“I’ve been so stupid,” the girl said, looking at her apprentice in that state. He lay there, asleep and motionless. She stared at him, hoping he would wake up unexpectedly.

“It wasn’t my fault. You’re the one who got distracted,” she kept repeating in her head. “If you had paid attention, you wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

She seemed to be burdened with guilt, even though it was strange for her to behave that way. She had never had regrets, and yet, seeing that body lying on a bed of straw caused her immense pain, a pain that verged on sadness.

“It’s not like you to say such things.”

A voice reminded her that she was not alone in the room. Clare, one of the priestesses dedicated to assisting the chosen ones in every way, seemed to have noticed something unusual. Malia, a serious, meticulous, and sometimes cruel girl, appeared to have compassion for a body—no, a boy—whom she had seen for the first time and, moreover, had just defeated.

“You defeated him, didn’t you? Be grateful for the blood he shed.”

“Even though you’re just a brat, you always talk like an adult,” she said with a smile, holding back tears. Clare, from the welcoming ceremony at the camp of the chosen ones, had always been there for Malia, in every way, as if she was her personal servant. The priestesses were appointed by the village elder to assist the chosen ones, purifying the curse if needed or healing them from mortal wounds. Every member of the camp had their own priestess, and Malia's was certainly unusual.

It was the first time Malia experienced such conflicting emotions. Since childhood, she had always known what she wanted; she was sure of it. She wanted, at all costs, to become the village leader, and unknowingly, she would become the first girl to sit on that throne. She had always been determined and lived her life with a single purpose: to win the tournament. In front of her lay the key that could lead her to that result, to achieving her dream. But now he lay there, petrified, with the possibility of never waking up again.

“Sorry, Clare, you’re right,” she added. “It’s just that he seemed to have tried so hard.”

The priestess gazed at her for a few moments.

“Although I admire your newfound kindness, I imagine there’s more to it than that.”

She was spot on. After a lifetime spent by Malia’s side, she couldn’t be wrong about her.

“You know me. There’s always more to it,” Malia smiled.

“Don’t worry, though. He’ll recover soon.”

Malia sighed in relief and immediately asked, “Have you noticed anything strange?”

It was a very specific question, and Clare had to answer without any pretense.

“Yes. What’s strange about this chosen one is that his curse levels are extremely low, even though he used his usual amount of power.”

Malia tried to confuse her, “It could be some kind of anomaly. From what he said, he awakened much later than us.”

Clare looked at the body, feeling his arm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a more special chosen one than you, Miss Malia.”

“Clare! I told you to stop targeting my pride.”

“It’s the only form of amusement I can allow myself with you.” Clare tried to stifle a laugh, keeping a stony expression.

“Anyway, besides that, I don’t notice anything unusual. He’s like all of us; I saw your fight myself.” Then she stood up, arranged some small wooden statues she had in her wicker basket, and took them with her. “It should be you who admits he’s a chosen one. Perhaps even more than you.” she added quietly, in a soft voice, as she headed toward the exit.

“She just can’t keep her mouth shut,” Malia said at Falco, while continuing to hope that Clare would never change.

If Falco was lying there, lifeless and unconscious, it was all her fault, and even though she didn’t want to believe it, a voice kept making her think it was true. So she approached the bed of straw and said, “You know, Falco. I want to tell you everything. Maybe that way I’ll feel better and stop feeling this unpleasant sensation in my chest.”

"Do people like you always feel this way?" She paused for a moment, as if switching from a joking mode to a serious one.

"I’m not the heroine you think I am. Yeah... maybe you imagined, 'Malia, the great and beautiful savior who comes to your aid to save your dream.' I do have that effect, but even if you thought something like that, it wouldn’t be the truth. I hope you wake up forgetting everything I’m about to say. I’m just pathetic, telling you all this when you can’t hear anything. If you found out, you’d probably call me a coward, just like Clare would. You know, I have an apprentice like you. He’s not quite like you, maybe… definitely more obedient than you. And it’s obvious that you despise him, even though you’ve never met him. All this time I’ve been training you, it’s been different from when I was teaching Robby. He learned much faster, but you... you have this perseverance that he can’t have, a perseverance that’s part of your nature and is also your greatest strength, even without powers. That’s why I admire you, Falco. That day, when we met, I felt admiration seeing that tree lying on the ground that you had felled with those bandaged hands. It’s actually a stupid thing, so stupid that thinking about it now makes me laugh. And yet, damn, you still managed to get into the camp. That camp you used to watch from behind a fence, alone. You were definitely a rebel even as a kid. Maybe you also got that from your teacher. Anyway, what I was saying is that I’m not as incredible as you. To reach my dream, I promised myself I would use any means, whatever it took, and that even if it meant breaking some taboos, I would do it, at any cost, ready for anything. So… I wanted to use you. From the beginning, I wanted your dream to drive you so much that you would do what I wanted you to do. I wanted to push you to make it to the tournament, risking being banished from the village if you were discovered, to then reveal your true identity to everyone. Yes, I’m such a bitch. But by doing that, the only way I could, I would have been able to say fuck you to everyone. Even that bastard friend of yours, Zokin, would have ended up becoming an Outsider, like me, like you, and like all of them. You would have compromised the sanctity of the tournament, of the ritual, and there would have been no winner. I was willing to reach my dream to the point of destroying everyone else’s dreams. I was a damn dream fucker! But something changed me. I don’t know if it was you, the hope and expectations you had of me, or simply the skills I never expected you to acquire. Well, the plan has changed. Now, instead of destroying everyone, maybe I’ll manage to destroy only the others and not myself. Saying it like this, I really sound selfish. I just want to find a way where we all win. But in the end, we know that once the tournament is over, only one winner will sit on the throne. We all have the same chances of winning; I’m just using... alternative methods, right? But what the hell am I doing? I’m talking to a powerless who can’t even hear me."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

She stood up, about to leave. "Maybe it’s better this way. I shouldn’t feel guilty for fighting for my dream. I just wish there was a way where at least the two of us don’t have to give up on our dreams." At the edge of the doorway, she said, "Hey, would you consider changing your dream?"

Zokin was with the master when he saw Malia leave the hut. He knew the newcomer was inside, a boy who seemed to have the same abilities as Malia, only without training, without meditation, and just like that, suddenly, without any warning. He knew from the moment he saw him fall to the ground that that boy would be a threat, a problem that needed to be resolved, or at least understood as soon as possible. Zokin was a serial planner. He had an incredible obsession with information, so much so that the master teased him about this nerdy side of his. The master would tell him that it was the girls who should exploit knowledge to win, not the men. Especially him, who had been gifted with the power of strength; he couldn’t rely on the information he received but had to trust his strength and instinct.

"You need to use your power and increase it. Forget about notes. That’s wizard stuff."

You wouldn’t think so, but the master's favorite was actually Zokin. This was precisely why he often expressed opinions that, as a master, he should have refrained from. In truth, before him, the chosen ones had had two other masters who had introduced them to meditation and control over their own power. The third master, whom everyone simply called "Master," but whose real name was very difficult to pronounce, was supposed to introduce them to practice, combat, and especially the conventions of the tournament: rituals, customs, and proper conduct.

However, in Zokin’s case, he was more of a father figure than a master, and the boy didn’t mind that. The only criticism he could make was that the master gave him advice that went against his nature.

One of his strengths was precisely his ability to gather information from his fights or from the master's practical lessons. He had a small notebook in which he wrote down everything he knew about his companions, who, to him, were all opponents to be defeated, obstacles standing between him and his dream. It didn't fit well, a "big guy" like him, taking notes like a pussy (that's what the master thought).

He already knew before fighting them what his opponents' weaknesses were and the way he could defeat them and knock them down in an instant. The most difficult to defeat in combat were the adapters. He knew everyone's powers well, and he knew that the adapters were his arch-enemies. However, he had devised a technique with which he could defeat them every time. The technique he himself called the “enhanced strength technique.”

Ever since he was a child, he liked to give names to the techniques he used in combat, but he couldn’t remember at all with which child he used to do this. He remembered doing it with someone, a boy who was always with him, with whom he dreamed of becoming a chosen one and fighting every day in a new duel.

He did not regret those days, and yet, even unconsciously, he was waiting for the day someone would defeat him.

This newcomer, perhaps even worse than an adapter, was disrupting his peace of mind, which he had built over time, convinced that he would surely win the tournament. This new piece, this new variable, this absence of information he had in his notebook drove him paranoid.

That day, while training with the master to refine his gradual power enhancement technique, he couldn't concentrate and kept hitting the target repeatedly with punches so powerful that he had to stop each time because of the curse.

“Son, is everything okay?” the master said. “If you keep going like this, the curse will end up killing you.”

He was really pissed off. He couldn’t concentrate. That thought, that doubt that something could go wrong, that this variable could change the entire outcome of the match, terrified him.

All the self-control he had gained over the years had been for nothing. In fact, what he had learned was not self-control, but the perception of being superior to everyone else. It was a deceptive perception because, at the first change, the colossal statue of his ego crumbled.

He had to gather information as soon as possible. He had to know and defeat that newcomer.

When I woke up, I felt excruciating pain running down my entire back, and a burning sensation all over my face. My vision was still blurry, and I couldn’t understand where I was. It seemed dark, and the sky was no longer visible, covered by a layer of colored canvas, like a painter’s palette.

I heard voices talking to me, but I couldn’t understand much; they were muffled. Slowly, the pain subsided, but in return, I felt a strong warmth. I felt a heat I had never felt before. Many sensations, in fact, were new to me—new pains, new feelings.

“He’ll recover soon,” said a female voice I had never heard before.

Then another voice seemed to be complaining about something. It was a familiar voice, of which I had heard many tones. Suddenly, I heard only that voice, as if it were telling me a story. I kept listening to that beautiful voice lulling me on a boat in the sea, and soon after, I fell asleep again.

While I was sleeping, I think someone was holding my hand, but I couldn’t figure out who it was. I imagined Malia, feeling sorry for hitting me so hard, even though it wouldn’t be like her, or maybe Zokin, happy to see me and worried about his old friend. In either case, I would have been happy.

The second time I woke up, I was fully conscious. I opened my eyes, awakened by the morning chirping of birds. I was still in the camp, probably in one of the dormitory beds. I touched my cheek, and the pain seemed to have disappeared. I tried to get up, and incredibly, I managed to do so without any effort. As if by magic, I was healed. I had no wounds, no pain, and I felt like I had been cleansed of a weight I had been carrying without even realizing it. A question came to me spontaneously: “How long had I spent sleeping? But more importantly, had I already become a chosen one?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I heard noises coming from outside, like chatter that was getting louder and louder. I got up and headed in the direction of the voices. It wasn’t difficult to find my way around the dormitory, even though it was the largest tent I had ever seen. As soon as I crossed the dormitory exit, I emerged into the camp. Incredible; I was still there. It wasn’t a dream. As soon as I got used to the sunlight, I saw that in front of me, two girls in clothes I had never seen before were blocking the entrance.

The other chosen ones were doing everything they could to catch a glimpse of something, or rather, someone. Some were saying, "He's awake!" while others were shouting, "I want to talk to him!" All of a sudden, I seemed to have become a celebrity. Not that I knew what that meant.

I was overwhelmed by the surreal situation. Did they want to see me? Why? What on earth would they want to talk about with someone who had been knocked down like a sack of potatoes?! At least I remembered what had happened.

Among all those people, however, Malia was absent. Not even Zokin seemed to be there. I peeked through the crowd, but there wasn’t a trace of either of them. The two girls who were trying to create a barrier to keep the others from coming in said to me, "The master is waiting for you." And right after, the other said, "I'll take you to him. Come with me."

Were they addressing me formally?! I really had become a celebrity.

The girl made her way through the crowd (okay, it wasn’t really a crowd, I admit that moment of fame went to my head) and we crossed the entire field of the chosen ones. From the outside, it seemed much smaller, and yet it was spacious enough to hold more than fifty tents.

"Where we are going is a sacred place, so please remove your sandals and bow before entering." said her with a really serius and severe tone.

I had never heard of such a ritual, yet the way she said it, it seemed like standard practice here.

We arrived in front of a large tent that could be seen from afar from the dormitory, and after taking off my shoes and bowing, I entered through the thin velvet door, filled with curiosity. Waiting for me, sitting on a large red carpet that reflected the dim light of the candles placed around the four supporting posts of the tent, were the master, Malia, and Zokin.

"Those two," I thought. "What are they doing together?"

A shiver ran down my spine, as if to warn me of what was about to happen.