I woke with a jolt, the harsh blare of a horn slicing through the stillness like a knife, dragging me from the depths of sleep where everything felt hollow, where I was a mere shadow in my own body.
My face was sticky, remnants of forgotten dreams clinging to my skin, as if something from the night had left a mark I couldn't remember.
I rubbed at my face, fingers rough against the dampness, brushing away the residue of slumber.
A door loomed nearby, its paint chipped and faded. Without thought, I reached for the handle and opened it.
Inside, the room was silent, the walls heavy with age, as if time itself had settled in.
In the corner stood a small, chipped porcelain sink, its surface cracked and worn.
I moved toward it, the floorboards creaking underfoot, protesting my every step.
Splashing cold water on my face, the shock sent a jolt through me, clearing my head slightly, though the weight of sleep still clung to me like a second skin.
I wiped my face on my sleeve and stepped into the hallway.
Outside, the morning air was thick with the tang of salt, the ocean stretching endlessly before me, bathed in the pale light of the rising sun.
The sounds of voices and clattering plates reached me, the bustle of breakfast just beginning.
I pulled on a worn black hoodie, the fabric soft against my skin, and made my way to the mess hall.
The food spread before me was abundant—eggs, bacon, and the thick scent of sizzling meat in the air.
I chose cereal, the cool crunch grounding me, making the world feel a little less distant, a little less unreal.
The hum of conversation filled the room, voices rising and falling, the morning unfolding in a blur of noise and motion.
"Hey, Ivory. You ready for this exam?"
"Hey, Sylvia... Not really. I guess I'm kind of nervous."
"I don't blame you. This isn't something anyone's used to. It's pretty scary, to be honest. And, well, it doesn't help that we're in Class D."
"Yeah... not only do we have to worry about survival and claiming the peaks, but we also have to keep an eye on the other classes, figure out their strategies, and think of ways to counter them. And then, on top of all that, we have to make sure the whole class doesn't lose their minds."
"I guess this isn't exactly going to be a walk in the park. By the way, did you hear about the island we're heading to?"
"No, why?"
"Well, up front by the ship's deck, there's a store and a little library. I picked up a book about the island of Ventura. It's right here—want to hear what it's about?"
"Sure, why not."
"The island we're going to is called Ventura, the Isle of Kings. It's got a legendary history—once, it was a thriving realm, ruled by powerful kings. Each of them carved out a legacy, but not without wars. The kingdoms fought each other for centuries. And all the battles left their mark, shaping the land itself."
"Sounds intense."
"It was. The book I found tells the full story, the rise and fall of those kingdoms, the bloodshed that stained the shores, and the mysteries that still hang over the island's fate. It's hard to believe, but now... Ventura is abandoned. A wilderness, really. The grand kingdoms are gone, replaced by mountains, cliffs, jungles. The echoes of its glorious, tragic past still linger, though—like it's holding its breath, waiting for something."
"So... the island is like a forgotten memory, then?"
"Exactly. What was once a symbol of power has decayed. The ancient structures are crumbling. Only wild animals roam the land now, and their cries are the only sound that breaks the silence of forgotten legends."
"Wow... that's eerie."
"Yeah, there's one mystery that still haunts the island. All the other structures have been broken down, but there's one thing left standing—the famous Tower of Porthal. It's the place where Queen Mirtrill died in a fire. The kingdoms were at war, and they set each other's cities ablaze. The Queen had nowhere to go. So she accepted her fate, standing on the tower's balcony, watching the flames come for her."
"That sounds... tragic."
"It is. But it gets stranger. Archaeologists sailed there years ago, and when they found the tower, they heard loud screams—screams that sounded just like the Queen's. But when they went to investigate, they disappeared without a trace. No one ever figured out what happened to them."
"That's... terrifying. I wonder if the island's really as abandoned as it seems."
"Maybe not. It's a place full of history... and secrets. But I guess we'll find out soon enough."
Somewhere on the other side of the ship, Class B was preparing for the exam.
"What do you want" Breezy's voice was soft but laced with an intimidating edge.
The woman in front of him bowed her head, holding out a book. "My leader, what I have here is the Book of Ventura. It details the history of the island. It's 408 pages long, but I believe you'll find it intriguing."
Breezy took the book from her hands, flipping through the pages slowly at first, then faster and faster, his eyes scanning every word. In a matter of seconds, he was done. He handed the book back to her, his expression unreadable.
"My leader, you don't want to read it?" the woman asked, still kneeling, head bowed.
"I just did. Now get out of my sight."
"You did? You read it so quickly—did you read it beforehand?"
"I just read it in front of you. It took me Six, maybe five seconds."
"Amazing… your cognitive abilities leave me astounded as always."
"I said, leave."
Meanwhile, in Class C, an uproar broke out.
Mark, a male student, had just been smashed in the face. Plug, the leader of Class C, was a man with a notoriously short temper. Though he wasn't particularly muscular, his fighting skills were unmatched, and he ruled his class with it. Any demand left unfulfilled resulted in swift punishment.
"Am I supposed to be scared of you?" Mark spat through gritted teeth, still holding his bruised face.
"Does my existence anger you?" Plug growled, taking a step toward him, threatening to kick the hell out of him.
"PLEASE, SIR! I'M SORRY! I PROMISE I'LL GET IT DONE THIS TIME, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!"
Plug grabbed Mark by the hair, slamming his face into the ground with a sickening thud. Mark, already on all fours, was forced to beg, his words desperate. The rest of the students sat frozen, terrified, unable to intervene.
"Don't shout at me." Plug's voice was dangerously calm, yet the students knew that tone well enough—it was the calm before the storm.
Soon, the island appeared on the horizon, rising from the sea like a jagged shadow, its untamed edges cutting through the sky.
The ship docked, the scent of salt and oil hanging in the air as we disembarked. Ragged maps were handed out, the ink smudged, the edges worn.
We were told to leave everything behind—our phones, our belongings, everything that tied us to the world we knew.
Some hesitated, others didn't, but we all left what we'd brought, stripped of the comforts of home.
Mr. Steiner stood at the front, a dark silhouette against the pale light of the rising sun, a megaphone in hand.
He told us that Class D would remain on this side of the island while the others moved to different parts.
"As you all know, this island is home to many tales, so whatever you do, do not enter, inside the Tower of Porthal"
We stood in silence, the weight of the island pressing down on us, the air thick with the sense that something had already begun, that we had crossed a point of no return.
Carson's voice broke the tension, calm and steady, cutting through the stillness.
"Listen up," he said, his words slicing through the quiet, "I know how you all feel. They see us as failures, but we're not. We have to show them we're more than they think."
He looked around, then continued, "We're going to run in formations. Sylvia, Eric, Ethan, Sakura, Lavis, you're Formation One. Vincent, Nina, Stella, Veronica, Fred, you're Formation Two. Yuji, Chloe, Aria, Ian, Gwen, you're Formation Three. Ivory, me, Brook, Mary, Jerry, we're Formation Four."
He paused for a moment, then added, "Formation Two will lead, followed by Formation One. Then Formation Three, and finally Formation Four. We'll run together, every step taking us closer to that mountain. When we reach it, we'll hold it."
He'd taken our fears and given them shape, turning them into a plan, something tangible to act on.
And so we stood, ready, the path ahead clear in our minds.
The horns blared, and we were off, charging toward the distant mountain, the cold air sharp in my lungs.
The run felt like the fastest I'd ever done, each step propelling me forward, our movements synced, like we were all part of the same machine.
We tore through the forest, branches slashing at our faces, the wind howling around us, but we didn't slow.
The mountain loomed closer, its winding path stretching upward like a forgotten trail.
Three from Formation One led the charge, our belts glowing green, marking our progress.
A fake gun was strapped to my side, secure but ready.
"Next mountain's up ahead, stay close," Carson's voice called out, steady over the sound of our labored breathing.
I felt the burn in my legs, the strain creeping into every muscle, but I kept going, pushing past the fatigue.
Formation Two now held the flag, moving as one, each step synchronized with the others, driven by a single, unyielding purpose.
We weren't alone in this race, others had already staked their claim.
There was no time to rest, no room to stop, just the mountain ahead and the urgency to reach it before anyone else.
The mountain rose like an immense stone, its jagged peaks clawing at the sky, but just as we neared the summit, a gunshot rang out, sudden and sharp.
The world shifted, confusion rippling through us as gunfire tore through the air, bullets slicing through the leaves and branches above us.
Panic surged, and for a moment, we were caught in a frantic dance between the instinct to flee and the terror of the next shot.
But somehow, we dodged, scattering for cover as the bullets zipped past us.
The air was thick with fear, fractured voices calling out in confusion, but we kept moving, hearts pounding in our chests as we raced through the trees.
We were now part of something far bigger than ourselves, swept into a storm we didn't understand, with no plan left to follow—only the desperate, instinctive need to survive.