Chapter 5: Competition.
Second trial: Planks
After resting and recovering as much strength as possible, the teams were lined up and then left waiting. In total, one member from each team stood spread across the large field, while the assistants went off to fetch mats.
The plank was an exercise both Beltrán and the owner of his alternate memories knew very well. Unfortunately for Beltrán, that knowledge would provide little more than slight support in enduring the pain.
The exercise consisted of supporting oneself with both forearms pressed against the ground, feet acting as the second point of support, while keeping the back as straight as possible. A basic endurance exercise—yet notoriously torturous, as the pain would begin to build after barely thirty seconds.
— Beltrán! — a familiar voice called out.
Beltrán, who was waiting for his mat, recognized Larson's voice. The boy stood aside along with the others who wouldn't participate in the trial. Irritated, Beltrán turned his gaze toward the more physically developed boy.
— I hope you're not getting carried away just because a teacher praised you — Larson said mockingly. — Anyone can surprise a teacher. For your own good, don't try to stand out too much.
Beltrán stared at him for a few brief moments, a disdainful gaze fixed on the taller boy.
For a moment, ignoring the comment seemed like a viable option. Keeping a low profile, pretending everything was fine as long as no one bothered him… that cautious instinct—belonging to the original owner of his memories—whispered that as long as you didn't stand out, no one would have a reason to target you.
However, Beltrán's volatile emotions and contradictory nature pushed him to respond—to challenge, to provoke Larson.
It didn't take long for him to find a reason.
If he didn't force change, everything would remain exactly the same.
If it were only about grades or status, it wouldn't matter. But that large boy—and the rest of them—believed they could trample him, despise him, humiliate him endlessly… pushing him until he reacted and lowered himself to their level.
And then what?
They would win.
"You need to be smarter, Beltrán."
He told himself, barely keeping his impulsive nature in check with reason.
— Strong words from someone whose only merit is being bigger and fatter than the rest — Beltrán replied simply.
Silence fell for a moment. The other children turned to look.
Larson's smile twisted, baring his teeth in a feral expression as his jaw tightened. For a moment, Beltrán was reminded of videos of agitated monkeys.
Larson took a step forward—then suddenly stopped.
His expression returned to normal.
— Clever — Larson said flatly. — I'll break you when the time comes. I think that's when you'll finally understand your place in this institute.
Beltrán resisted the urge to click his tongue. Larson had reached the same conclusion he had—holding himself back, refusing to let emotion dictate his actions.
He might seem like someone who only developed physically… but Beltrán knew better. Larson had sharp instincts, capable of reaching complex conclusions quickly—perhaps even faster than himself.
Beltrán sighed inwardly, outwardly ignoring him.
Inside, however, resentment pressed hard against his reasoning.
In this trial, Beltrán did not stand out much, placing around the average among the students.
The only notable detail he picked up was that the same two boys from earlier lasted the longest. Like him, they had been allowed to participate despite lacking team members.
At best, Beltrán managed to keep up with the average.
His body was still weak—consequence of his prana deficit. Physically, he knew he was below the others.
"Everything hurts."
His forearms… and now his back.
Even after the previous trials, the pain had not faded. Massaging his sore muscles, Beltrán sat down—still refusing to give up.
Third trial: Sack carrying and shield dragging
Beltrán cursed under his breath upon hearing the name of the trial. He looked at his forearms, which trembled slightly under their own weight. Blocking the instructor's attacks and supporting himself during the planks had left behind a persistent ache.
Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he tried to think of a way to avoid excessive exhaustion as the trial was explained.
The test consisted of two parts, requiring two participants.
The first would carry a heavy sack for what Beltrán estimated to be about fifteen meters, reaching a second participant. Once contact was made, the second would take a shield and run back to the starting point. After that, they would reverse roles—returning the sack and switching again.
The exercise demanded physical condition, endurance, and coordination.
Since he was alone, Beltrán figured coordination wouldn't be an issue… but in exchange, he would have to perform nearly twice as much work as the others.
Still displeased, he began forming a strategy.
He didn't need to be the best.
He just needed to avoid being among the worst.
— Ready… Begin! — Professor Axcel shouted.
The selected students rushed forward at high speed, lifting the sandbags in different ways. Some carried them over their shoulders, others hugged them to their chests, and some even lifted them repeatedly in small bursts.
None of these methods seemed particularly wrong.
However, Axcel quickly noticed something.
Beltrán, visibly tired from the previous trials, advanced at a much slower pace.
But there was something peculiar about the way he carried the sack.
"How is he even doing that?"
Axcel—and the other instructors—watched in stunned silence.
The sandbag rested atop Beltrán's head.
Balanced.
Stable.
He walked calmly, much slower than the others, allowing the weight to settle naturally along his back, distributing it more efficiently.
Yet the balance he maintained was remarkable.
— HAHAHAHA!
Laughter erupted almost immediately.
The other children pointed at him, mocking the strange way he carried the sack.
As the distance closed, the first wave of students reached their partners and handed off the load.
The second group grabbed their shields and sprinted back, securing them quickly with the straps before running toward the marked finish line.
By the time the first runners began heading back, Beltrán had only just reached the exchange point.
The others were already halfway through their return.
"A rather peculiar method… but eccentricity doesn't equal efficiency…"
Axcel muttered, his expression conflicted as he turned his attention back to Beltrán.
Once Beltrán secured the shield onto his forearm, he began to run.
The shield swung loosely at first, threatening to throw off his balance.
So he adjusted.
He moved his forearm behind his back, letting the shield rest against it while he jogged forward—minimizing its movement.
Due to the nature of the test, Beltrán had a clear disadvantage in the final phase. Because of this, he was allowed to reverse the order, using a second set of equipment prepared in advance to avoid delaying the trial.
By the time Beltrán reached halfway, most students had already completed their exchanges.
Some pushed forward despite exhaustion.
Others paused briefly, struggling to recover their breath.
Axcel narrowed his eyes.
Beltrán, despite starting with a major disadvantage, maintained the same slow but steady rhythm.
That consistency began to close the gap.
"So he conserved most of his energy for this moment… But will it be enough?"
Axcel understood something important.
They were still children.
Beltrán lacked the physical condition and experience to dominate outright.
This kind of test was the one Axcel disliked the most—when the difference in ability was small, numbers and brute effort often overwhelmed individual skill.
When Beltrán reached the exchange point again, he was exhausted.
He dropped the shield, his body trembling.
Sweat poured down his face, his lungs burned, and his skin had grown pale enough to make Axcel hesitate.
For a moment, the professor considered stopping him.
But whether it was the boy's stubborn resolve… or simple curiosity—
He didn't intervene.
"My body feels heavy… I think I'm pushing too far."
Beltrán muttered internally, trying to distract himself from the reality around him.
He couldn't afford to stop.
Lifting the sack again, he adjusted it onto his back, letting its weight pull him slightly forward.
He almost stumbled.
His coordination was poor.
His reflexes were nothing like those of an adult.
He hated being in a child's body—lacking the strength and control he once had.
But he didn't stop.
He refused to let his legs give out.
At this point, the others were already halfway through their return.
Yet his steady pace had allowed him to close the distance.
"Not yet… come on, body, give me a little more. I haven't treated you well today… but what doesn't kill me makes me stronger."
When the seemingly endless distance finally came to an end, Beltrán wanted nothing more than to collapse and breathe.
But he refused.
Defeat wasn't something he could afford to consider.
He grabbed the shield again, lifting it with both exhausted arms.
Using his teeth, he tightened the strap around his forearm.
The pain snapped him back into focus.
"Come on… you can do this."
Encouraging himself, he let the shield rest against his shoulder and moved forward.
At this point, some spectators began to notice.
The gap that had once been over half the course… had now shrunk to less than a quarter.
Beltrán used everything he had left to push forward.
Many of the other students had already slowed down—or stopped entirely.
Seeing him approach, they felt an uncomfortable pressure.
They refused to lose to the "loser" they had always mocked.
— How did Beltrán get so fast? — a girl asked, frowning in confusion.
From the perspective of the others, the distance that once separated them no longer seemed relevant. There were still students moving forward without stopping… so how had Beltrán managed to catch up near the end?
— Beltrán isn't faster — a boy with dark hair and violet eyes replied calmly. — He's probably just as fast as he was at the start.
His words drew attention.
The same boy who had taken first place in the plank trial stood with his arms crossed, observing quietly.
After a brief pause, he continued:
— Look closely. The others are the ones who've slowed down.
The students turned their attention back to the field.
And this time, they understood.
Compared to the beginning, the others were moving far slower—slow enough for Beltrán, despite his labored breathing, to gradually close the distance.
By the end, it was difficult to tell who would arrive first.
But in the final stretch, most of the students crossed the finish line almost simultaneously—
Along with Beltrán.
The moment he crossed, he collapsed to the ground, completely drained.
The instructors ended the trial and moved to assist those who couldn't finish.
Axcel approached Beltrán, helping him stand.
The boy looked disoriented, on the verge of vomiting.
— …give me a moment — Beltrán muttered, his voice barely audible.
Without insisting, Axcel stepped back.
Beltrán gagged a couple of times, nearly throwing up—but managed to stop himself.
After a few seconds, he straightened up again.
— You should rest for the next trials — Axcel said with a heavy sigh. — You placed fourth in this one.
"For a moment, I forgot… he's competing alone against teams of two."
The thought lingered.
Beltrán—who had never stood out—had surpassed many through sheer ingenuity and endurance.
Even some instructors had taken notice.
If he maintained this level of performance, his grades might improve enough to avoid penalties.
Beltrán nodded.
After catching his breath, he spoke again:
— I'll rest this one… but let me participate in the others.
Axcel frowned slightly.
Could he really stop him at this point?
He had already underestimated him once.
Seeing that some color had returned to the boy's face, the professor finally relented.
Fourth trial: Team combat
Each team selected one participant.
From them, five groups of four were formed.
Each team had a base marked with a flag.
Victory could be achieved by capturing an enemy's flag and bringing it back to one's own base.
They were given small sticks to simulate weapons, marked with colored dye. If a participant struck another on the chest, the hit player had to return to their base.
Strong blows were prohibited and would result in immediate disqualification.
Beltrán watched the trial from a distance.
Most teams performed similarly.
Except one.
A boy with dark blue hair and glasses remained at the base, issuing instructions to his teammates.
He directed strategies—
Sacrificing members to create openings.
Splitting forces between defense and counterattacks.
— "He has talent for strategy…"
Beltrán thought.
He had rarely paid attention to his classmates before, preferring to distance himself from others.
With a quiet sigh, he focused on observing until the trial ended.
That team won decisively—nearly doubling the points of the others.
Beltrán had rested enough to participate again.
As he stood, he felt an uncomfortable sensation.
He turned.
The boy with violet eyes was staring directly at him.
For a moment, they locked gazes.
Then the boy simply looked away.
A faint chill ran through Beltrán.
"Those two give me a bad feeling."
Fifth trial: Fencing duels
This trial consisted of sparring matches using training weapons.
Each student was assigned an opponent and a short weapon—usually a wooden sword.
An instructor supervised, determining who landed the first clean hit.
The objective: score three hits before the opponent.
Fortunately for Beltrán, Larson did not participate.
If he had, there would have been nothing Beltrán could do.
Larson was taller, stronger, with longer reach.
Beltrán knew that well.
His body still remembered every defeat.
No amount of adult memory could compensate for that physical difference—not in a direct duel.
Students were assigned their matches.
Beltrán's opponent:
Stuart.
A classmate.
Stuart had simple features—ashen hair, amber eyes.
He despised weakness.
But what he hated more were those who played the victim in situations they themselves created.
To him, Beltrán had always been a weak link—someone carried only by his family name.
Not worth respect.
Not worth attention.
As long as Beltrán stayed out of his way, Stuart wouldn't go beyond minor harassment.
But now…
He hesitated.
Beltrán had planted a seed of doubt earlier that day.
Stuart, who prided himself on reading situations well, noticed the sudden shift.
Beltrán wasn't the same.
"Am I the only one paying attention? …No. It makes sense. Everyone labels him a loser and ignores everything else."
Cautious, Stuart suppressed his usual aggression.
Curiosity replaced it.
— Take your positions — a bald, broad-built instructor said.
Both boys stepped forward.
They were given wooden short swords with padded edges.
A basic stance:
Both hands on the weapon.
Blade pointed forward.
One foot ahead, the other back.
Slightly angled.
They stood two and a half meters apart.
Watching each other.
— Begin!
Beltrán waited.
Just for a moment.
Letting Stuart make the first move.
Stuart stepped forward cautiously, testing distance with a couple of strikes.
Beltrán retreated.
Again.
And again.
Stuart didn't rush.
His steps grew longer.
More deliberate.
—
"Got you."
—
Stuart believed he had read him.
Beltrán would retreat again.
He lunged forward—
—
But Beltrán didn't step back.
He moved in.
Twisting his body sideways, he evaded the attack.
His hand slid halfway along the blade—
And he struck Stuart's chest directly.
Stuart stumbled.
Fell.
— Point for Beltrán.
Stuart stared at the ground, confused.
Slowly understanding.
His gaze returned to Beltrán—
Who had already reset his stance.
—
"I'm surprised I made it through in one piece…"
—
The duel continued.
Beltrán relied on deception and timing.
But even so—
Fighting a child wasn't easy.
Fatigue slowed him down.
Even when his tricks worked, his movements lacked speed.
In the end:
2–3
Victory for Beltrán.
Stuart exhaled sharply.
Not exceptional in fencing—but above average.
He had believed that.
He had believed he was better.
—
And yet, Beltrán defeated him.
—
Returning to his group, his friends gathered around him.
— He really beat you?
— Give me three minutes, I'll crush him.
— Relax, he must've used some trick.
Stuart barely responded.
His gaze drifted toward Beltrán—
Who was crouched, trying to recover.
—
"…I guess it was fair."
—
He admitted it silently.
Beltrán had earned that much.