”Ahem.” Clearing his throat, the yellow-haired youth broke the silence, gaining everyone’s attention as a result. He began, his voice reverberating *IT’S THE HOUR YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR—THE TIME YOU WILL BE PUT INTO GROUPS. SO MOVING FORWARD, IF YOUR RANK ON THE FINAL ASSESSMENT IS BETWEEN 1 AND 41, COME TO THE PODIUM. AND THE REST OF YOU, CHECK THE UNDERSIDE OF YOUR RING; THE NUMBER WRITTEN ON IT IS YOUR ADMISSION NUMBER, AND COUPLED WITH YOUR GENERATION NUMBER AND BATCH NUMBER, IT BECOMES YOUR IDENTIFICATION NUMBER. FOR EXAMPLE, IF THE NUMBER YOU FIND IS ONE-ZERO-ZERO-ONE, YOUR IDN IS TWENTY-TWENTY DASH ONE-ZERO-ZERO-ONE. AND I ADVISE YOU TO PAY ATTENTION; WHEN IT’S TIME, YOU WILL STEP OUT AND CHANGE YOUR SEATS.*

  As the yellow-haired youth concluded, Masa Ed watched some of his fellow cloaked, briefcase-bearing initiates make their way to the center stage—their gaits exemplary and their presence attention-commanding. I guess they are the best of the lot, he deduced.

  “Rayo, what’s your number?”

  Hearing Plum’s voice, he turned to look beside him at her face, smiling innocently.

  “Mine is zero-zero-zero-one,” she added, her smile broadening, her gaze expectant.

  Smiling too, Masa Ed proceeded to remove his ring, flip it, and look intently at its silvery-white underside, focusing on the 3000 it displayed in golden colors. Three-zero-zero-zero… is that not the last according to that Rosa woman? he wondered internally, lowering an eyebrow. Then he turned to her and informed her, “It’s three-zero-zero-zero,” he said.

  Plum smiled, then replied, sounding sweeter and softer. “Our numbers have three zeros. They match, just like us.”

  “Hmm, that’s true,” Masa Ed responded halfheartedly. Then, facing forward, his focus returned to the center stage, which now had—in addition to the thirty-nine cloaked, briefcase-bearing initiates—a youth in a suit that included a black tailcoat and a honey-gold shirt, the young lady in skirt suit he met at the passageway, and another young lady in a similar black skirt suit and white shirt, her skin light brown compared to the other’s lighter skin.

  Meanwhile, just like the seated initiates, he watched intently as the cloaked initiates, after dropping their briefcases, filled a box in their hands with plate cards they were picking from a tall, slender container—a task supervised by the young lady in the suit and her two new colleagues. Moments later, as the cloaked initiates made their way to random empty blocks of seats in another section of the arena—their briefcases held in their other hands—the voice of the yellow-haired youth reverberated again.

  *NOW, WHEN YOU SEE YOUR NUMBER LIGHT UP, GO TO WHERE IT APPEARS; IT WILL BE YOUR GROUP UNTIL YOUR SEED GERMINATES. BEST OF LUCK.*

  Meanwhile, half-focused, Masa Ed scanned the thirty-nine initiates. Each, after placing down their briefcase, sat on a tiered seat in an empty block each in the other section, placing the box they held on their leg, on the armrest, or on a seat beside them before drawing a plate card from it.

  “Hmm.” Squinting his eyes, he watched—though not clearly—as one initiate removed his ring and began tracing the surface of a card with its round bezel held very close to it. Then, registering a flash of light at his periphery, he turned his face and saw 2014—a large three-dimensional display of golden light floating above one of the thirty-nine initiates, who then dropped the card in his hand and picked another from the box.

  Oh, I see, Masa Ed thought, smiling in realization as he watched a cloaked initiate in his section stand up and move toward the light, just as several other golden displays showing different four-digit numbers lit up. They attracted cloaked initiates from his section toward the section where the thirty-nine initiates sat, where golden lights were now popping from the cards the initiates scanned with their rings, continuously displaying different four-digit numbers midair.

  *I ADVISE YOU TO WATCH CAREFULLY; THE LIGHTS WON’T REMAIN FOR LONG,* the yellow-haired youth projected, his voice reverberating through Masa Ed’s section. Masa Ed looked his way—specifically at the young lady in suits and her two colleagues, who were scribbling while watching the area where the lights appeared with deep focus.

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  “Rayo,”

  Hearing Plum’s soft call, Masa Ed turned to look at her.

  “I think they are still hiding the first-rank recruit,” she remarked. In response, Masa Ed paused, analyzing her words and logic.

  However, mid-thought, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. Turning to look upward over it, he saw Abu Dinn leaning toward him. Then he heard his whisper.

  “Your Excellency, the first-rank recruit has always been a mystery. On the ranking list they released, the first rank was not included; they started from the second.”

  Masa Ed paused for a moment, then smiled and faced forward before leaning to the side, moving closer to Plum—unaware that a pair of eyes had been watching him.

  “Plum, is my name on the ranking list?” he whispered.

  Responding, Plum shook her head faintly.

  Meanwhile, he felt another tap from Abu Dinn. With folded lips, he turned his head slightly to the right, after which Abu Dinn whispered close, “Your Excellency, correct me if I am wrong—I think you are the first rank.”

  First rank? Masa Ed sneered, then scoffed before facing forward, disregarding Abu Dinn’s questioning statement.

  Leaning back in his seat, he began dangling his bare feet as he watched the trooping of cloaked, briefcase-bearing initiates toward the golden-lit section and their breaking away into groups, until the popping of golden lights stopped—bringing a halt to initiates rising from seats in his section.

  There are people left—what’s going on? he wondered, scanning those remaining, whose combined number was far less than any group in the other section.

  “Rayo, they have seventy-two people each, and there are forty-seven people left here,” Plum remarked, and Masa Ed nodded in agreement.

  We will probably be made a group—making forty groups in total, he thought, pursing his lips. Then the voice of the yellow-haired youth reached him again, reverberating in their section.

  *THOSE OF YOU LEFT ARE GROUP ONE. NOW FOLLOW MRS. GHYU; SHE WILL LEAD YOU TO THE HALL OF SAINTS.*

  As instructed, the forty-seven initiates left stood up, carrying their briefcases—including Masa Ed, who rose seconds after the others, picking up his distinctive black briefcase. Holding Plum’s hand, he followed her through the seatway and down the aisle, descending toward the center circle where the others in his group were gathering near Mrs. Ghyu—the beautiful middle-aged woman whose exotic, velvety almond-brown skin under the white lights grabbed his attention as he reached her.

  She is similar to Aunty. Is she somehow related to her? he wondered, his eyes scanning her diamond-shaped face—high cheekbones, tapered chin—and her honey-brown eyes as they surveyed him and the group gathered before her.

  “Follow me,” she instructed.

  She led them out of the arena through one of the other three passageways into a wider, wall-cresset-lit corridor. All the while, Masa Ed, lost in thought, scanned her curves marginally traced by the black kaftan with golden embroidery she wore and her black hair tied in a neat bun, while also tracking—at the corner of his mind—her measured, elegant gait, clearly expressed by her swaying rear.

  They are likely related; the way they walk is similar too, he concluded, smiling with a touch of nostalgia. I wonder how she is doing.

  Taking a left turn, Mrs. Ghyu led them toward a river flowing orthogonally at the end of the corridor. Upon reaching it, a larger version of the underground boat—a salon boat like the one that ferried Masa Ed and company underground the day before—stopped in front of them, automatically opening its door and unfurling its ramp, connecting to the ground.

  “One after another,” she instructed.

  In a line, everyone entered the spacious interior of the boat—well-lit, with tables set between opposite banquettes. Leading Plum, whose hand he still held, Masa Ed walked past one of his cloaked group members and settled on a banquette after helping Plum sit down, placing his briefcase on his lap just like her.

  Leaning back and looking relaxed as the others settled, he smiled. She is at least honest deep down, he thought. Then rotating his head to the right, resting it against the seat backrest, he focused on Sera’s side profile, engaging his subconscious—until he felt a disturbance that made him turn forward again, his gaze landing on Abu Dinn sitting beside Mrs. Ghyu across the table, his trademark measured smile already irritating him.

  Did I owe this guy my past life or something? Why is he following me around like a plague? he thought, scrunching his nose in annoyance and disgust. Seeking relief, he turned to the left, facing Plum, who also turned toward him and smiled warmly—her plump cheeks fascinating him, tempting him to pinch them.

  “Plumpy, what is the name of the yellow-haired guy?” he asked out of the blue.

  But before Plum could answer, Abu Dinn suddenly leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, his fat chest against its edge. “We call him Mr. Ghyu, Your Excellency,” he replied, sounding urgent.

  Before he could continue, Mrs. Ghyu—having noticed Masa Ed’s analyzing gaze—chimed in quickly. “He is not my husband; he is my son.”

  “Ohhh…” Masa Ed reacted, sounding surprised and intrigued. As his raised brows relaxed, he smiled at Mrs. Ghyu. “A kin family—bloodthirsty warriors,” he said cryptically.

  In response, Mrs. Ghyu’s brow knitted before she met his mischievous gaze and sighed.