Chapter 458: The First Day of the Trials
Cold commands echoed through the vox-casters scattered across the camp, devoid of any emotional color, transmitting clearly into the ears of every candidate.
"The first round of trials officially begins. All candidates are to immediately divest themselves of all non-issued wargear and belongings. Any form of unauthorized implants, once detected, will result in immediate disqualification."
The moment the order was issued, the pre-deployed scanning arrays within the camp activated synchronously. Invisible augur waves swept across the gathered crowd.
Several servo-skulls hovered at low altitude, their sensors emitting a faint hum as they assisted in precise identification.
A brief commotion arose in the scene, which was quickly quelled under the silent and majestic gaze of the Black Templars warriors.
The candidates began to act, placing their personal belongings at their feet—from the exquisite ornaments and hidden holdout weapons of the nobility, to the variously concealed tools and crude electronic devices of the underhive gang members.
The true elimination occurred during the implant detection phase.
As the scanning beams swept over the bodies of some candidates, data interfaces implanted in their wrists or the back of their necks, sub-dermal enhancements, or sensors disguised as scars triggered alarms one after another.
The supervising Tech-Priest apprentices calmly recorded their designation numbers, while the Skitarii soldiers standing by stepped forward, signaling the marked individuals to leave the formation.
The eliminated mostly came from the noble families of the upper hive or gangs with certain resources in the underhive.
Among them, some instantly turned pale, while others attempted to argue, claiming these implants were "necessary medical equipment" or "family traditions."
However, all appeals seemed pale and powerless before the Adeptus Mechanicus's cold scanning data and the unflinching gazes of the Black Templars.
Rules were rules.
Approximately a hundred candidates, bearing unwillingness and humiliation, were escorted out of the camp under the watchful eyes of the crowd.
Their trial had ended before it even began.
The remaining candidates were still massive in number, but the atmosphere had visibly grown heavier.
They were ordered to strip off their original clothing and change into rough, grey cloth robes uniformly distributed by the camp.
This fabric chafed against their skin and offered virtually no protective capabilities.
Subsequently, everyone was issued an identical standard-issue dagger.
The metallic material of the daggers was ordinary, and the edge was barely sharpened. Gripped in hand, they felt heavy and clumsy; rather than weapons, they were more akin to tools.
"The parameters of the trial." A Black Templar warrior stepped forward, his voice transmitting through his helmet's speakers like grinding stone. "Traverse the irradiated wasteland ahead and reach the designated coordinate point. Linear distance: one hundred kilometers. Time limit: seventy-two standard hours."
A massive holographic projection unfurled at the front of the camp, clearly marking the locations of the starting point and the destination.
In between lay a vast, desolate area marked in deep yellow, signifying high radiation, fierce sandstorms, and unknown perils.
"During this period, you are forbidden from seeking or accepting any non-regulation assistance from outside the camp. You are permitted to assist one another, and you are also permitted... to attack one another. Ultimately, the only metric is whether you arrive at the destination within the time limit. The process is entirely up to your own discretion."
The rules were brutal and direct.
Survival and arrival were the sole metrics.
Cooperation or competition, even plunder and betrayal, all became viable methods.
This wasteland was not merely a proving ground of the environment; it would also be a purgatory of human nature.
"Timer, commence."
There was no superfluous encouragement or warning.
As those words fell, the camp's exit barrier slowly raised, revealing the sallow, deathly silent world outside.
Scorching winds carrying sand and radioactive dust instantly surged in, making the candidates' robes flap violently.
A brief standstill.
Immediately after, the crowd surged out of the camp like a breached dam.
Nearly four thousand nine hundred figures wearing the identical grey robes charged into that hostile wasteland.
Initial chaos was inevitable.
With a massive number of personnel surging in simultaneously, lacking organization and clear paths, collisions and shoving inevitably occurred.
Some individuals with robust physiques or underhive survival experience rapidly charged to the front, attempting to seize the initiative and open up a distance.
However, the majority appeared somewhat bewildered, either following the flow of the crowd or attempting to seek out seemingly reliable companions.
Alvaro Visconti struggled to maintain his balance within the crowd.
The coarse robe chafed his delicate skin, and the blowing sand made him barely able to open his eyes. He gripped that low-quality dagger tightly, his knuckles turning white from the exertion.
His family's guards and instructors were no longer by his side; at this moment, he truly realized the meaning of "relying solely on oneself."
He forced himself to calm down, recalling the wilderness survival essentials temporarily instilled in him by his instructor: observe the environment, seek shelter, and plot a route.
He avoided the direction where the crowd was densest, choosing a path that seemed to bypass some of the rugged terrain, and began to trudge forward.
Kax, on the other hand, felt as though he had returned to a familiar environment.
He kept his body low, utilizing the undulations of the terrain and ruined metallic structures for cover, moving rapidly and silently.
He was not in a rush to charge to the very front, but astutely observed the surrounding crowd and environment.
He held that dagger in a reverse grip behind his forearm, ready to respond to sudden situations at any moment.
His goal was clear: survive, and reach the destination.
Anyone or anything that hindered this was an obstacle that needed to be cleared.
Grumm, relying on his extraordinary stamina, steadily kept pace in the middle-to-rear section of the first echelon.
He didn't have many complex thoughts; he simply identified the general direction of the destination and stretched his legs to run forward.
The endurance tempered by the heavy labor of the mid-hive played its role at this moment. His breathing was steady, his strides powerful, ignoring the gravel battering his face and the faintly pungent scent of irradiated dust in the air.
The wasteland environment rapidly revealed its severe facet.
The ground beneath their feet was unevenly soft, frequently harboring hidden crevices or loose, crumbling rocks.
Sandstorms whipped up by gale-force winds struck intermittently, causing visibility to plummet and temperatures to wildly fluctuate.
The sparse vegetation was twisted and desiccated. Occasionally, the skeletal remains of large, mutated creatures could be seen, warning of potential threats.
Less than two hours after departure, the first conflict broke out.
Over the ownership of a relatively sturdy shelter, several candidates hailing from different underhive gangs entered into a dispute, which swiftly escalated into an armed brawl.
The clashing sounds of low-quality daggers, furious roars, and agonizing screams sounded exceptionally piercing amidst the wind and sand.
Ultimately, one person was stabbed and collapsed. The victor quickly plundered the meager supplies off the wounded, then vanished into the jagged rocks.
No one stopped to offer aid. The surrounding candidates either bypassed the scene with indifference or quickened their pace to leave this place of trouble.
The rules permitted attacks, and the wasteland magnified the darkness of human nature.
(End of Chapter)