The youth's remark served as a wake-up call to everyone present.
Originally, with one hundred people, the math for pairs was perfect. But now that the miserable bastard Sonny had been liquidated by Marcus, the numbers no longer added up.
Every gaze instantly converged on Marcus. With the gruesome image of Sonny's end still fresh in their minds, no one dared to speculate on the iron-blooded proctor's thoughts; they could only wait in silence for his judgment.
Marcus glanced at the cooling corpse on the ground, his face a mask of indifference, as if he had merely crushed an annoying bug. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't need you to remind me. I am well aware that the 'lucky one' who fails to match with a partner will be disqualified immediately. After all, luck is a component of strength."
Marcus's casual remark sent a chill through the hearts of the crowd. No one wanted to be that "lucky one," especially since no one dared to gamble on the unknown price of disqualification. Yet, in the face of a proctor who viewed human life as cheap as weeds, they lacked even the courage to protest.
Leo, the tall youth, swallowed hard. He didn't dare press further and silently withdrew his hand, fine beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had only mentioned it in passing and hadn't expected such a cold-blooded response; he felt a surge of private relief that he hadn't provoked Marcus the way Sonny had.
"You've got some spine, kid. What's your name?"
Leo swallowed instinctively before answering, "I'm Leo."
Marcus immediately looked down at a roster and cross-referenced the name. "Perfect. Your name is right here. You're the first to draw."
Relieved that he was only being asked to start the draw, Leo stepped quickly toward Marcus. He looked at the waist-high metal bin, took a deep breath, and reached inside.
The slips inside were uniform white cardstock, rough to the touch. Leo fumbled around for a few seconds before pinching a card. He unfolded it to see a seat number: Section B, 217.
Marcus looked down at him. "Read it out loud."
"Section B, 217!" Leo gritted his teeth and shouted the number, his voice carrying a tremor he couldn't quite hide. He knew this number would decide his partner for life or death; he couldn't help but be nervous.
Marcus looked up and scanned the candidates. "Section B, 217! Who is it?"
"It's... it's me." A petite woman wearing round-framed glasses raised her hand.
Seeing that his partner was such a frail-looking girl, Leo felt a wave of bitterness. Despite his inner protests, he had to accept it under the rules Marcus had established. Things had come to this; complaining was useless, and he wasn't about to seek his own death like Sonny.
Marcus waved them aside and began calling names from the list. One after another, pairs were finalized. The candidates standing on the field wore a variety of expressions. Some, who drew physically imposing partners, felt a secret joy. Others, whose partners were thin and weak, felt their faces fall instantly—though they didn't dare let it show. Under Marcus's watchful eye, any sign of dissatisfaction could invite a sudden disaster.
As the draw progressed, Byrne grew increasingly anxious. The later his name was called, the higher the probability of becoming that "lucky one."
"Next: Selena Lawrence."
At the mention of Selena's name, those who hadn't been paired yet perked up instantly. As the top scorer of the written exam and a daughter of the Lawrence family, everyone was curious to see who would be teamed with her.
Selena walked to the bin and pulled out a slip. She opened it, turned, and read: "Section C, 378."
Byrne froze for a second, thinking he had misheard. It was only when Selena read it a second time that he confirmed it was his seat number.
He raised his right hand. "Here."
When Selena saw Byrne raise his hand, her eyes flickered for a moment, but she quickly regained her usual composure. Ignoring the various looks thrown his way, Byrne walked toward her.
Reaching her side, Byrne took the initiative to greet her. "Hello. I'm Byrne Claude. Looking forward to working with you."
Selena glanced at him sideways and gave a curt "Mm" in response, offering no further words. Byrne didn't mind the cold attitude; their social statuses were worlds apart, and they had never met before. He figured they would get used to each other in time.
The drawing continued. The remaining candidates were on pins and needles, terrified of drawing an unreliable partner and even more afraid of being the one left behind.
Eventually, the final name was called, and the drawing ended. Forty-nine pairs had been successfully formed. The "lucky one" turned out to be a commoner from the Upper District. Upon learning he was disqualified, his face turned paper-white. His legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground, piteously begging Marcus for mercy.
His pleas were met only with Marcus's icy stare and an order to "drag him away." Two black-armored soldiers stepped forward and hauled him off like a dead dog. The wails of the "lucky one" gradually faded, eventually lost to the whistling wind of the wasteland.
The remaining candidates were terrified. No one dared to plead for him; they could only watch it happen.
Marcus clapped his hands to reclaim their attention. "Alright, the teams are set. Follow me to the warehouse to collect your ore crates and supplies."
He led the way deep into the factory complex. Behind him, the black-armored soldiers fanned out, surrounding the forty-nine pairs of candidates in a restrictive barrier.
Passing several ruined workshops, they arrived at a relatively intact warehouse. Four soldiers stepped forward and hauled open the heavy iron doors. Inside, fifty sealed metal crates were stacked neatly on the left, while a hundred uniform, oversized canvas rucksacks sat on the right.
To Byrne, the rucksacks looked large, but he estimated they would weigh twenty kilograms at most once filled—manageable. However, the sealed metal crates on the left were a different story. They were at least half the size of a standard shipping container. How could human strength move something like that?
He wasn't the only one; other candidates hissed in indrawn breaths, and despair washed over many of their faces. Marcus took in their expressions.
"Don't worry. These crates look heavy, but they have built-in hover-stabilizers. Just activate the switch and they'll float. Any adult can push one along without an issue."
Marcus walked to a crate and stepped on a recessed pedal on its side.
Click!
Four small casters popped out of the bottom, and the crate rose to hover nearly half a meter off the ground. The candidates felt their hearts sink back into their chests—but before they could truly relax, Marcus's next words doused them in cold water.