Without warning, a massive holographic projection bloomed in the sky. On screen, the Academy's president, Ferrero—hair gone white, a short white beard—appeared above the crowd of ten thousand below, all poised to begin.
"I am Ferrero, president of the Alliance Second Military Academy." Seated in a red, silk‑upholstered, carved wooden office chair, elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced supporting his chin, he spoke with a severe expression.
Though not young, his voice was sonorous, every word carrying clearly to every ear across the desert below.
"This year's entrance exam is the same as ever: one month. From this moment, you need only remain on this simulated planet for one month. Those still here one month from now—congratulations, you will be students of the Alliance Second Military Academy."
Just that simple?
Hearing President Ferrero, Lan Grace didn't buy it for a second. Only a fool would.
She had been on this planet a day already—hadn't it been perfectly uneventful?
If merely staying a month sufficed, then out of the ten thousand present at least half would be left at the end.
"Now, everyone will temporarily hand over any personal space‑storage device. The Academy will issue each examinee three days' worth of nutrient solution and a signal button."
As President Ferrero spoke, the sand at everyone's feet began to shiver and whisper.
Something was coming out of the sand!
Lan Grace stared, eyes wide, at the movement by her feet. In the space of a few breaths, a dense swarm of fist‑sized spherical robots drilled up out of the sand.
The bright‑silver little robots had slender arms. Each hugged a black metal box; anti‑grav lifted them aloft. They drifted to every examinee on site, issuing the metal box to each while also collecting everyone's space‑storage device.
President Ferrero wasn't done.
"During the assessment, tasks will be issued at random. If you encounter danger, turning off the signal button will allow you to escape the crisis—at the cost of leaving this planet, of course."
On the light‑screen, President Ferrero's mouth curled in a grin. He seemed in rather good humour.
"And lastly—wishing everyone a happy exam."
How could an exam be "happy"?
Lan Grace felt it was pure irony.
This assessment was under the president's personal eye. The only one "happy" would be him—watching the show.
The colossal light‑screen vanished the instant his words fell. Listening to Ferrero's last sentence, Lan Grace finally grasped the crux of the exam.
Each person had only three days of nutrient solution—yet they had to remain on this planet for a month.
Which meant that, to last the month, people would have to seize others' nutrient solution.
At that rate, ten thousand candidates would soon shrink to a mere thousand.
And that was a generous, evenly‑spread estimate!
Reality wouldn't be so tidy.
Within these ten thousand, nutrient solution would be consumed day by day.
Adding other factors, Lan Grace made a quick calculation: in just three days, the ten‑plus thousand here would rapidly dwindle to only five to eight hundred!
In other words, the native Waste Star examinees were essentially "walking ammo" in others' assessments—carrying nutrient solution for the taking.
Three days later, with more than twenty days still remaining, competition among the examinees would only grow fiercer.
When the month was up, those left would be fewer still…
To Lan Grace, this entrance exam tested not only individual strength, but more besides—connections, and a clever head, for instance.
With good connections, one could quickly ally with the strong—greatly reducing the odds of being robbed.
With a sharp mind, one could steer towards fortune and away from calamity, perhaps dodging the worst of the first three days' slaughter and finding a chance to turn the tables later.
As Lan Grace was thinking, the exam had already begun.
More than three thousand Academy examinees moved like wolves into a flock, plunging into the black mass of Waste Star natives—seizing began!
Another portion of the quick‑witted had clearly grasped the rules and scattered at once—fleeing this right‑and‑wrong place.
The natives from the Waste Stars, meanwhile, rather than resist outsiders, turned on their own—preying first on those from Waste Stars like themselves!
Lan Grace blinked at the sight, then immediately understood why.
The natives' physical fitness bore no comparison to the truly qualified examinees.
Lacking strength, they could not fight those people—so they could only raise their hands against their own.
In a melee like this, the outcome was already foregone the moment it began.
Lan Grace did her utmost to avoid the fighting.
This was no place to linger. Her goal was clear: get out of the melee fast.
She had some luck. In her flight, the few opponents she met were roughly on her level—none managed to snatch away the metal box holding her nutrient solution and signal button.
She was just about to escape the brawl's outer edge when the light before her dimmed—a tall body blocked her path.
Looking up, she saw a burly man at least two metres tall in a blue‑and‑silver training combat suit, not unlike the tracksuit sets from her era. Close‑cropped hair; a hulking build; an excited grin on his face as he looked at her.
"I've had my eye on you for ages! You're the best‑looking one! I must catch you! Haha—"
Lan Grace: "???"
Was this guy brain‑damaged?
"I'm Chen Cheng. Remember it—I'm the one who'll take your supplies."
With that, the burly Chen Cheng lunged, a big hand snatching at the metal box in Lan Grace's grip.
His altitude had stunned her for a beat, but the instant he moved, she reacted—clutching the box and bolting—even if it meant veering back towards the melee's heart.
"Hey? Don't run. I only want your nutrient solution—I won't turn off your signal button and strip you of your qualification!"
Hearing him, Lan Grace was all the more convinced his head wasn't right.
There were so many Waste Star natives around—yet he just had to chase her.