The afternoon sun slanted through the large windows of the physics classroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The hum of the ceiling fan did little to combat the sweltering Jakarta heat, and most students were already in a state of semi-hibernation, their minds drifting towards the final bell. But Eric was locked in.
Their teacher, Mr. Budi, a stout man with a contagious enthusiasm for his subject, clapped his hands together, the sound cutting through the lethargy.
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" he announced, his voice booming. "Before we finish, I have an important announcement. As you know, every year our school sends representatives to the OSN, the Olimpiade Sains Nasional. This year, the selection process for the Physics team begins next week."
A murmur rippled through the classroom. The OSN was the pinnacle of academic competition in Indonesia, a legendary arena where the brightest minds clashed.
"We will hold a school-wide preliminary test," Mr. Budi continued, his eyes scanning the faces before him. "It will be open to any student from any grade who wishes to participate. From that test, only the top two students will be chosen. Those two will form our school's team, receive intensive training from me, and go on to compete at the city level. Registration forms are on my desk. Think it over."
To demonstrate the kind of thinking required, Mr. Budi turned to the whiteboard. "A quick warm-up. Imagine a cannonball is fired at an angle theta with an initial velocity v-naught. Who can give me the formula for its maximum height, assuming no air resistance?"
Before the question had even fully settled in the air, a hand shot up. It was Adrian.
He sat three rows ahead of Eric, his posture ramrod straight, his uniform immaculate. Adrian was the undisputed king of science in their grade, a walking, talking encyclopedia with a reputation for flawless test scores. He didn't just answer questions; he conquered them.
"Yes, Adrian?" Mr. Budi smiled.
"The formula for maximum height is H equals initial velocity squared times the sine of theta squared, all divided by two times the gravitational acceleration," Adrian recited, his voice clear and confident. "H = (v₀² * sin²θ) / (2g). It is derived on page 78 of our primary textbook."
A few students let out low whistles of admiration. Mr. Budi nodded, impressed. "Excellent. Perfectly stated."
But as Adrian spoke, Eric's mind was somewhere else entirely. He wasn't thinking of page numbers. In his head, he saw the cannonball leaving the muzzle. He saw the initial velocity vector, v₀, instantly splitting into its horizontal (vx) and vertical (vy) components. He visualized the vy vector shrinking as the cannonball rose, fighting against the constant downward pull of the g vector, until it became zero at the very peak of the arc—the apex. That was the maximum height. Adrian's formula was the end result, a static snapshot. Eric saw the entire dynamic journey.
And that's the ideal case, Eric thought, his gaze unfocused. The real world was messier. He mentally added a new vector: F_d, the force of drag, pointing opposite the cannonball's direction of motion. It wasn't a constant force; it would grow stronger as the cannonball sped up. The perfect parabola would warp, becoming asymmetrical. And what if the cannonball were rifled? If it was spinning? He visualized the air flowing faster over one side than the other, creating a pressure differential. The Magnus effect. A new, sideways force vector would appear, causing the cannonball to curve. Adrian's answer was a sterile, textbook photograph. Eric was watching the chaotic, beautiful, high-definition movie of reality.
The bell shrieked, releasing them from class. As they packed their bags, Tom clapped Eric on the back.
"Man, that Adrian guy is a machine," Tom said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Page 78! Who even remembers that? You sure you want to go up against him in the OSN?"
Dian, zipping up his backpack, looked at Eric with a more thoughtful expression. "His answer was fast," he mused, "but was it… complete? It felt like he just read a definition. You always try to see the whole picture."
Dian's words struck a chord. It wasn't just about being fast; it was about being right in the deepest sense.
Later that evening, Eric sat at his desk, the OSN registration form lying on a clean page in his notebook. The simple piece of paper felt heavy, a gateway. This wasn't just another test. This was the first real step on the path he had chosen two years ago. This was the first time he could truly measure himself, to see if his way of thinking—his pursuit of deep understanding over rote memorization—could actually compete. With a steady hand, he filled in his name: Eric Chris.
His mother, Linda, came into his room with a plate of sliced mangoes. She saw the form on his desk, her smile tightening slightly.
"OSN Fisika?" she asked, her voice gentle but laced with concern. "Eric, this is very competitive. Don't push yourself too hard. Your grades in other subjects are important too, you know."
"I know, Ma," he said, not looking up. "But I have to do this."
His mother sighed, placing the plate on his desk. "Just promise me you'll remember to rest."
The next day at school, a crowd was gathered around the main announcement board. A fresh sheet of paper had been posted, listing the names of the students who had signed up for the preliminary physics test. There were names from grade 11, and even a few ambitious ones from grade 12. Eric pushed through the small crowd to see the list. His eyes scanned down the column of names.
And there they were, at the very bottom of the list, the last two to register.
Adrian.
Eric Chris.
The battle was on.