We reached the high-speed train station. Green went and bought two tickets, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. The vendor sold the cigarettes without an ID check; Green had looked eighteen ever since his mustache started growing.
We stood together, waiting for the train and smoking. The station was a riot of advertisements for the superhero fights and various products, all featuring the famous, powerful faces of our heroes.
"Our faces will be on one of these ads in the future," Green declared.
"The Terrifying Duo. We'll star in movies together, become famous acting stars. We'll get two beautiful girlfriends and have double dates. We'll start a big business together and cheat on our girlfriends together."
"And save the world together," I added, finishing our old, familiar litany.
The train arrived and we boarded. Green surprised me by having bought two first-class tickets, a private twin room with two beds. The journey took a few hours, which we spent fooling around and eating an impressive amount of food. We watched a whole film series about the Trial. We laughed at the ridiculous parts, but there were some serious moments, too. One scene, in particular, was affecting,the moment the story's hero survived while his friend did not. That was how the film ended. I looked at Green, and from a single glance, I knew he was thinking the exact same thing.
There were three possibilities: that neither of us survived, statistically, the highest probability; that only one of us made it; or that we both succeeded, the most difficult outcome of all.
"We should change the subject," Green said, his voice unusually quiet. "We don't want to think about that anymore."
"These are bad movies anyway," I agreed, forcing a lighter tone.
When the train arrived at our destination, we got off. The air was different here, saltier, carrying the weight of the sea and the promise of the unknown. As we wandered through the new city, the festive atmosphere of the superhero ads felt distant, replaced by a tangible, gathering tension.
We found an old beggar sitting on a crate, his hand outstretched. Green convinced him to buy us two bottles of beer, giving him the money he had left. I added my hundred dinars to the man's palm, a final, meaningless transaction in the world we were about to leave behind.
We found a hidden spot on the rocks overlooking the shore and sat down, drinking the beer while gazing at the beautiful, sprawling beach. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
"It tastes exactly like I imagined," Green said, taking a sip. It was bitter, and not nearly as satisfying as we had built it up to be in our heads, but it was a ritual we felt we needed to complete.
We sat there, smoking and sipping our beers, the silence between us more comfortable now, filled with the sound of crashing waves.
"Why is it called the 'Trial'?" Green asked, staring at the horizon. "Why wasn't it named 'The Test' or something? Because it's actually a test."
"I saw a video about that," I replied, following his gaze. "A test is an exam. You pass or fail, and that's it. But in a Trial, you are judged for your success or your failure. It's not just a pass/fail. You could pass the test but still be judged a failure for another reason. It's about your worth, not just your strength."
Green nodded slowly, absorbing this. "Judged by who?"
"I don't know. The Gate, maybe. Whatever is on the other side."
When we finished, we threw the empty bottles into the sea, watching them vanish into the churning waves. It felt like throwing away a part of our old selves. Then, without another word, we headed straight for the promised place.
The Gate leading to the Trial had opened this year at an archaeological site full of relics from an ancient civilization. The juxtaposition was jarring: crumbling stone pillars and weathered statues stood silently beside the shimmering, impossible vortex of the Gate. It was a tear in the fabric of reality, a swirling mass of iridescent light that hummed with a low, pervasive energy you could feel in your bones.
Thousands of people were already lined up, entering the Gate in group after group. They came from all different parts of the country, a river of humanity flowing toward a single, mysterious point. There were people our age, but also older men and women, even a few who looked as old as our grandparents. Their faces were a mosaic of determination, fear, desperation, and blank resignation.
In our nation, two Gates opened: this was the Northern Gate, and there was another in the South. All over the world, many Gates opened, multiple ones in major countries, and at least one in every smaller nation. We were just two drops in a global ocean of hopefuls and fools.
Hundreds of thousands, even millions of people participated in the Trial every year, regardless of age. No one could stop them; it was their right, and the state's duty was to facilitate the process. The line moved with shocking, impersonal speed, a conveyor belt of fate. Our turn came all too quickly.
We stood at the threshold, the light from the Gate washing over our faces, its hum now a roar in our ears. I could feel the static electricity making the hairs on my arm stand up. I glanced at Green, and he at me. In that single, shared moment, I saw the bravado finally crack, revealing the raw, terrified boy underneath. I knew he saw the same in me. We hesitated, our feet rooted to the ground for one last, precious second.
But the crowd behind us had no patience for our fear. They surged forward, a relentless tide of bodies, and pushed us through.
The transition was not a step but a dissolution. The world tore apart, and what I experienced in that first moment inside was nothing like the movies at all. The films spoke of heroic music and clear paths. This was a sensory overload of screaming wind, disorienting light, and a pressure that threatened to crush my skull. If the movies were a dream, what I went through in that first instant was the beginning of a living nightmare.