Rough times had passed during the three-day exercise. In respect to those who didn't make it, Emox decided to give the students a week off, using the time to introduce only general concepts.
But there was no peace in this respite. Emox was a hidden community, a world only visible to those permitted inside. Parents sent their children here, filled with blind hope, muttering the same delusional mantra: "My child will be the best Emoxian." Yet deep down, they all knew the truth—it was a gamble. A fifty-fifty chance of survival, let alone success. Death was as much a part of the curriculum as triumph. Still, they sent their children. Because, in the end, we are all investments, brought into this world to yield gain.
Emox existed to teach youths to control their powers—abilities rooted in emotions. The system divided them into two groups:
• Reliers, those who drew power from past memories, relying on them as a foundation.
• Mourners, the unfortunate ones who had to replay their pain, again and again, to channel their strength. A few unlucky souls were both.
Within the heart of Emox sat Mr. Bola, a towering seven-foot man with a shark-like grin. Dressed sharply in a suit, he adjusted the mic in his office, a direct connection to every room in Emox. Tilting his head, clearing his throat, he spoke with a voice that reverberated through the walls.
"ALL EMOXIANS," he began, his words soaked with false sympathy, "IN RESPECT TO THOSE WHO DIDN'T MAKE IT, WE WILL PRESENT OURSELVES TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD AND GIVE THEIR PARENTS THE PERFECT CONSOLATION. UNDER YOUR BEDS, YOU WILL FIND YOUR SUITS. IN ONE HOUR, YOU WILL BE TELEPORTED TO THE FIELD OUTSIDE EMOXIAN BORDERS."
In a small dorm room shared by four boys, Michael sat at his desk, his shirt damp with sweat from his workout. A book lay open before him, pages filled with notes dissecting the weaknesses and strengths of humans. When he heard Bola's announcement, he silently reached under his bed, pulled out the suit, and dressed without hesitation. Then, he sat back on his bed, waiting.
His roommates watched him, puzzled. "Why isn't he bothered? Not even curious?" one of them whispered.
"Just leave him," another replied, unwilling to provoke conflict. They followed suit, dressing in silence.
An hour later, the speakers buzzed, and Bola's voice cut through the static. "HELLO STUDENTS, YOU WILL BE TELEPORTED NOW. ANYONE NOT DRESSED WILL BE EXPELLED."
Before Michael could blink, the scenery around him changed. The vibrant green of Lucius grass blurred past as a soft wind grazed his face. He stood among the other students, all dressed in their suits, surrounded by a vast field that stretched beyond Emoxian borders.
Michael scanned the crowd, catching sight of Elizabeth. His gaze lingered, ensuring she was unharmed.
The students were arranged in perfect lines. Those who hadn't dressed were teleported into the cell rooms, where they'd face expulsion—a brutal duel with a higher-ranking Emoxian. Survival meant reinstatement. Defeat meant death.
Above the field, Mr. Bola floated, his presence oppressive. Parents surrounded the students, their faces a mixture of grief and pride. Michael refused to look at Bola, knowing the man enjoyed toying with him.
Bola raised his hands, addressing the crowd. "PARENTS, PLEASE DO NOT MOURN. YOUR CHILDREN FOUGHT HARD WITH THEIR LIVES ON THE LINE. IF YOU WEEP OR CRY, YOU INSULT THEIR SACRIFICE. INSTEAD, WE ALL BOW IN CONDOLENCE."
All the students bowed. Except Michael.
He remained upright, his sharp, unyielding gaze fixed on the crowd. Why should I bow to this charade? he thought. To him, this display was a scam, a spectacle meant to pacify grieving parents and boost Emox's reputation.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth bow. He sighed. I guess she can't be everything after all.
Bola noticed Michael's defiance, smirking but choosing to remain silent.
A glass bottle suddenly soared from the crowd, smashing against Michael's face. Blood dripped down his cheek as a woman stormed forward, her voice trembling with rage.
"YOU WICKED BOY! MY SON DIED OUT THERE, AND YOU CAN'T EVEN SHOW RESPECT BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "YOU THINK YOU'RE STRONG, BUT YOU'RE NOTHING! NOTHING!"
Her voice broke as she choked on her grief. "Gabriel… he was my baby, my only child. But his father insisted… And now, now he's gone. And you… you…"
Other parents joined in, shouting at Michael. Students watched, some smirking, enjoying the spectacle. Even Bola's grin widened. But Elizabeth frowned, worry etched across her face. She knew Michael. He wasn't heartless. Not like they thought.
Bottles, fruit, and trash rained down on Michael. He didn't flinch, leaving the arranged lines to stand alone.
He walked toward the crowd, enduring their projectiles. Blood and grime stained his suit. Finally, he reached the wall dividing the parents from the field and leaped over it, landing directly in front of the grieving mother.
She looked up at him, her tear-streaked face twisted in anguish.
Michael raised his voice, cutting through the chaos. "YOU ARE ALL IN PAIN. I KNOW YOUR PAIN. I FEEL YOUR PAIN. BUT I CANNOT STOP IT. I CAN ONLY TRY TO TAKE SOME OF IT FROM YOU."
The crowd fell silent.
He stepped closer to the woman, his voice softer now. "Gabriel is gone. Tears won't bring him back. But look at me."
She raised her head, her red, swollen eyes meeting his.
"You will be fine," Michael said, his tone unwavering. "Not the same. Never the same. But you will be fine."
He bent down and embraced her. She screamed into his shoulder, her tears soaking his bloodied suit. She clung to him, her pain spilling out as the crowd watched in stunned silence.
"Let it all out," Michael whispered. "I'm here to take your pain, human."