Shadows danced along the walls of a narrow alley, shifting like living things in the dim light. A tall, gaunt figure, cloaked in black, moved like an apparition, dragging a heavy bag behind it. The burden scraped against the road, its weight undeniable. It paused at the alley's exit.

  From the folds of its cloak, a bony hand emerged, clutching what appeared to be a simple smartphone. Its skeletal fingers glided across the screen with practiced precision. The figure paused, tilting its head slightly—listening, watching. The alley was empty, save for the occasional flicker of an old LED streetlight. Satisfied, it tapped the screen.

  Psssss.

  A faint hiss escaped as the streetlight sputtered and died. The presence sensors embedded in nearby buildings shut down in unison, their silent watch interrupted. If any half-decent Awakened had been nearby, they might have detected the residual hum of the EMP. But in this ward, only Normals and weak Awakened resided. At this hour, they were deep in slumber, oblivious to the night’s shifting currents.

  Moonlight spilled through the parting clouds, casting shadows across the white brick floor. Shadows stretched and recoiled—along bakery walls, across the jewelry shop’s darkened windows, through the tight crevices between buildings, and down into the sewer grates. They flickered, restless and alive.

  Then, just as swiftly, the clouds swallowed the moon whole.

  Total darkness.

  A heartbeat later, the streetlights flickered back to life, their glow artificial, unknowing. The presence sensors resumed their silent surveillance, oblivious to what had just transpired.

  The figure retraced its steps into the alley’s depths, turning its back on the plaza. The bag scraped along the ground—inexplicably lighter than before.

  The night was far from over.

  ********

  "Bye, Ma!" I shout as I step out the door.

  I hurry downstairs, hop onto my bicycle, and zip through the familiar alleys before merging onto the main road. Traffic—same as always. A quick glance at my speedometer: 30 km/h. Good enough. I weave through the congestion with the ease of a housefly, slipping past sluggish cars and half-alert drivers, untouchable.

  I pass the turn leading to the plaza. No college today.

  The faint scent of reinforced asphalt fills the air as I shift gears, gliding through the District-9 main road—a 400-meter-wide artery that cut through every ward. This city, a 1.5-million-square-kilometer tech giant, has three primary modes of public transportation: intra-ward buses, a metro system connecting the wards, and inter-district shuttles.

  Yet, despite these options, the main road was always choked with traffic. Why? Because more than half of District-9’s 500 million residents insisted on driving their own vehicles. And that wasn’t even counting the daily influx of outsiders flocking to this forefront of technology from every corner of the globe. That's doubly true this year because of the NTA.

  I soon reach my destination. The Tesler Ward Metro Station.

  I lock my bicycle in the parking area and step into the towering 400-meter-tall skyscraper. The moment I enter, my eyes sweep across the bustling ground floor.

  The place is alive with movement—commuters from all over the world flood in and out, their hurried steps blending into the hum of conversation and distant announcements. Ironically, the District-9 metro system seems more popular among outsiders than the city’s own residents.

  Shops line both sides of the floor, their displays bursting with everything imaginable—clothing, jewelry, cosmetics, toys, cutting-edge District-9-exclusive gadgets, and souvenirs of every kind. The holographic displays flicker, the bright signboards glow enticingly, automated sales assistants beckon passersby, and the scent of new merchandise mingles with the faint aroma of coffee from a nearby café.

  "Kevin! Here!" A familiar voice calls out. I turn to see Virav approaching with a slight limp—for some reason unknown to me.

  "Yo," I greet him before we head to the elevator.

  The elevator—almost as big as my house—was packed with all sorts of people. I tap a screen on the wall and select the highest floor. The hum of elevator music was barely audible over the chatter filling the cramped space.

  "Where are we going first?" I ask Virav.

  "Newstein Ward. That's where the 2020 NTA took place—a painting competition. That one sucked. I had bought temperature-dependent paint, but the guy next to me had the same idea. And lucky me, he was a low Tier-5 Ice type. The place was so packed, our temperatures canceled each other out, and both our paintings looked like shit. Literally. Everything was brown—the grass, the birds, the houses, everything."

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Virav sighed, shaking his head, then added, "Good times."

  Unnecessary information? Probably. Useful to me? Absolutely.

  He cleared his throat before continuing. "Next, we'll head to District-10 and District-13. District-5 and District-6 can wait until tomorrow."

  The elevator paused a few times—some people got off, others got on. Mostly on the guest suite and hotel floors.

  Virav looked at me, his brows furrowed. "It's useless, you know? There's no pattern or anything. The NTA committee members probably ask their infants for suggestions. You'd be better off preparing for the competition instead. I can recommend some cross-functional training programs if you want."

  I sighed. "What am I supposed to achieve in a couple of days? It took you years to get where you are. A few days of training won't make a difference. Might as well search for clues. I checked online, and there are tons of posts trying to predict the NTA theme."

  With a soft ding, the elevator doors slid open, and we stepped out. This was the station platform. Beyond the platform’s edge was nothing—a sheer drop straight down to the main road.

  Other districts use normal maglev trains, but only District-1 and District-9 have flying ones.

  "If some nerds on the internet could find a pattern, they might as well solve world hunger." Virav grumbles as we flash our student IDs to the security bots before entering the platform. These bots were the latest and improved version of the BBC—capable of taking on a hundred BBCs like it was nothing.

  We sit down on an empty bench, waiting for the train. I snap my fingers, and within seconds, a small spherical bot rolls toward me, stopping right at my feet.

  "How may I assist you?" A soft, childlike voice chirps.

  "Calculate, using all available resources, the possible themes for this year's NTA," I instruct.

  The Assistive Ball Bot—better known as ABBy—projects a hologram, displaying its calculations and results.

  ABBy has a wider database than my smartphone, constantly updating as it interacts with new people and gathers fresh data daily.

  "Shall I send the information to your smartphone?"

  "Yeah." I pull out my phone. ABBy scans it, detects the built-in communication chip, and transfers the data in an instant.

  "Anything else?" ABBy tilts slightly, almost expectant.

  I shake my head. "That’ll be all."

  With a soft whir, ABBy zips away—rolling off to assist other passengers, joining the swarm of identical ABBies weaving through the station.

  I sigh, lamenting my own desperation. If it were this easy to predict the format, Virav—who is now giving me a pitiful look—would've ranked under 100,000 at least. Maybe.

  A small gust of wind causes my hair to flutter as the train arrives.

  The pride and joy of District-9—the magrail.

  The 300-meter-long marvel hums as its doors slide open, releasing a flood of passengers onto the platform. A few seconds later, we step inside and find our seats. A chime sounds. The doors hiss shut.

  The gyroscopic suspension smooths out any jolt as the train accelerates. Then, with a smooth, almost effortless motion, the train takes off—soaring into the sky like a Chinese dragon, gliding above the cityscape.

  I turn to the window, watching cars zip alongside the train, some struggling to keep pace while others overtake with ease. This is the Aerial Road, 500 meters above the surface. Many vehicles can reach Mach 1, some even Mach 2, but on the ground, strict speed regulations keep them in check. Only on the Aerial Road can they accelerate to their heart’s content, free from restrictions.

  But speed comes at a price. A single entry toll costs 5000 IDD—a luxury only the wealthy can afford.

  I turn around and catch Virav staring at me. "What?"

  "You're so skibidi," he says, expressionless.

  I could feel my finger growing taut like a catapult, primed and ready to launch.

  ********

  I step outside the Newstein Ward Metro Station and pause.

  It was like a scene from a storybook.

  Trees lined the streets like jewels on a crown, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Lush greenery bordered the white stone pavement, dotted with flowers that swayed like stars in a drifting galaxy. Birds sang, their melodies a backdrop to butterflies flitting through the air.

  The roads were quiet, with only a few pedestrians and the occasional car gliding past, careful not to disturb the ward’s serene beauty.

  "First time?" Virav asks.

  I nod unable to peel my eyes away from the natural beauty.

  He sighs. "I had the same reaction when I came here for the first time. Thirty square kilometers of rich greenery with perfectly complementing European architecture... but there's a reason this place is so quiet."

  I murmur, "The residents."

  He nods. "Exactly. Only the elite live here—CEOs, government officials, top scholars, wealthy businessmen, and all. One wrong move, and you could piss off someone powerful. This ward is just mansions, gardens, and whatever weird shit the bourgeois get up to. Honestly, I don’t even know why there’s a metro station here. Doubt these guys even know what public transport is."

  We slowly stroll through the scenic area, heading towards the exact place where the painting competition in 2020 was held. Ten minutes later, we arrive at a garden unlike any other.

  A lone tree stands in the center, towering over a sea of flowers that ripple like waves in the breeze, as if bowing to their protector.

  "This is it," Virav says. "We had to keep a good distance from the flower bed. I was lucky enough to get a clear view of the tree, but the unlucky guys had to get real creative with their angles. Let's just say paint wasn't the only red that spilled that day."

  I scan the area, taking in every detail.

  Nothing.

  No pattern, no clue, just my own desperation leading me nowhere.

  Then, as my eyes drift over the tree, I notice a faint mark on its bark—visible only because of the sunlight’s angle. I squint, but my sub-par vision betrays me.

  I beckon Virav. "Look at that."

  He squints so hard that he appears to be of a different ethnicity. "I see... letters?"

  Curious, I step forward, intent on getting a closer look—

  Only to be shoved back by a girl in a maid uniform who appeared out of nowhere.

  "You do not have permission to enter!" she shouts.

  "Whoa, hey," Virav says, catching me before I fall. "We just wanna check out that tree. Mind letting us through?"

  "No!" she snaps. "This garden belongs to General Nare! Only he and his wife may enter!"

  "Okay, then can you at least tell us what’s written on its bark?"

  "No!"

  That’s when I notice something at the nape of her neck. An alphanumeric sequence.

  I stare at her. "Are you a robot?"

  Her cheeks puff in anger. "Don't you have any manners, dumbass?!"

  I keep my gaze steady. "Answer me."

  She stutters before blurting, "Yes! I am a robot! Are you happy now, asshole?!"

  Who programmed this little shit?

  Virav and I exchange looks before silently heading back to the metro.

  ...Maybe I should just do some cross-functional training.