm with his teeth.
The pain snapped him back into focus.
Come on. You can do this.
He encouraged himself and pushed forward.
At this point, some spectators began to notice.
The gap that had once been over half the course had shrunk to less than a quarter.
Beltrán used every ounce of his remaining strength.
The other students, many of whom had already slowed down or stopped entirely, stared in disbelief.
"How did Beltrán get so fast?" a girl asked, frowning.
From their perspective, the distance that had once separated them no longer seemed to matter.
"Beltrán isn't faster," said a boy with dark hair and violet eyes. "He's probably moving at the same speed he was from the start."
The same boy who had taken first place in the plank trial stood nearby with his arms crossed.
After a pause, he added:
"Look carefully. The others are the ones who slowed down."
The children turned back toward the field.
And this time, they understood.
Compared to the beginning, everyone else had slowed dramatically—slow enough for Beltrán to steadily close the gap.
In the final stretch, most students crossed the finish line almost simultaneously.
Including Beltrán.
The moment he crossed, he collapsed to the ground.
Completely drained.
The instructors moved to assist those who couldn't finish.
Axcel approached Beltrán and helped him stand.
The boy looked disoriented, on the verge of vomiting.
"…Give me a moment," Beltrán muttered weakly.
Without insisting, Axcel stepped back.
Beltrán gagged a couple of times but managed to hold it back.
After several seconds, he straightened himself.
"You should rest for the next trial," Axcel said heavily. "You placed fourth in this one."
For a moment, I forgot… he's competing alone against teams of two.
Beltrán, who had never stood out before, had surpassed many through sheer ingenuity and endurance.
Even some instructors had taken notice.
Beltrán nodded.
After catching his breath, he said:
"I'll rest this one… but let me participate in the others."
Axcel frowned.
Could he really stop him now?
He had already underestimated the boy once.
Seeing some color return to Beltrán's face, the professor finally relented.
Fourth Trial: Team Combat
Each team selected one participant.
From them, five groups of four were formed.
Each group had a base marked by a flag.
Victory could be achieved by capturing an enemy flag and bringing it back to one's own base.
Participants were given small sticks coated with colored dye to simulate weapons. A strike to the chest forced the "defeated" player to return to their base.
Strong blows were prohibited.
Beltrán watched from a distance.
Most teams performed similarly.
Except one.
A boy with dark blue hair and glasses remained at his base, issuing orders.
He directed strategies with precision.
Sacrificing teammates to create openings.
Dividing forces between defense and counterattacks.
He has talent for strategy.
Beltrán thought.
He had rarely paid attention to his classmates before, preferring isolation.
That team won decisively, nearly doubling the points of the others.
Beltrán had rested enough to participate again.
As he stood, he felt an uncomfortable sensation.
He turned.
The violet-eyed boy was staring directly at him.
For several seconds, they held each other's gaze.
Then the boy simply looked away.
A faint chill ran down Beltrán's spine.
Those two give me a bad feeling.
Fifth Trial: Fencing Duels
This trial consisted of sparring matches with training weapons.
Each student was assigned an opponent and a short wooden sword.
An instructor supervised each match, determining who landed the first clean hit.
The goal was to score three points before the opponent.
Fortunately for Beltrán, Larson did not participate.
If he had, there would have been little Beltrán could do.
Larson was taller, stronger, and had greater reach.
Beltrán's body remembered every defeat.
No amount of adult memory could overcome that physical disparity.
His assigned opponent was Stuart.
A classmate with ash-colored hair and amber eyes.
Stuart despised weakness.
But what he hated even more were those who played the victim in situations of their own making.
To him, Beltrán had always seemed like a weak link propped up by family status.
Not worthy of respect.
Not worth noticing.
Yet now, he hesitated.
Beltrán had planted doubt in his mind earlier that day.
Am I the only one paying attention? No… everyone just assumes he's a loser and ignores everything else.
Cautious, Stuart suppressed his usual aggression.
Curiosity replaced it.
"Take your positions," ordered a broad, bald instructor.
Both boys stepped forward.
They were handed padded wooden short swords.
Basic stance.
Both hands on the weapon.
Blade pointed forward.
One foot ahead, one behind.
Slightly angled.
They stood two and a half meters apart.
Watching each other.
"Begin!"
Beltrán waited.
Just for a moment.
Letting Stuart make the first move.
Stuart advanced cautiously, testing the distance with a couple of slashes.
Beltrán retreated.
Again.
And again.
Stuart remained calm.
His steps grew longer.
More deliberate.
Got you.
He believed he had predicted Beltrán's next move.
Beltrán would retreat again.
So Stuart lunged forward.
But Beltrán didn't step back.
He moved in.
Twisting his body sideways, he slipped past the attack.
His hand slid halfway along the blade—
And he struck Stuart squarely in the chest.
Stuart stumbled.
Then fell.
"Point for Beltrán."
Stuart stared at the ground in confusion.
Slowly understanding.
His gaze returned to Beltrán, who had already reset his stance.
I'm surprised I made it through that in one piece.
The duel continued.
Beltrán relied on deception and timing.
But even so—
Fighting a child wasn't easy.
Fatigue slowed him.
Even when his tricks worked, his movements lacked speed.
In the end:
2–3.
Victory for Beltrán.
Stuart exhaled sharply.
He had always considered himself above average in fencing.
And yet—
Beltrán had beaten him.
Returning to his group, his friends immediately surrounded him.
"He really beat you?"
"Give me three minutes—I'd crush him."
"Relax, he must've used some trick."
Stuart barely responded.
His gaze drifted toward Beltrán, who was crouched nearby, trying to recover.
…I guess it was fair.
He admitted it silently.
Beltrán had earned that much.