The afternoon training of the first day was worse than I had imagined. Not because it was worse than the morning one, but because our bodies were already destroyed when it started again.
Our legs were still trembling from the running, our arms burned from the exercises, and the backs of many of us carried the red marks of the whip.
The instructor changed nothing. He ordered us to repeat the same exercises, with the same intensity, no breaks. The only thing that changed was the number of punishments: much higher than in the morning. This time, no one was spared.
His voice continued to echo through the arena, cold.
"FASTER!"
"AGAIN!"
"DON'T STOP!"
The moment someone fell, instructor Ronald was already there.
When someone stopped, they were dragged to the center of the field and punished in front of everyone.
Throughout that hell, silence ruled, broken only by the screams of those being punished.
When they finally allowed us to leave the field, I didn't know exactly what time it was since I couldn't see the sun or the moon underground — but my body knew it was evening. And every muscle in my body screamed in pain.
We walked like corpses to the cafeteria, following the guard.
We ate and then returned to our rooms.
That night no one felt like talking. We didn't have the strength.
It was only the first day. What would the second be like? And the third? Would I survive? But survive for what?
I stared at the stone ceiling while we sat on the cold floor of the room. Our uniforms were covered in dust and sweat.
Victor was the first to break the silence.
"If this is only the first day… how many of us do you think will survive?"
His voice was low and tired.
The silent boy sighed.
"I don't think they care."
Victor looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think they care about how many of us survive." He lowered his gaze. "What they want to see is who endures. Those who can't… become a lesson for the ones who remain."
Those words hung in the room.
Milo wrapped his arms around his knees.
"I… I don't want to die here."
For once even Liam didn't know what to say or how to comfort the poor boy trembling in the corner.
That night I slept little and, hearing Milo sobbing, I realized I wasn't the only one.
The following days turned into a routine.
Training.
Pain.
Punishments.
Food.
Sleep.
Then the same thing all over again.
Every morning the door burst open with the same noise.
Every afternoon ended with exhausted bodies being dragged out of the arena.
Ronald never changed his expression. He never seemed irritated, but he never seemed satisfied either.
He watched us as if we were weapons being sharpened.
After four days I thought I had more or less understood how that place worked, and even my body was slowly beginning to adapt to the training.
Then something new happened and, for once, it wasn't bad news.
We were running the usual laps around the arena when something changed.
A boy in front of me slowed down.
His breathing became heavy and sweat ran down his face as he staggered.
Nothing unusual, so at first I didn't pay much attention.
Then something changed in the air. It was a strange sensation I couldn't describe: as if the air around us had suddenly become heavier.
The boy at the center of that phenomenon fell to his knees.
Instructor Ronald appeared beside him almost immediately.
He observed him for a few seconds.
Then he spoke.
"The Union has begun."
As always, his voice showed no emotion.
Then he raised his gaze toward us.
"WHO TOLD YOU TO STOP?!! KEEP RUNNING!"
I kept running as ordered along with everyone else while the instructor dragged the boy to the center of the field.
Every now and then my gaze fell on him.
The air around him seemed to move, as if an invisible current was circulating.
After a few minutes that strange pressure disappeared and the boy opened his eyes again. He remained lying on the ground, panting, but I could see from his eyes that he seemed somehow… euphoric.
A guard entered the arena.
Ronald watched him for another moment.
Then he gestured toward the guard.
"Take him to the lower levels for testing."
The guard grabbed the boy and left the field while the training continued.
The next day the boy returned.
I recognized him immediately, but he seemed different.
During the morning training he ran without difficulty.
While many of us struggled to breathe, he kept a steady pace.
When it came time for push-ups, he completed them without stopping.
He didn't seem to get tired. In fact, he didn't even seem to be trying.
It was as if his body had changed overnight. Was this… an awakened?
In the afternoon, instead of joining us, he was brought to the center of the arena.
Ronald stood beside him.
"Show your element."
The boy slowly raised a hand.
At first nothing happened.
Then a small spark appeared between his fingers.
A small flame. It was tiny and trembling, but it was there.
The flame slowly grew, dancing above his palm.
The orange light illuminated his sweaty but excited face.
Ronald observed him carefully.
"Unstable control."
He paused.
"Keep it lit. When it begins to stabilize, start moving it."
The boy stayed there for the entire afternoon, trying to keep the flame alive.
While we ran, fell, and were punished, he remained in the center of the field, focused on his new power.
A few days later another event broke the usual monotony.
During training, a boy suddenly stopped.
He was bigger than many of us, he seemed about thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. The number on his chest was 13.
As far as I could remember, he had always endured the exercises without complaining.
But that time he turned toward Ronald.
"I won't do it anymore."
The arena fell into a silence heavier than usual.
"This isn't training," the boy continued angrily. "It's just torture!"
For a moment no one moved.
Then the instructor made a sign toward the two guards who were always waiting at the corners, and at the signal they immediately stepped in.
Ronald spoke with his usual calm. He wasn't even offended when the boy shouted in his face. Perhaps he expected that one day someone would show that kind of reaction.
"Take him to the disciplinary rooms."
The boy was dragged away while he continued to shout. When he tried to resist, the guards slammed him to the ground and began dragging him across the floor.
We didn't see him for an entire day.
When he returned, something had changed.
No—changed was an understatement.
He walked slowly, his eyes were empty, and his face showed no emotion.
He seemed… hollow.
A boy from his room approached him that evening.
"What did they do to you?"
The boy didn't answer. He didn't even turn to look at the one who had spoken.
He remained seated, staring at the floor.
Someone tried again.
"What happens in the disciplinary rooms?"
Silence again.
He didn't even raise his gaze.
It was like talking to someone who wasn't there anymore.
He walked, trained, ate, and slept like everyone else, but he seemed unable to feel any emotion.
From that day on no one dared to rebel anymore. Even the screams during punishments had become quieter. No one knew what happened in what the instructor called the "disciplinary room," but soon among us it began to be called the torture rooms.
That night I lay on the bed in our room, staring at the stone ceiling and thinking.
The union.
The elements.
The disciplinary rooms.
Every day we learned something new about that place.
And every day was worse than the one before.
I closed my eyes.
Only one question kept returning to my mind.
Would I also become nothing more than the shadow of myself?