The moment we stepped inside the Quad Corps Headquarters, the cacophony of the outside world vanished. The lingering, nauseating aftertaste of that goat-milk ice cream was quickly forgotten, replaced by a heavy, royal silence.
The grand place was a vast expanse of pristine white marble, sending a chill through my boots that rattled my spine. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen stars, their soft glow refracting off silver platters and polished glass. Every pillar seemed to reach for the heavens, and the deep blue velvet curtains draped over the towering windows whispered of an ancient, suffocating elegance.
The air here wasn't ordinary. It was thick with the scent of freshly ground expensive coffee beans and a rare, mountain-flower perfume. It felt like walking into a masterpiece—a still, majestic oil painting. Directly ahead, behind a black marble counter, sat a receptionist whose professional beauty paled in comparison to Rumi's natural radiance.
Suddenly, the hand that had been anchored in mine—the source of my courage—slipped away.
Rumi surged forward toward the reception with an air of absolute confidence. With every step, her noble poise returned as if by magic. She was no longer the girl who had collapsed in tears; she was a sovereign part of this palace.
I stared at my empty palm, dazed. In a moment of total brain-fade, I brought my hand to my nose and took a deep breath. That intoxicating, familiar scent was still there, etched into my skin.
"Exactly the same fragrance..." I whispered.
I looked up, only to find Rumi stopped dead in her tracks. She was staring at me with a twisted expression, like she was looking at a freak in a zoo. She marched back, her face scrunched in disgust.
"...Pervert!" she hissed.
I felt like I'd been hit by lightning. Her brows knit together.
"What are you actually doing, Durlav? Who sniffs their own hand in public like that?"
My face went nuclear. My ears felt like they were melting.
"I... I... it's nothing... I was just checking if..."
I had no answer. Rumi huffed and turned away.
"Forget it! The seminar will be over by the time you finish stuttering. And I am not holding your hand again, you creep!"
She bolted toward the desk. I followed like a kicked puppy. Yet, as I gazed at the sheer scale of the white stone fortress, my shame was eclipsed by awe. This place was an infinite labyrinth of marble. Only the chandeliers knew what fate awaited us under this roof.
…
As we reached the counter, the young woman behind the desk set down her quill. She wore a practiced, elegant smile.
"Welcome to the Quad Corps Headquarters. How may I assist you?"
Rumi, still pouting, pointed a thumb at me with utter disdain.
"My name is Rumi. And this pervert is Durlav. We're here as candidates."
The woman opened a massive, leather-bound ledger.
"I see. Please state your registration numbers."
My old social anxiety surged back like a monster. I began picking at my nails, feeling the weight of the royal atmosphere crushing me. I lowered my head and whispered, "3... 6... 9..."
"Why are you whispering like a cat? Speak up!" Rumi barked. Her voice echoed through the silent hall.
"I... Rumi... actually... I meant..."
My stuttering and sweating made the two women stare at me like I was a statue of pure awkwardness.
The receptionist, clearly used to handling socially broken teenagers, gave me a reassuring, tilted smile.
"I understand, Mr. 3-6-9," she said, pulling a drawer open. She retrieved two yellowed forms.
"Durlav, 3-6-9. Which means the other is yours—1369, Rumi."
She stamped the forms with a thud and tossed them into a nearby basket. My heart sank. The basket was overflowing. Thousands of filled forms were piled up, a mountain of competition.
It was clear:
We were the last two stragglers to reach the gates of the fortress.
…
Every two months, nearly a hundred thousand candidates apply—from within the city and far beyond its borders.
Yet among this overwhelming tide, only a chosen few are deemed worthy.
Out of countless hopefuls, barely ten thousand make the cut.
Those selected receive a single letter from the Quad Corps Headquarters—a letter of congratulations, bearing only one thing inside.
A number.
That number alone is the key—the sole pass that grants entry to the seminar.
…
"You may proceed," she said, pointing toward a narrow corridor.
Questions swarmed my mind.
Is it over?
Are we in trouble?
But my tongue was tied. Rumi, sensing my internal crisis, fired off the questions herself.
The receptionist smiled. "To be honest, you are very late. But you're lucky."
Rumi frowned. "Lucky? How?"
"The speaker for the seminar hasn't arrived yet. It was supposed to start twenty minutes ago, but there's no sign of them. There are thousands of people inside getting very restless." She paused.
"You're lucky because you weren't disqualified, but unlucky because you might be waiting for a very long time. I apologize for the uncertainty. You may enter."
A massive weight lifted off my chest. I took a long, shaky breath of relief.
Who is this speaker?
I wondered.
Who has the audacity to break protocol at the Quad Corps Headquarters?
…
We passed through massive teak doors and entered what felt like an ancient cathedral of power. My heart stopped.
The hall was a gargantuan circular theater. Tiered wooden seats rose from the floor to the ceiling like a mountain of humanity. The arches high above met in a mysterious, aristocratic design. A circular chandelier held hundreds of candles and gas lamps, bathing the room in a haunting yellow glow.
At the very center, far below, was a wide wooden stage. Thousands of candidates in expensive coats, hats, and ties sat in the rows, whispering or staring at the empty stage. Despite the crowd, the silence was heavy.
I was stunned. The elegance of the reception was nothing compared to this. My village eyes couldn't handle the grandeur. I felt like a grain of sand.
The air smelled of expensive tobacco, old wood, and sweat. On the stage sat a small table with a water jug. Empty.
Ignoring the gravity of the room, I collapsed onto the carpeted floor. My legs were dead. The soft carpet felt like heaven.
"...Peace," I muttered.
"Durlav? Why are you sitting on the floor?" Rumi asked, annoyed yet amused.
"Have mercy," I groaned. "I'm done. My legs are gone."
Rumi sighed. "You're something else."
I looked up at her and grinned. "If the receptionist had been wrong for some reason and if the speaker had already been on stage, I would have died of a heart attack right here."
"Stop talking about dying," Rumi said seriously. "One day you'll say it and it'll come true."
I gave a sly, teasing smile. "Hehe! Then I'd want to die in front of a beauty like you... wait! What did I just say?"
My face turned a violent shade of red. I looked away instantly. "I... don't listen to me. I say stupid things."
Rumi turned her head away too. Even in the dim light, I saw her ears turn pink.
"You really do say whatever comes to your mind... Durlav," she whispered. "Idiot, idiot idiot, idiot…" she repeats something but I don't hear.
I scrambled up to hide my embarrassment, scanning the crowd to find a familiar face.
"Are you looking for someone?" Rumi asked, her cheeks puffing up with that strange jealousy again. "Do you have any lover?"
I froze. First my Dad this morning, now this girl I met a few hours ago. Why does everyone torture me with this impossible question?
I just shook my head 'no' with a sigh.
Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, someone charged out of the crowd. He grabbed Rumi's hands and leaned in close, exhaling a breathless, chaotic rant in one single gasp:
"ᴏʜ ʜᴏ ʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡɪᴛɴᴇssɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴄᴇʟᴇsᴛɪᴀʟ ʜᴏᴜʀɪ ᴏʀ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ғᴜʟʟ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘsᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴs ɪ ᴀᴍ ɪɴᴄɪɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢɴᴇss ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅғɪʀᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ ᴏʜ ʀᴀᴅɪᴀɴᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪsʜ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴍᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴀsʜᴇs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴘᴀʟᴍs ʟᴇᴛ ᴜs ғʟᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴘᴜʀɢᴀᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛʜɪs ᴠᴇʀʏ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ᴀ ɴᴇsᴛ ᴏɴ ᴀ ғᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ɪsʟᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ғɪғᴛʏ ᴏʀ sɪxᴛʏ ᴏғ ᴏᴜʀ ᴏғғsᴘʀɪɴɢ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴘʀɪɴᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ғᴏᴏᴛʙᴀʟʟ ᴛᴇᴀᴍs ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ғʀᴏᴢᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴊᴀᴡs ᴀɢᴀᴘᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴇᴏᴍᴇᴛʀʏ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴏʜ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴇss ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴄᴛᴏɴɪᴄ sʜᴏᴄᴋ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʟᴇɢᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ғʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴊᴀɢɢᴇᴅ sʜᴀʀᴅs ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴜᴍᴍᴇᴛ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀɢᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴜs ᴄʀᴏss sɪx ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴs ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʜᴜɴᴅʀᴇᴅ ʀɪᴠᴇʀs ᴄʟɪɴɢɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴍ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴇɪʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʟᴜɴᴀᴛɪᴄs ᴅʀɪᴠᴇɴ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴄᴏsᴍɪᴄ ғᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ sᴏʟᴇʟʏ ʙʏ ɪɴʜᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏxɪᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴘʜᴇʀᴏᴍᴏɴᴇs ᴏғ ᴏᴜʀ sᴋɪɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴇsᴄᴇɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏᴘᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏᴜʀ sᴋᴇʟᴇᴛᴏɴs ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴜɴᴀʀ ɢʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴍʏ ʀɪʙᴄᴀɢᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴠɪʙʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀʜʏᴛʜᴍɪᴄ ᴛʀᴇᴍᴏʀs ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴏʜ ᴍʏ sᴜɢᴀʀ-ᴄᴏᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴀʟᴀxʏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɴsᴍᴜᴛᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʟᴛᴇɴ ʟᴀᴠᴀ ᴏғ ᴀɴ ᴇʀᴜᴘᴛɪɴɢ ᴠᴏʟᴄᴀɴᴏ ɪ sʜᴀʟʟ ɢᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ ᴇʏᴇʟᴀsʜᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴛʀᴜᴄᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴊᴇsᴛɪᴄ ᴘᴀʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴠᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴍɪʟᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ғʀᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴍʏ sᴏᴜʟ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴜʟsɪɴɢ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴜᴇʟ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ғɪʀᴇ-ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴs ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴀ sᴇᴡɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀʀɴ ᴀ sɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴍɪᴄʀᴏ-sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪs ᴀ ʀᴇᴄᴋʟᴇss ᴄᴏᴀʟ-ғɪʀᴇᴅ sᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇ ғᴜᴇʟᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴏʟᴀʀ ʜᴇᴀᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇs ʟᴇᴛ ᴜs ᴅɪssᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴏᴜʀ sᴘɪʀɪᴛs ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴠᴀsᴛ ᴘʀɪᴍᴏʀᴅɪᴀʟ ғᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ғʟᴏᴀᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅs ᴏғ ᴇᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀs ᴛʜᴇᴍsᴇʟᴠᴇs ᴡᴇᴇᴘ ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴏғ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ ᴀᴛ ᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀᴊᴇsᴛɪᴄ ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ʟᴀᴋᴇ ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴇᴠᴀᴘᴏʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ sɪɢɴ ᴍʏ ǫᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴏғ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ sʟᴀᴘ ғʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ғᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪss ᴏғ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴇʀғʟɪᴇs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ sᴋɪɴ—"