Book 1: Chapter 19 – A Gem

The boy who stepped onto the stage was visibly nervous. His eyes darted toward the stands, where thousands of spectators watched him with rapt attention. His hands trembled at his sides, his breathing shallow.

"Try to focus on the task at hand," Kwame said gently, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder and guiding him toward the first weight. "We'll start with this 40-kilogram stone. Lift each one in turn until you can't go on. You're allowed two failed attempts in total, after your third, that's you done."

Rohan gave a stiff nod and bent over the first weight. Despite his anxiety, he hoisted it with relative ease.

With each successful lift, his confidence grew. By the time he reached the 70-kilogram mark, his posture had shifted, his movements more assured. The crowd murmured approvingly as he pushed past 80 kilograms.

But when he attempted the 85-kilogram weight, his arms trembled under the strain. He gritted his teeth and managed to lift it on his second try. The 95-kilogram weight, however, pushed him to his limit, and the 100-kilogram stone refused to budge.

"Three stars," Kwame announced as the crowd applauded politely.

Rohan stepped off the platform, wiping his brow as he rejoined the other participants.

The test continued with a procession of youths, most managing only two or three stars. Jabari's mind began to wander until a familiar name snapped him back to attention.

"Next, Ibrahim of the Uzo Tribe's slums," Kwame declared.

Jabari's head jerked toward the stage. The boy who stepped forward was the youngest of the slum-born children. In fact, he was probably the youngest of all the trialists there today – a frail figure who couldn't have been older than ten. His oversized tattered shirt hung off his thin frame like a sheet draped over a stick.

The crowd's reaction was immediate.

"What's a rat like him doing here?"

"Look at him! I bet he can't even lift the first weight."

"Should've stayed in the gutter where he belongs."

Ibrahim's footsteps faltered with every jeer. His shoulders curled inward, and his eyes flicked toward the exit as though contemplating escape.

Kwame noticed and knelt beside him, resting a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," he said, his voice soft yet steady. "Ignore them. Focus on the test. Just give it everything you have."

Ibrahim's lips parted in surprise. The warmth in Kwame's expression was genuine – something the boy clearly hadn't expected. He gave a shaky nod. "I'll try," he whispered.

The young boy approached the 40-kilogram weight, bent his knees, and grasped the handle with both hands. His thin arms strained as he pulled with all his might. The weight didn't move. Not even a fraction.

The crowd erupted into laughter.

"Don't worry," Kwame encouraged, voice steady over the mocking chorus. "You have two more tries. Breathe deeply. Use your legs."

Ibrahim tried again. He adjusted his stance, squatted slightly, and pulled once more. His face contorted with effort, veins bulging against his temple. The weight remained stubbornly grounded.

"One more try," Kwame encouraged, crouching beside him. " Use your legs and your core. Don't just pull with your arms."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and with every ounce of strength he had, let out a desperate roar.

"YAHHHHHHHH!"

The weight shifted – barely – but it shifted.

The laughter intensified.

"Haha! Did you see that? He actually thinks shouting helps!"

"Pathetic. Slum rats don't belong here."

"They really think they can crawl out of the gutter and stand beside us? What a joke!"

Jabari felt for the child. The taunts, the laughter, Ibrahim's trembling form – all of it felt painfully familiar. But what could he do? He was just a participant, just like Ibrahim.

The truth was undeniable. Children from the slums faced an impossible disadvantage. They weren't just malnourished – they were starved of everything: nutrients, opportunities, and self-belief. Most of them survived on scraps, with no concept of balanced meals or proper training.

Jabari and Inayah had been slightly luckier. His unorthodox hunting techniques had occasionally earned them small portions of meat, giving them more strength than most slum children. Even so, his diet had only truly improved after meeting Heba.

'Ibrahim's already won a battle most of these kids couldn't survive,' Jabari thought grimly. 'They just don't realise it.'

But knowing that didn't make the helplessness any easier to bear.

"Well done, Ibrahim," Kwame said, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "You managed to move it this time. If you keep working hard and pass the trials, you'll be lifting that weight in no time. Just don't give up, okay?"

Ibrahim's eyes glimmered with a mixture of relief and determination as he nodded and shuffled off the stage.

'Looks like it's just the Institute that doesn't discriminate against us slum residents,' Jabari thought. He remembered the polite demeanour of both invigilators he'd interacted with and the genuine encouragement Ibrahim had just received.

The next group called forward hailed from the Shura Tribe. Most of them earned three-star scores; their performances were competent but unremarkable.

Next up was Chantelle, a slender, dark-skinned girl Jabari overheard was Jamal Marley's older sister. While she clearly possessed talent, strength wasn't her forte; at fourteen, she strained to lift 75 kilograms, narrowly scraping a two-star score.

The next participant was one who ended up drawing his fair share of attention. Just like when Jabari had first laid eyes on him, the 15-year-old Azurian remained an island of indifference – eyes distant, expression unreadable. He lifted each weight methodically, without the slightest flicker of emotion.

In the end, he reluctantly lifted the 100-kilogram rock, causing murmurs to spread through the crowd. He had come within one weight of achieving the first four-star score of the day.

Then came Jamal Marley, the prodigy everyone had been waiting for.

The twelve-year-old strode onto the stage with a swagger that oozed self-assurance. He beamed at the crowd, feeding off their attention like a lion basking in the admiration of its pride.

But confidence alone couldn't lift weights. He pushed himself to the brink, barely hoisting the 90-kilogram stone before collapsing to his knees, red-faced and panting. The crowd still applauded; a three-star score was impressive for someone his age.

Jamal, however, seemed oblivious to the cheers. His glare locked onto Azurian, resentment etched into his face. The older boy's calm, detached superiority had stolen the spotlight he believed was rightfully his.

Azurian didn't spare him so much as a glance.

"Next, Danso Musa of the Musa Tribe," Kwame announced.

The crowd's energy surged as a stocky figure strode onto the platform. Danso stood a full 5'10", his bald head gleaming beneath the sun. He cracked his neck and positioned himself before the weights without fanfare.

Unlike the others, his lifting technique was meticulous. Jabari noticed the way he coiled his legs, back, and arms into each lift, engaging his entire body with seamless efficiency.

Weight after weight rose into the air. The 105-kilogram stone didn't even slow him down, securing the first four-star score of the day. He finally faltered at 120 kilograms, leaving the crowd roaring in approval as he returned to the other trialists with a proud, satisfied smirk.

Jabari's eyes lingered on Danso's movements. 'It was like his entire body worked in unison to lift each weight,' he realised. 'That's the key to his strength.'

The insight stirred something within him, but his reflection was cut short.

"Next," Kwame's voice echoed, "Jabari of the Khaldun Tribe's slums, age 15."

The murmurs began immediately.

"The slums?"

"He doesn't look like it."

"Must be a mistake."

Jabari took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and walked forward. The stares no longer bothered him. This was his first true step toward gaining the strength he needed to save Inayah.

From the stands, Inayah's hands tightened around the railing. "Do you think Jabari can lift as much as that boy from earlier?" she asked Heba, voice tinged with hope.

Heba sighed softly. "I'm afraid that's unlikely. Your brother's been malnourished for too long. Even with the balanced meals you've had lately, his body hasn't fully recovered. Meanwhile, these other kids have been training with top-tier instructors since they could walk."

Inayah bit her lip. Deep down, she had known the truth all along. Yet, hope was a stubborn thing.

Heba placed a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. "Don't lose heart. This isn't the pass-or-fail test. When it comes to the test of will...

Well, I have no doubt your brother will leave everyone here speechless."

Inayah swallowed and returned her gaze to the arena as Jabari approached the first weight. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Jabari stepped onto the platform, his heart steady despite the weight of thousands of eyes bearing down on him. He bent over the first weight – a modest 40 kilograms – and grasped the bar tightly. With a grunt of effort, he hoisted it into the air. It wasn't graceful, and it certainly wasn't easy, but the weight rose past his knees and then to his chest before he let it drop with a dull thud.

"Look at him struggling with the first weight. How pathetic!" one of the trialists sneered.

"What do you expect?" another added with a laugh. "He's just a slum rat. It's impressive he lifted it at all."

Jabari heard them, but their words slid off his mind like rain on stone. Their ridicule meant nothing. They knew nothing of hunger, of nights spent wrestling with exhaustion after days without food. He refused to let the jeers burrow beneath his skin.

Taking a steadying breath, he strode to the next weight: 45 kilograms. He bent forward as he had with the first and pulled.

"45-kilogram weight, first attempt – fail," Kwame declared, his voice crisp over the arena's sound system. "Two attempts left."

Jabari frowned. He had felt the strain immediately; the weight hadn't budged more than a fraction. But as he straightened, a memory stirred. His mind replayed the image of Danso Musa lifting with effortless precision. He hadn't simply yanked the weights with his arms – his entire body had moved as one.

Jabari closed his eyes and adjusted his stance, mimicking the technique he had seen earlier. He lowered himself into a squat, chest high, back straight, feet firmly planted. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the bar and pushed upward.

The weight lifted – just barely – but it lifted.

Kwame's brow arched. "This kid...

Isn't he supposed to be from the slums? That form...

It's not much worse than that Musa boy's. Was he just pretending earlier?"

Jabari released the weight and moved to the next: 50 kilograms. He approached it with his eyes half-closed, still replaying Danso's movements in his mind. Every shift of muscle, every nuance of balance.

"50-kilogram weight, first attempt – fail. Two attempts left."

Jabari remained crouched over the bar. He adjusted the angle of his hips and the width of his stance, then tried again. The weight lifted slightly before crashing down again.

"50-kilogram weight, second attempt – fail. One attempt left."

The crowd's laughter swelled.

"See? It was just luck!"

"Shouting won't help you now, slum rat!"

Kwame's eyes, however, shone with curiosity. 'That wasn't luck. His form improved between attempts. He's adjusting on the fly.'

Jabari shifted his grip again, took a deep breath, and pushed with everything he had.

"YAAAHHH!"

The rock jerked upward as his legs, back, and core worked in unison. For an agonising second, the weight wobbled, but then it steadied in his grasp.

"50-kilogram weight, third attempt – pass!" Kwame announced, his voice tinged with genuine excitement. He cast a quick glance toward a figure seated near the back of the stands. 'He copied Danso's technique after seeing it just once. No wonder you took an interest in him, Lateef.'

Jabari straightened, sweat dripping from his temples as he prepared to move to the 55-kilogram weight. But before he could step forward, a large, firm hand settled on his shoulder.

"Don't bother," Kwame said quietly. "You'll only hurt yourself if you go any further."

Jabari turned and met the man's gaze. There was no condescension in his expression – only measured approval.

"Thank you. I understand," Jabari replied, breathing heavily as he walked back toward the other participants. The crowd's disdainful stares followed him every step of the way.

"Jabari of the Khaldun Tribe's slums: Test of Strength – 1 star. Well done!"

The arena fell into stunned silence.

A single star was nothing impressive – it was the second-worst result of the day. Yet Kwame – the invigilator and genuine Beast-Warrior – had praised him.

Murmurs spread through the audience.

"Why's he congratulating that boy? He barely passed."

"Maybe the kid's got connections?"

"Can't be. He's from the slums."

Kwame ignored the whispers. His gaze remained fixed on Jabari as he rejoined the others. 'That last lift was textbook perfect. You really found a gem this time, Lateef.'