Chapter 5: Shity test

Behind the door:

"We're making progress, young man. On this table, you will find 12 items. Your task is to sort them into 'living' and 'non-living.' You are not allowed to break, cut, or in any way reveal the internal structure of any object. Good luck."

I stand before the table, eyeing the array of objects carefully. The first item is a stone. I pick it up, feeling its weight in my palm, testing its hardness with my thumb, examining its surface. Its density is typical, and its color is unremarkable—just a regular stone. Everything about it screams non-living. I place it in the non-living pile.

Next, I see a small toad. I lean in cautiously, inspecting its limp body. Is it anesthetized? It's unmoving, but there's no sign of anything that suggests death. Its skin is cool and smooth to the touch. I hold it up briefly to see if it'll react, but nothing happens. I place it in the living pile, trusting my instinct.

But then another toad appears, just as still as the first. I can't shake the nagging feeling that something is off. I try to hear a pulse, a breath, anything that would confirm whether it's alive or not. I check its eyes for movement—nothing. There's no obvious sign of life. And yet, something about it feels... different. Is the first toad really alive? Is it the same as this second one?

My thoughts spiral. What truly defines the difference between the living and the non-living? Is it the exterior, or does it lie deeper, within the unseen parts of these objects? I look at the toads again. The truth is, I can't see the essence of life—what makes something living or not. It's beyond my reach, hidden beneath the surface, where I can't touch it.

I hesitate. The rules of the test are clear—no breaking, no cutting. But how can I determine something's essence without breaking those boundaries? I think of the countless philosophies I've read, the theories that explore the nature of life itself. But none of them offer an easy solution.

In the end, I make a choice. I trust my instincts. I place the second toad in the living pile, hoping that my intuition is correct. But even as I finish, doubt lingers. Is this the right answer? I can't say for sure. With a deep breath, I leave the room, uncertainty weighing heavily on my mind.

At the reception:

"So, how did it go?" she asks, her gaze steady, her voice calm.

"I'm not sure," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just went with my gut. It felt like the only option."

Her eyes narrow slightly, as if she's measuring me. Then, she offers a small smile. "Thirty minutes on pure instinct, huh? You're promising, young man."

I can't help but feel a bit of pride well up inside me. Despite the uncertainty of my decisions, I did something that felt right, even if I wasn't entirely sure of it.

Behind the door:

"Let's see how well you understand the laws that govern this world," the voice begins, and I brace myself. "First, we'll start with mathematics."

"Physics."

"Chemistry."

"Anthropology."

"Sociology."

The words come at me fast, and each one is a blur. Ten minutes for each subject—only ten minutes to absorb concepts that take years to master. My head spins. The math starts with complex equations that slip through my mind like water, and the physics formulas blur into abstract concepts I can't quite grasp. The chemistry doesn't make sense to me, and I struggle to remember the intricate details of anthropology and sociology. It's a frantic race against the clock, each tick adding pressure.

I feel overwhelmed, my brain scrambling to make sense of it all. I can barely process the next question before the previous one is gone from my mind. I can't take it anymore.

The voice speaks again. "Young man, you are free to leave."

I'm stunned. "Ha, finally," I mutter. "Thank you, sir." I quickly exit, relief flooding me.

It's as if he knew exactly when to stop me—before I completely cracked under the pressure. My mind is exhausted, but I can't help but feel thankful for the respite.

At the reception:

"Forty minutes, huh? Don't be discouraged. The day's over. You can rest upstairs. Your room is at the end of the corridor. Here's your key."

"Good evening, ma'am."

Dad had warned me that many people take these tests every year—anyone 16 and older—but the place doesn't seem as crowded as I expected. From what I can tell, there are only about ten of us. The building is alive with activity, though—tests happening non-stop. I find myself wondering what my aura potential pattern will look like.

The next day:

"Did you sleep well?"

"Full of questions," I answer, my mind still racing from the tests the day before.

"Don't worry too much. Just keep pushing forward. The answers will come."

Her words are calming, though I can't quite shake the feeling that something's lurking in the back of my mind, unanswered. But I nod anyway, feeling a strange sense of determination building inside me.

Behind the door:

"Young man, we'll show you cube patterns along with pictures of various cubes. You'll be asked to select an answer each time. The principle will stay the same throughout the test."

Here we go. I'm ready. I'm on fire now.

At the reception:

"Haaa, a spatial reasoning quiz," I mutter.

"The test didn't go well?"

"I was awful. That old geezer inside was laughing at me."

"Hehe, it's probably because you were more impressive in the previous tests."

She says it in a way that seems meant to cheer me up. It's sweet of her, but I don't think I was that impressive.

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm going to crush this last trial."