The city of Delhi glowed like a living organism, alive with flickering neon lights and holographic banners that stretched across the skyline. Towering screens pulsed with a single phrase in bold, golden letters:
"World Futurecraft Championship – September Trials Begin Now."
People gathered in cafés, on rooftops, in narrow alleyways, and in front of massive display screens. The energy was electric. Every conversation, every whisper, every heartbeat in the city seemed tied to those words.
For weeks, the world had been waiting for this announcement.
In 2025, professions were no longer "jobs." They had evolved into weapons, status symbols, and the foundation of survival itself. To be a doctor meant you could control nanobots that repaired flesh—or destroyed it. To be a gamer meant commanding AI swarms like digital armies. A chef wasn't just cooking food; they were masters of chemical gastronomy who could alter moods, stamina, and even thoughts through flavor. And coders? They were no longer mere engineers. They were "modern sorcerers," weaving logic into spells that bent the digital and physical worlds alike.
In this new age, your profession was your power.
The Trials of September were the proving ground. The World Futurecraft Championship (WFC) called upon the best minds, creators, and warriors of industry to battle in challenges where skills became combat. The winners earned fame, wealth, and control of entire industries. The losers disappeared into obscurity—or worse.
But far away from the glowing city centers, in a dusty corner of Uttar Pradesh, a young man sat silently in a dimly lit room.
Sunil Kumar.
Twenty-two years old. Son of a farmer. Graduate of nothing but hardships. He wasn't famous. He wasn't wealthy. He wasn't even noticed. To the world, he was ordinary—just another face lost in the crowd of billions.
Yet on this night, his life was about to be rewritten.
The cracked screen of his old phone buzzed to life. The signal in his village was weak, yet the notification came through clear, as though carried by destiny itself.
[Congratulations! You have been selected for the September Trials. Welcome to the World Futurecraft Championship.]
For a moment, Sunil thought it was a joke, a cruel prank someone from the nearby town had played on him. His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing.
"No… this can't be real," he muttered under his breath.
But the seal of the WFC was there, glowing golden on his display. The official crest of the most powerful competition in the world.
His heart pounded.
He had applied months ago, not out of hope, but desperation. He remembered sitting in his room, staring at the endless list of requirements. Applicants were supposed to showcase their professional abilities, upload portfolios, demonstrate their unique edge. Sunil had none of that.
What he had submitted instead was a simple, raw message:
"I may not have tools. I may not have money. But I have the will to fight. Give me one chance."
And somehow, impossibly, they had answered.
---
The phone buzzed again.
[Your first appearance is required in Delhi within 72 hours. Failure to attend will result in automatic disqualification.]
The words hit him like thunder.
Delhi. Seventy-two hours.
He barely had money to travel to the nearest town, let alone reach the capital. His family had debts piling up like mountains, his father's health was declining, and his mother's tired hands carried the weight of the household. His friends had left for cities long ago, chasing better futures.
How could he possibly leave?
Yet, deep in his chest, something stirred. A voice he hadn't heard in years.
"You wanted a chance, Sunil. This is it."
---
Morning came quickly. The village awoke to the sound of roosters and the smell of wet earth. Sunil stepped outside, the phone heavy in his pocket. He watched as his mother bent over the cooking fire, her hair streaked with gray that hadn't been there a year ago. His father sat coughing in the corner, his once-strong arms now frail.
"Beta," his mother said softly, looking at him with tired but loving eyes, "you were awake all night again?"
Sunil forced a smile. "Just thinking, Ma."
She shook her head gently, not pressing him further. But he knew. She had seen the message on his phone when it lit up the room last night. She hadn't said anything, but her silence was heavy.
Finally, his father spoke, his voice hoarse but steady.
"You should go."
Sunil turned sharply. "What?"
His father looked at him, eyes filled with quiet determination. "I know what that message means. Don't think I don't. This family has carried the burden of failure for too long. If you've been chosen, then it is not by mistake. Go, Sunil. Show them who you are."
"But… we don't even have the money for the trip. How—"
His father raised a trembling hand. "We will find a way. You just need to have the courage to take the first step."
His mother looked away, tears welling in her eyes. "If you go… will you come back the same?" she whispered.
Sunil swallowed hard, unable to answer.
---
By afternoon, word had spread. The boy from Tendua village, chosen for the WFC September Trials. Some neighbors laughed, calling it impossible. Others envied him. A few silently prayed for his success.
With what little money his family scraped together—selling two goats and borrowing from a distant uncle—Sunil bought a ticket to Delhi. The bus ride was long, the road rough, but he hardly noticed. His mind was consumed by a mix of fear and excitement.
The Trials. The stage where the greatest talents of the modern world clashed. And somehow, he, a nobody, was going to stand among them.
But what profession did he even have?
That question gnawed at him.
The competitors were doctors, coders, engineers, traders, creators—people with tangible, recognized skills. Sunil had none of these. He wasn't a genius, wasn't certified, wasn't trained.
So why had they chosen him?
---
Three days later, Delhi greeted him with chaos. Towers of glass rose into the sky, covered with holographic ads. Self-driving cars hummed down crowded roads. Drones buzzed overhead, carrying packages and flashing news updates.
But the most breathtaking sight was the WFC Stadium.
It stood like a colossus at the city's heart, a glowing sphere of steel and light, alive with the roar of tens of thousands of people. Flags of different nations fluttered above it. Giant screens projected the faces of competitors from across the world—young, talented, confident.
Sunil's throat tightened as he saw them. Each looked powerful, dressed in sleek uniforms, their eyes burning with ambition. And then he saw his own reflection on the screen—an ordinary boy in a faded shirt, clutching a worn-out backpack.
The contrast was humiliating. He wanted to turn and run. But something in his chest refused. His father's words echoed:
"Show them who you are."
---
Inside, the stadium was overwhelming. Thousands of competitors filled the arena floor. Screens floated in the air, displaying stats, rankings, and names. A booming voice echoed through the hall, amplified by hidden speakers.
"Welcome, challengers, to the September Trials of 2025!"
The crowd roared.
"This year, over twenty million applied. Only five hundred were chosen. You are the best, the brightest, the most daring of your generation!"
Sunil's stomach twisted. He didn't belong here. He was a mistake in the system.
"Each of you represents a profession, a skill, a futurecraft," the voice continued. "But only one will rise as the champion, earning wealth, recognition, and power beyond imagination."
The competitors around him straightened, eyes blazing. Some whispered strategies. Others laughed confidently. A few glanced at him and smirked.
"What's he doing here?" one of them muttered. "Looks like they let a villager in by accident."
Sunil clenched his fists. Shame burned his face, but he stayed silent.
Then, the screens shifted.
[Round One: Reveal Your Profession.]
Gasps rippled through the arena. One by one, competitors stepped forward.
A doctor summoned a swarm of glittering nanobots that danced in the air.
A coder tapped their wrist device, projecting streams of living code that bent into glowing weapons.
A chef produced a vial of liquid that burst into colored smoke, altering the heartbeat of everyone nearby.
The crowd cheered. The stadium shook with applause.
Sunil's turn drew closer. His palms sweated, his legs trembled.
What could he possibly reveal? He had no tools, no gadgets, no profession.
When his name flashed on the screen—"Sunil Kumar: Profession ???"—the crowd erupted in laughter.
Even the announcer hesitated. "It seems… our next challenger has not declared a profession?"
All eyes turned to him. Thousands of stares. Some mocking, some curious, all piercing.
Sunil stepped forward, heart pounding. His mind screamed to run. But deep inside, that voice rose again—the same voice that had carried him from his village to this stage.
"Don't bow your head. This is your moment."
He raised his hand.
"I… I may not have a profession the world recognizes," he said, his voice shaking but clear. "But I have something stronger. I have the power to learn, to fight, to adapt. I am not a doctor, a coder, or a gamer. I am something new. Something you haven't seen yet."
The crowd murmured, confused. The announcer frowned. "And what, exactly, do you call this… profession?"
Sunil took a deep breath. His answer rang across the arena.
"Survivor."
Silence. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then laughter broke out, cruel and loud.
"Survivor? That's not a profession!"
"He's insane."
"Send him home already."
But as the crowd jeered, the central screen flickered. A voice, deeper and colder than the announcer's, echoed through the stadium.
"Interesting… A profession unregistered. An anomaly."
The competitors froze. Even the announcer fell silent.
"Very well. Let us see how this… 'Survivor' survives."
The lights dimmed. The arena floor shifted, metal plates grinding as the ground transformed into a battlefield.
Round One had begun.
And Sunil, the boy with no profession, was about to fight for his life.
---
The lights dimmed. The arena floor rumbled as massive steel plates shifted, forming a battlefield full of traps, towers, and shifting platforms. Competitors gasped, their abilities flaring like sparks in the dark.
And then, a cold mechanical voice thundered from the central screen:
"Round One begins now. Objective: Survive."
The word echoed like a curse.
Sunil's heart hammered. His profession had been laughed at, dismissed as worthless. But now, the first trial was survival itself. The irony wasn't lost on him—this was his only chance to prove that "Survivor" wasn't a joke.
The crowd roared, the ground shook, and deadly machines rose from the earth. Competitors unleashed their powers, filling the arena with chaos.
Sunil stood frozen for a single breath.
Then the question burned in his mind:
👉 "Can I truly survive against the strongest professions in the world… or will this be the end before I even begin?"
Listen to be continued next episode