The room split before us, branching into different paths.
Elliot and I stood side by side, watching as names and categories flashed across overhead monitors. Soon enough, we found our own.
ASTRONAUT TRAINEES → LEFT WING
ASTRONAUT CANDIDATES → RIGHT WING
Elliot exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess this is where we part ways."
I nodded. "For now."
He turned toward me, grinning. "I'm pretty sure I'll be fine, but don't you dare fail before I get there."
I chuckled softly. "I don't intend to."
With a final nod, we parted.
I wasn't concerned about him.
If anything, Elliot was overqualified for an astronaut trainee position. I knew it. He probably knew it, too. His skills, his intelligence—it was clear he had what it took.
I, on the other hand, had a very different challenge ahead.
Stepping into the right-wing, I moved through the pristine hallways until I reached another processing desk. A woman, crisp in her professionalism, extended her hand.
"ID."
I handed it over.
She scanned it, paused, then glanced up at me.
The moment she read the name, a few chuckles spread through the room.
It started with the group nearest to me—two men and a woman, all clad in standard athletic wear. One of them nudged the other, nodding in my direction.
"Look at this guy," one muttered in a thick European accent. "A C-Rank? He actually thinks he's getting in?"
Another scoffed. "Never seen someone so confident in getting rejected."
A third—an American, judging by his accent—laughed outright. "Man, I almost feel bad. Did no one tell you that this isn't some reality show?"
More snickers followed.
I said nothing.
I didn't need to.
These people—NASA hopefuls, astronauts-in-training, engineers, and specialists from around the world—had never heard of Mr. Fox or Mr. Dust. Back home, their names carried weight. But internationally? Nothing.
Which meant to these people, I wasn't just an unknown.
I was a joke.
The ID processor beeped, confirming my entry. The woman handed my card back, her expression unreadable. "You may proceed."
I did.
The room we entered was vast—a state-of-the-art training facility with walls lined with modular sections for different physical and technical tests. At the center, instructors stood by, monitoring as candidates prepared.
The screen above displayed our first test:
1. Extravehicular Activity (EVA) – Spacewalks, maintenance, suit operation.
My lips curled behind my mask.
How fitting.
One of the instructors, a man with graying hair and sharp eyes, stepped forward. "Candidates, this test will measure your capability in low-gravity environments. You will be equipped with a simulated EVA suit, weighted for accuracy. The goal: complete a simulated exterior spacecraft repair within the time limit."
Another instructor added, "Keep in mind—this is designed to push your endurance. You will be subjected to restricted movement, heavy equipment, and a physically demanding environment."
One of the men from earlier smirked. "Guess this is where the C-Rank drops out."
I didn't look at him.
Instead, I approached my assigned EVA suit, slipping into it with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. The moment it locked into place, the weight pressed down on me—a pressure that, to others, might have felt suffocating.
To me?
Nothing.
[Endurance Boost (Lv. 10) Activated.]
The countdown began.
3…
A few competitors stretched, rolling their shoulders. Others mentally prepared themselves.
2…
I exhaled, steady, calm.
1. Begin.
The moment the test started, I moved.
Where others struggled to lift their arms, I surged forward.
Where their movements were sluggish, mine were precise.
The simulation mimicked the resistance of space, forcing every action to require calculated effort. But effort was irrelevant to me. I gripped the mock spacecraft's exterior, maneuvering across its surface with ease. The tools, heavy in others' hands, felt weightless in mine.
One by one, I completed the tasks:
Stabilize exterior panel.
Reconnect power supply.
Secure loose module.
Competitors grunted and strained behind me. Some barely reached the halfway point before exhaustion set in.
I didn't even break a sweat.
In a matter of minutes, I finished.
And when I stepped back, the room fell silent.
Instructors stared at the monitors, eyes flicking between me and the results.
The others—once so sure of my failure—had identical expressions of disbelief.
Someone let out a curse under their breath.
The European man from earlier gawked. "What the hell…?"
The American just whispered, "That's… not normal."
I slowly turned to face them.
I tilted my head, letting the silence stretch, letting their uncertainty take root.
Then, in a voice smooth and absolute, I spoke.
"There is no one above me."
They shuddered.
Because they believed it.
And by the end of this process, they would know it to be true.