The third stage began.
A strange stillness swallowed the arena. Even the air felt heavier, thick, metallic, expectant. I wasn't sure Zoah knew anything about drugs, let alone poison. My throat tightened. I couldn't even whisper a proper prayer.
Crystal goblets were passed around.
No explanations. No labels.
"Drink."
The rule was simple: refuse, and you were eliminated.
No one refused.
Thirty-five competitors raised their glasses and swallowed their fate.
A man ascended the stage with unhurried steps. He adjusted the microphone, cleared his throat, and smiled a thin, almost courteous smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Distinguished competitors," he began smoothly, "as stated earlier, this stage is only for the bravest of the brave."
A pause.
"What you have just consumed is poison. It will take effect in five minutes."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"You have no idea," he continued softly, "how dangerously potent it is."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Panic crawled across faces. The judges were deranged. All this for a single herb? This was no competition. It was slaughter dressed as entertainment.
The man raised a hand for quiet.
"The substance you are about to refine is the antidote. You have five minutes to prepare it correctly… or you die."
He let the words settle like ash.
"We are not completely heartless," he added, almost kindly. "If you believe you cannot refine the antidote, you may quit. An already prepared cure will be given to you. But if you choose pride over prudence and fail…" He shrugged. "Your death will not be in our hands."
He bowed and left the stage as if he had just announced a tea break.
Five competitors rose immediately.
They chose life over pride.
The rest remained seated, frozen between terror and ambition.
"This is insanity," someone hissed. "How do we refine an antidote to a poison we don't even know? The ingredients aren't even introduced!"
No one answered.
Tables were rolled out. Instruments gleamed under harsh white lights. Bowls of unidentified herbs and powders were placed before each trembling candidate.
Five minutes.
A countdown began.
The third stage made the previous ones look merciful.
Each level had grown darker, more merciless, like descending deeper into a pit where light no longer followed.
Faces told their own stories. Some were already defeated, pale with surrender. Others sat motionless, minds blank, hands shaking. A few, just a few, leaned forward with fierce determination, hands already working.
I searched for Zoah.
He stood at his table, expressionless. No panic. No hesitation.
At least he was moving.
Please, I thought. Don't fail. Not after coming this far. Not when Violet, whoever she was, needed those herbs to survive.
Three minutes left.
Sweat beaded on brows. Glass clinked against glass. Mortars pounded desperately. The air filled with smoke and sharp, bitter scents.
Then...
At exactly one minute remaining, a deafening explosion tore through the hall.
The blast echoed like a gunshot. Flames leapt. I shut my eyes instantly.
Please not Zoah.
When I forced them open, it wasn't him.
A competitor lay coughing amid shattered glass and ruined mixtures. His concoction had combusted.
He had failed. Disqualified.
But he wasn't the last.
Another explosion erupted.
Then another.
Panic spread faster than the poison in their veins. Hands trembled. Measurements faltered. The spectators began screaming; some in horror, some in savage thrill.
This was madness.
By the fourth minute, twenty competitors had already been disqualified, some for quitting, others for failure, a few for detonations that left smoke curling toward the rafters like dark omens.
Time was bleeding out.
And somewhere among the chaos, Zoah was still working.
I smiled, softly, cautiously but the expression died the instant it was born.
Hope had barely begun to stir in the charged air when the impossible happened.
At exactly four minutes and thirty-five seconds, another explosion tore through the arena, louder than all the others, a violent roar that swallowed breath and thought alike.
An uproar erupted. Heads turned in frantic unison as the realization struck: it had come from one of today's champions.
God… no. Not Zoah.
He had fought too hard, bled too much, sacrificed too greatly to fall now.
But fate is merciless.
The smoke cleared, and with it, my fragile denial. It was Zoah. Disqualified, mere minutes before victory. Snatched from the brink of triumph and hurled back into despair.
I turned to Uncle, desperate for intervention, for some hidden clause, some miracle. But even he stood powerless. The verdict was sealed.
Zoah's journey was over.
He would have to wait until next year.
Next year.
The words felt like a death sentence. Violet would not survive until next year. Even if he somehow gathered the remaining three herbs, without this one Herb B, her cure was impossible.
And with her gone…
So would be my chance.
No. That could not be the end. I refused to let it be.
There had to be another way.
Zoah approached us then, silent, rigid. His jaw was clenched; his eyes burned with quiet devastation. The officials handed him the already made antidote, a hollow consolation prize.
I looked at Uncle.
"We need a new plan," Zoah said at last, his voice low but resolute. "I can't wait until next year."
Uncle exhaled slowly. "There is only one other way to obtain that herb," he replied. "Unless you intend to steal it from whoever wins."
The idea settled between us like a dark invitation.
Stealing it would have been simple, if not for one complication.
The Water Bender Champion.
And then the five minutes elapsed. Only five competitors qualified for the next stage.
Among them… the Water Bender.
A chill ran through me. I whispered a prayer that he would lose the next round. If he claimed victory, stealing Herb B would become nearly impossible.
Janitors entered to clear the wreckage. The tension had barely thinned when a sudden shout split the air.
The judges rushed forward.
My heart nearly stopped when I saw what had drawn their attention.
The antidote pill resting on the table was blue.
It was supposed to be white.
The original antidote, the true formula, was blue. A masterpiece of refinement so complex that only one had been successfully produced in the last fifty years. It required the combined brilliance of four legendary scientists to perfect it.
And yet...
There it lay.
Fresh. Perfect.
Forged by a single mind in the chaos of competition.
Zoah's table.
For a heartbeat, the world fell silent.
Then I screamed, half sob, half laughter, as realization crashed over me.
Zoah had done it.
In the midst of panic and ruin, he had recreated a formula untouched for decades.
Just like that, his disqualification was overturned. He was reinstated, qualified for the next stage.
The arena buzzed with shock and awe.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that by morning his name would blaze across every headline, every newspaper, every magazine.
Zoah was no longer merely a contender.
He was becoming a legend.