The transition from the neon-soaked streets of Tokyo to the desolate, white expanse of the Yukon was enough to give anyone whiplash. As the Total Jumbo Jet's stairs lowered into the waist-deep snow, a blast of arctic air roared into the cabin, instantly freezing the sweat on the contestants' skin.
Chris McLean stepped out, looking incredibly snug in a high-end, fur-lined parka. He breathed in the frozen air and smiled. His smartwatch gave a gentle chime: his blood pressure was a cool, steady 120/80. The cold was doing wonders for his internal plumbing.
"Welcome to the Yukon, campers!" Chris shouted over the whistling wind. "The producers wanted me to make you walk across this tundra in nothing but your swimsuits while hungry polar bears chased you. I told them that was a waste of perfectly good polar bears. Instead, we're going back to basics: Survival."
He gestured to the vast, white horizon.
"The challenge is simple. Reach the extraction point ten miles North. The catch? A massive arctic front is moving in. If you aren't at the extraction point—or in a secure shelter—by the time the sun dips, you're going to become permanent ice sculptures. Team Victory, since you won in Japan, you get a head start and a survival kit. Team Amazon, you get a sled. Team Myrmidon... you get a compass that works fifty percent of the time. Good luck!"
The Master of the North
For Team Victory, the challenge was supposed to be a nightmare. Bridgette was shivering, Harold was trying to use "ancient Inuit breathing techniques" to stay warm, and Leshawna was complaining that her toes had gone numb five minutes ago.
"Listen up, eh!"
The voice was loud, authoritative, and surprisingly steady. Ezekiel stepped to the front of the group. He wasn't shivering. In fact, he had his jacket half-unzipped, his face glowing with a strange, primal energy.
"The wind is hummin' from the Northwest," Zeke said, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. "That means the storm's gonna hit in forty minutes, not two hours. If we keep walkin', we're dead. We need to dig in. Now."
"Dig in?" Harold scoffed. "My calculations suggest that we can reach the waypoint if we maintain a steady—"
"Your calculations don't account for a Yukon whiteout, Harold!" Ezekiel snapped, grabbing a shovel from their kit. "In five minutes, you won't be able to see your own nose. We're building a quinzee—a snow shelter. It's warmer than an igloo and faster to build."
Under Ezekiel's command, Team Victory became a machine. He showed them how to pile the snow into a mound, how to let it settle, and where to hollow it out so the entrance was lower than the sleeping platform to trap the heat. Harold watched in stunned silence as the "homeschooler" moved with a grace and efficiency he had never seen.
Inside the completed shelter, lit by a single candle, the temperature rose to a comfortable level.
"Zeke... you just saved our lives," Bridgette whispered, hugging her knees.
"It's just farm sense, eh," Ezekiel shrugged, though he couldn't hide his pride. "In the Yukon, the land doesn't care who you are. It only cares if you're prepared."
The Panic of the Prince
Meanwhile, Team Myrmidon was in total chaos. Alejandro was leading them, but his "prince of the world" persona was shattering. His jaw was still swollen and bruised from Leshawna's punch in Japan, and the cold was making the pain throb.
"The compass says North is this way!" Alejandro shouted, pointing toward a sheer cliff.
"The compass is spinning in circles, Al," Noah said, tucked into his parka and barely looking up from a book he was somehow still reading. "And based on the fact that we've passed that same frozen pine tree three times, I'd say we're officially lost."
Tyler was trying to help, but his clumsy nature was a liability in the deep snow. He tripped over a hidden rock, tumbled down a small embankment, and accidentally dragged the team's supplies into a freezing creek.
"I got it! I got it!" Tyler yelled, lunging for the bag, but he only succeeded in splashing Alejandro with icy water.
Alejandro let out a scream of pure, unrefined rage. The wind picked up, turning the world into a blinding wall of white. "I cannot see! My eyes are freezing shut! Tyler, you are a disaster! Noah, do something!"
For the first time, Alejandro felt true, paralyzing panic. He was cold, he was lost, and his charm couldn't manipulate the weather. He collapsed into the snow, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"This is it... the great Alejandro, defeated by a pile of frozen water..."
The Rescue
Suddenly, a hand gripped Alejandro's collar and hauled him upward.
"Get up, eh! You tryin' to turn into a popsicle?"
Alejandro blinked through the frost on his eyelashes. Standing there, looking like a mythical mountain spirit, was Ezekiel. He had tied a rope to his waist, connecting him back to the Team Victory shelter.
"You..." Alejandro gasped. "The homeschooler?"
"Yeah, yeah, save the insults for when you're warm," Zeke grunted. He grabbed Noah and Tyler by their hoods. "Follow the rope! Move your legs or lose 'em!"
Ezekiel dragged the pathetic remains of Team Myrmidon back to the quinzee. As they crawled into the warmth, the Team Victory members looked at them with a mix of pity and triumph.
Alejandro sat in the corner, shivering, wrapped in a spare blanket Ezekiel had handed him. He looked at Zeke, who was currently explaining to Leshawna how to identify edible moss under the snow. Alejandro's world had been flipped upside down. He had been rescued by the one person he considered the lowest of the low. It was a moral humiliation far worse than any punch to the jaw.
The Elimination: A Final Farewell
The storm cleared by evening, and the teams made it to the extraction point. But because Team Myrmidon had to be rescued, they were the losers of the day.
The elimination ceremony was held under the shimmering Aurora Borealis. Chris McLean stood by a fire, looking at the four members of Team Myrmidon.
"You guys were a mess," Chris said, though his tone was more disappointed than mocking. "If it weren't for Zeke, I'd be looking for a new cast. But since you failed the challenge, someone's out."
Alejandro stood up, his face grim. He didn't try to play a game this time. "I am a man of logic. And the logic is clear. Tyler, you are a brave soul, and you tried to save the supplies... but your clumsiness is the reason we ended up in that creek. You are the weakest link."
Tyler bowed his head. "I know, Al. I totally botched the landing. I'm sorry, guys."
Noah didn't even look up from his book as he cast his vote. He knew Tyler was a good guy, but in this new, more "honest" version of the game, Tyler's constant accidents were a genuine danger.
"The votes are in," Chris announced. "Tyler, it's time to go."
"Wait!"
Lindsay came running from the Team Victory side. She didn't care about the rules. She threw her arms around Tyler, sobbing. "I finally remembered your name! You're Taylor! No, Tyler! I don't want you to leave!"
Chris looked at the two of them. Usually, he would have Chef drag her away to keep the "drama" high. But he looked at the North Star, felt the calm in his chest, and shrugged.
"Alright, alright. Thirty seconds," Chris said. "Give him a proper goodbye. I'm not a heartless monster every day of the week."
Lindsay pulled Tyler into a deep, dramatic kiss that seemed to last forever. When they finally broke apart, Tyler looked like he had just won the million dollars anyway.
"I'll wait for you at the finish line, Linds!" Tyler yelled as he hopped into the "Drop of Shame"—which was actually just a very long, very fast ice slide Chris had built into the mountain.
"EXTREEEEEEEME!"
As Tyler disappeared down the slide, Alejandro sat back down, his eyes fixed on the fire. He looked over at Ezekiel, who was laughing with his team.
Alejandro realized that the rules had changed. Charm and manipulation weren't enough anymore. He was in a world where "farm sense" and "mad skills" were winning. And for the first time, the Great Alejandro was truly afraid.