Book 1: Chapter 29 – Hell’s Stairway

Hearing Kwame's cold declaration, Jabari and the other slum residents ahead of him instinctively quickened their pace, their fear of failure outweighing their exhaustion.

By the time they reached the three-and-a-half-mile mark, Jabari was breathing heavily. Though he was accustomed to hunting alone, the sheer endurance required for this test was taking its toll. Still, he had managed to put some distance between himself, the other slum residents, and, most importantly, Kwame.

But it wasn't enough.

No matter how hard he pushed, the children from the main settlements were nowhere in sight. Not even their shadows remained on the horizon. Frustration gnawed at him. His body was simply too malnourished – too weak compared to the others.

Glancing behind him, he noticed that only one person was remotely close: a dark-skinned girl with a wide yet wiry frame, long, matted curly black hair, and a determined expression.

Malia.

He remembered her. She was the only slum resident who had managed to score two stars on the strength test, barely lifting 55kg – surpassing even his own score despite her obvious malnourishment. It was clear she possessed natural strength, but her harsh upbringing had prevented her from unlocking her true potential.

Looking behind her, Jabari noticed that, of the original dozen or so slum youths who had started the trial, only seven remained. The others had failed – forced to turn back the moment they stopped running.

What was strange, though, was that many of the remaining slum residents had slowed down significantly, and Kwame had yet to pass them. It was almost as if he was deliberately matching their pace, only overtaking them if they came to a complete stop.

Jabari's suspicion was confirmed moments later.

Ibrahim, the youngest of the slum residents, was barely holding on. His legs wobbled, his breath came in ragged gasps, and eventually, he had no choice but to slow to a brisk walk.

Jabari's eyes narrowed as he watched Kwame do something unexpected – he adjusted his pace to match Ibrahim's precisely, making no move to eliminate him.

A few metres ahead, another slum youth took notice of this. Seeing that Kwame wasn't disqualifying Ibrahim despite his slowed pace, he assumed it was safe to rest briefly. He stopped to catch his breath, intending to wait until Ibrahim got close before starting again – a mistake that proved fatal.

Kwame's voice rang out, cold and absolute.

"Brian – fail. Turn around and head back the way you came."

"What? Why?! That's not fair! I'm not even in last pl-" Brian started to protest, but the moment he met Kwame's icy glare, the words died in his throat.

Without another sound, he turned and sprinted back toward the arena, his face red with humiliation.

Jabari had seen and heard everything, his spirit-enhanced senses capturing every detail.

'Either we'll pass as long as we don't come to a complete stop – which makes sense since the average malnourished slum resident wouldn't be able to run ten miles straight – or he's making an exception for Ibrahim for some reason,' he thought to himself.

He leaned toward the first theory, but he wasn't about to test it. There was too much at stake. All he could do now was push forward with everything he had.

At the five-mile mark, Malia began to slow, her breath coming in ragged gasps. But Jabari could see the fire in her eyes – she refused to give up.

By the eighth mile, Jabari was barely holding on. His lungs burned, his legs felt like they were encased in lead, but he didn't dare slow down. He pushed forward with sheer willpower, refusing to succumb to exhaustion.

Then came the ninth mile.

His vision blurred, his strides faltered, and for the first time, doubt crept in. His body was screaming at him to stop.

And then he saw it.

Oluwa's face!

Smirking at him!

Jabari knew it was just a hallucination, but that didn't matter. That smug, condescending expression ignited something deep within him, something primal – wrath!

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep running.

Half a mile later, another wall slammed into him. Even so, the flames in his eyes burned bright.

He refused to lose to Oluwa – even if it was just a figment of his imagination.

By the time he neared the finish line, he was running on pure fumes. Every step was agony, every breath a battle, but he didn't stop.

He barely noticed the other deacons watching him from just meters away. The other children from the main settlements had long since finished and now stood watching as he stumbled toward the line, barely conscious.

As soon as he crossed the finish line, his body gave out. Darkness rushed in, but before he hit the ground, strong hands caught him.

August, the giant teen eased Jabari down into the shade, his usual stoic expression replaced with something unreadable.

Jabari's vision wavered, but his mind clung to one desperate thought.

"Did I…

Pass?" His voice was weak, his body tense with fear of the answer.

August nodded once.

Jabari exhaled a shaky breath. Relief washed over him, and at last, he allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

When he finally stirred thirty minutes later, the first thing his eyes landed on was something surreal – a colossal stairway stretching endlessly into the sky. Each step was a massive floating platform, easily 100 by 100 meters, its surface etched with glowing runes pulsing with ethereal , ancient energy.

"What did I miss?" Jabari asked groggily as he sat up, rubbing his temples.

August sat a few meters away, his back against a tree, arms crossed in his usual silent manner. Without shifting his gaze, he answered, "Nothing. We're waiting for the last to finish."

Following August's gaze, Jabari turned toward the finish line.

There, dragging his feet forward in a weary run-walk, was Ibrahim. The young slum resident swayed on his feet, fighting to stay awake.

Not far behind him was Kwame.

The head invigilator was still matching Ibrahim's pace, walking calmly behind him, as if he had all the time in the world.

Jabari frowned. "What are the actual rules for the run?"

August didn't hesitate. "The invigilator matches the pace of the slowest trialist. As long as you don't stop running, you pass – no matter how slow you go."

Jabari's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did everyone already know that, or were you told after crossing the finish line?"

August shrugged. "Already knew."

Jabari said nothing, but deep down, frustration bubbled.

"The institute tends to hold slum children to a higher standard," August said, noticing the flicker of bitterness in Jabari's expression.

Jabari frowned, unable to understand why.

Before he could ask, August continued, his tone as steady as ever. "Though there aren't many of you each year, every slum child who passes the trials receives far more attention than the average child from the main settlements."

That only deepened Jabari's confusion. "What? Why?!"

"Two reasons," August stated plainly. "First, because of your harsh upbringing, the willpower of those from the slums is often superior to that of children raised in the main settlements."

Jabari thought about life in the slums – the hunger, the lack of shelter, the constant struggle for survival. He could only nod. That kind of suffering tempered the mind in ways comfort never could.

"The second, and arguably more important reason," August continued, "is loyalty. Most children raised in the main settlements return to their tribes upon graduation. However, those from the slums tend to lack any real attachment to the tribes that left them to suffer."

Jabari's brows furrowed as he absorbed that information.

"Because of that," August added, "and because of the appreciation they feel toward the institute – the organisation that gave them a way out – it's no surprise that many Beast-Warriors born in the slums choose to stay, becoming permanent members of staff."

Something suddenly clicked in Jabari's mind. 'The reason he was being so helpful to me and the other slum kids…' His gaze flickered toward Kwame, a new realisation settling over him. 'Was Kwame formerly from the slums, too?'

It was then, as he and Ibrahim crossed the finish line, that Kwame's voice rang out.

"Congratulations to all of you for passing the warm-up. You now have one hour to rest before the final part of the test begins."

A chorus of groans erupted from the exhausted participants. Ten miles was no small feat, and an hour hardly felt like enough time to recover.

But Jabari noticed something interesting – there were three groups who didn't complain.

The first were the first-years, likely accustomed to such rigorous training.

The second were the elite candidates, warriors trained to the highest standards by their tribes.

And the third – his fellow slum residents.

Hardship was nothing new to them. This was just another struggle on the long road to changing their fates. A day of hard work meant little when they had spent their entire lives fighting to survive.

The hour passed in the blink of an eye. Some used it to stretch, others meditated, and a few simply lay in the grass, trying to recover whatever strength they could.

Then Kwame's voice cut through the murmurs.

"The final part of the fifth trial is to ascend Hell's Stairway," he announced, gesturing toward the colossal stairway behind him.

"There are one hundred steps in total," Kwame explained, "and your only task is to climb as many as possible without losing consciousness."

Jabari's gut told him there was more to it than that. 'What kind of force could make them black out?'

As if answering his unspoken question, Kwame continued.

"This is a pass-or-fail test. To pass, you must achieve at least two stars, which means reaching the thirtieth step. Three stars require fifty steps, four stars require seventy, and anyone who reaches ninety or above will earn five stars."

The candidates tensed, their eyes flickering with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

"There's no official time limit," Kwame added. "The trial ends when you can no longer continue."

Then his lips curled into a faint smirk.

"Oh, and before anyone asks – the record stands at ninety-six steps, set by Salsabil Khan."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Ninety-six steps…

Only four short of the summit.

Jabari exhaled slowly. His body still ached, his muscles screamed for rest, but none of that mattered now.

"Begin."

And with that, the climb started.