Chapter Eleven: Ropes, Rivalries, and a Race for Riches

Chapter Eleven: "Ropes, Rivalries, and a Race for Riches"

The dawn air was still crisp when Baisha finished tweaking her optic-link ID, her fingers dancing over the glowing screen. Yaning, wiping crumbs from his breakfast roll, leaned over, curiosity piqued by her focus.

"Zhang FaCai?" he read aloud, squinting at the display. "That's your new ID?"

"Yup." Baisha nodded, a grin tugging at her lips. "What's the vibe?"

Yaning paused, then flashed a thumbs-up, his red hair catching the dim kitchen light. "Solid. Sounds like you're rolling in credits already!"

Baisha's smile widened, satisfaction warming her chest.

Jingyi, watching their exchange from across the table, let out a sigh heavy with exasperation. Her long frame slouched slightly, her usual poise fraying. "Can you two take this seriously? Exam's today."

"Tensing up won't help," Baisha said, waving a dismissive hand. Her short silver-gray hair swayed as she leaned back, unfazed. "If we can't even hack prep school, forget military academies."

Jingyi's logic couldn't argue with that, but her nerves were wound tight. Since sunrise, she'd been one step from stapling their admission tickets to their foreheads, terrified they'd lose them and get locked out. Breakfast done, Huoman rolled up in his beat-up flyer, its skull graffiti dulled by dust. The craft, though rickety, had room to spare for three twelve-year-olds, its rear seats wide enough for comfort. Yet Jingyi sat ramrod straight, feet pressed together, spine rigid as a ruler, her face a mask of grim resolve.

Huoman caught her in the rearview mirror, his weathered face softening. "Play it steady, kid. You're all aces—military school's just a matter of time."

His confidence was ironclad, but even he faltered when they reached Lanslow Middle School. A sea of bodies swarmed the grounds—thousands of hopefuls, parents, and vendors clogging the air with shouts and engine hums. Huoman, clearly unprepared for the chaos of enrollment season, hadn't banked on this crush. He'd have come two hours early if he'd known, sparing them the headache of finding parking. Here, sleek shuttles and junker flyers met the same fate, crammed side by side on a sandy lot, their hulls baking under the sun.

"No way I'm getting you inside that mess," Huoman said, wiping sweat from his brow, his jacket creased from the drive. "You three good on your own?"

The trio exchanged glances—Baisha's eyes steady, Jingyi's sharp, Yaning's a touch nervous—and nodded. They slung their backpacks on and hopped out, boots crunching on grit.

"Let's move," Baisha said. "Check-in first."

She flicked open her optic-link, its holo-map pinpointing the prep students' registration field. By the time they reached it, the open space was a churning mass of kids, easily thousands, moving in orderly lines toward a row of desks ahead. The crowd's buzz was electric—anticipation, fear, and bravado mingling like static.

At their turn, a teacher behind the desk handed them forms and a liability waiver, her expression as warm as a circuit board. A silver scanner hummed over their faces, logging their data with a faint beep.

"Yaning Kelly. Yan Jingyi. Baisha," she recited, voice flat. "All from the orphanage, right? No legal guardians, so sign your own names."

Baisha skimmed the waiver. It was blunt: prep school wasn't a game. Injuries—broken limbs, worse—were on the table, and if they happened, the school washed its hands. Death was mentioned, a cold footnote. Her pen moved without hesitation, her signature looping across the page. She filled out the registration form next, handing it back with a steady gaze. The teacher passed them numbered badges, adhesive patches that clung to their chests like a second skin, meant to stay on through the gauntlet ahead.

Morning was the written exam.

The crowd split into classrooms across the sprawling campus, a maze of concrete and faded posters. The test fused core subjects—math, grammar, history—into one dense paper, two and a half hours long. Baisha breezed through it, her pencil scratching answers with calm precision. The questions were softer than she'd braced for, child's play compared to Liao's logic puzzles or Huoman's strategy drills. She knew she'd score high—excellent, at least. Jingyi and Yaning, equally sharp, would too. The real test loomed in the afternoon: the physical trial.

Lunch was a rushed affair, thirty minutes to scarf down energy biscuits and lukewarm drinks they'd packed at dawn. Baisha chewed mechanically, her mind already on the field. Teachers herded them back, barking orders as they sorted thousands into five waves for the trial grounds, shuttled by massive airbuses. The last wave wouldn't finish until nine at night, a grueling wait.

"Please, not the last group," Yaning muttered, clasping his hands in mock prayer, his freckled face scrunched. "I wanna be back for dinner."

Jingyi swatted his head, her braid swinging. "Stop obsessing over food."

"It's not that!" Yaning protested, rubbing the spot, his voice climbing. "Last wave's stuck waiting hours—talk about pressure. You want that?"

Jingyi's glare could've melted steel.

Yaning's jinx struck true. When teachers called out batches, he and Jingyi landed in the final group. Baisha, luckier, drew the second.

"I'll swing back after my run," she offered, trying to lift their spirits.

Jingyi shook her head, her grip firm as she pulled Baisha into a quick hug. "You'll be wiped. Focus on you." Her eyes slid to Yaning, voice dropping to a velvet threat. "We're not fragile, right, Yaning Kelly?"

Yaning flinched, hands shielding his head. "Jingyi, my bad! No full names, I'm begging—I get chills!"

Baisha bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she followed her group's teacher to the trial's starting line.

The lead instructor, a wiry woman with a voice like a whip, faced them. "This path's called the Devil's Road. No mercy out there." Her gaze swept the line, cold as the steel badge on Baisha's chest. "But we're not monsters. Safety measures are in place. If you're hurt or want out, rip off your badge and toss it. Rescue'll scoop you up fast."

Her face hardened, eyes glinting. "Your choice. Always."

She paused, then added, "One more thing. Top score gets a four-thousand-credit scholarship. First through third? Three years' tuition waived."

Prep school cost a thousand credits a year. Baisha's mind raced—second and third meant three grand saved, but first was a seven-thousand-credit windfall, counting the scholarship. Her blue eyes blazed, hunger sparking deep within.

The trial kicked off with a whistle.

First Stage: Endurance Run

Ten laps around the trial field, a flat expanse ringed by scrubby hills. Baisha's legs found their rhythm, her boots pounding earth she'd trained on for years. She wove through the pack, breath steady, settling into the top twenty with ease. Sweat beaded on her brow, but her strength held—plenty left in the tank. Others weren't so lucky. Some collapsed after ten, gasping like beached fish; a few tore off badges, done before they'd begun. Most clung on, though—military hopefuls had some grit.

Teachers logged the leaders' names, points ticking up.

Second Stage: Obstacle Course

A gauntlet designed to break them. Smoke bombs clouded the air, stinging Baisha's lungs as she vaulted over logs, their splintered edges biting her palms. She crawled through a tangle of razor-sharp wires, mud caking her gray training suit, the fabric heavy with sweat and grime. Explosions—simulated, but deafening—rattled her bones, mimicking a battlefield's chaos. High above, a net wall loomed, its ropes swaying under climbers' weight.

Screams marked the weak. Heights spooked some; others buckled under cannon roars, ripping badges free with trembling hands, tears mixing with dirt. Baisha pressed on, spitting mud, her hands and knees bloodied from wire cuts. Eight runners pulled ahead, their forms blurring as they scaled the wall. She grit her teeth, refusing to lag, and started climbing, ropes burning her raw palms.

A cry pierced the din. A boy above her, too eager, slipped, his foot missing a hold. He plummeted, clutching snapped ropes, his body swinging like a kite in a storm. Baisha's heart lurched—she dove, shoving him back toward the wall with a grunt. "Watch it!" she yelled, muscles straining. A fall from that height would snap bones, or worse.

He steadied, gripping the ropes, his face a mess of sweat and relief. He glanced down, eyes meeting hers—gratitude flickered, then soured. Without warning, he lashed out, his boot aiming for her shoulder, using her as a foothold to scramble higher.

Baisha twisted, dodging the worst, but his heel grazed her ear, a hot sting flaring. A buzz filled her head, then warmth—blood trickling from a shallow cut. Rage surged, her blue eyes narrowing to icy slits. She glared up, her stare a blade, and the boy faltered, his hands fumbling as he climbed faster, panic in his jerky moves.

Baisha snorted, cold and deliberate. The boy's kick had torn the wall, leaving two frayed ropes dangling. Her fingers moved on instinct, knotting one into a sturdy loop with a speed that felt like magic—years with Liao's tools had made her hands clever. She braced against the wall, leaned back, and flung the lasso. It snared the boy's ankle clean.

One yank.

A thud echoed, followed by a scream, swallowed by gunfire and shouts. The boy hit the ground, out of the race, but Baisha didn't look back. The crowd gaped—her trick was a warning: she could rope anyone. Yet she didn't. Head down, she climbed, her movements fluid, overtaking stragglers. At the wall's peak, she tied another knot, gripped the rope, and leapt, feet tapping the mesh for balance. She landed light, boots skidding on dirt.

Behind her, others mimicked her—ropes yanked, knots tied, the wall unraveling into chaos. Students scrambled, desperation driving them as the structure groaned, nearing collapse. Baisha didn't wait. She sprinted the final stretch, a jagged path of stones, and crossed the yellow finish line first.

The scoreboard flashed: 43 minutes, 28.66 seconds.

She collapsed, chest heaving, air searing her lungs. A rescue team swarmed, dabbing her ear with antiseptic. "Just a flesh wound," one muttered. "Patch it, you're fine."

The supervising teacher, a broad man with a clipped beard, glanced her way. "Good work," he said, then turned, his attention already elsewhere.

Baisha meant to head back for Jingyi and Yaning, but exhaustion pinned her at the trial's exit. Night fell, the sky bruising purple, as students staggered out—filthy, battered, some carried by medics, their badges gone. Hours blurred until Jingyi appeared, supporting Yaning, whose forehead was swathed in bandages, his red hair peeking out.

"This idiot tripped on the stone path," Jingyi said, her braid frayed but her smirk intact. "Fifty meters from the end. Dropped from third to ninth. The finish-line teacher looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Yaning's luck had tanked hard.

"You?" Baisha asked Jingyi, voice hoarse.

Jingyi tilted her chin, grinning. "First, obviously. That tuition waiver's mine."

"Think bigger," Yaning piped up, wincing as he moved. "You two could snag the scholarship—seven grand, no joke." He hissed, clutching his head.

A week later, Lanslow Middle School posted the results. Baisha took first, Jingyi second, Yaning seventeenth. The scholarship was hers, and the ear gash felt like a small price for seven thousand credits.