A tremor ran up Arnold's spine as he clutched his phone, fingers brushing the smooth glass as if it could lend him courage. Inside, his academic record glowed on the screen: three consecutive years at the top of his faculty, a near-perfect CGPA of 4.95 in Mechanical Engineering, and a string of awards he had worked for tirelessly. It was his proof, and it was all he had.
Central Hall loomed ahead, a towering building of glass and steel, buzzing with activity. Banners announcing the Annual Global Innovation Challenge fluttered above the entrance. Teams milled about, some chatting confidently, others pacing nervously. Most wore coordinated shirts with university logos or sponsor badges.
Arnold took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the morning press down on him. He was out of his element here, but he was determined not to let that stop him.
At the main gate, two officials in crisp suits and earpieces stopped him before he could step forward.
"Good morning," one said, looking him up and down. "Do you have a sponsor for this event?"
Arnold shook his head. "No. I don't have a sponsor. I came here on my own."
The man's eyebrows drew together. "Unaccompanied participants without sponsorship are not allowed. This is a serious competition. You'll need to provide documentation and a recommendation from your sponsor before you can enter."
"I don't have one," Arnold said, keeping his voice even. "But I do have proof of my academic record. I've been top of my faculty for three years now. My CGPA is 4.95. I can show it to you."
The official raised an eyebrow and reached for his radio. "We still can't make exceptions. Without a sponsor, you shouldn't be here. Step aside."
Arnold's stomach tightened. He had expected resistance, but he hadn't expected this level of dismissal. He showed them his phone nonetheless, sliding it into the man's view. The screen lit up with his grades, each semester clearly marked, cumulative scores highlighted in bold.
The man squinted, scrolling slowly. "Impressive," he muttered. "But it doesn't change the rules. You also applied late. The competition begins in twenty minutes. You shouldn't even be standing here."
"I… I didn't see a deadline on the official site," Arnold said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I came as soon as I found out. I'm ready to participate. I can prove I belong here."
The second official stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Kid, you need to move along. You're wasting your time. We can't let you enter without approval."
Arnold's heart raced, anger and frustration mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "You're turning me away because I don't have a sponsor? Because I don't look like your so-called elite students? You afraid I might embarrass your precious participants? Because none of them has worked twice as hard as I have!"
The men stiffened at his outburst. One reached to grab him, intending to physically escort him off the premises. Arnold acted before they could react.
With a quick feint to the left, he tricked them, ducked under their reach, and bolted forward, phone clutched tight. He could hear shouts behind him as they tried to pursue him, their footsteps heavy on the polished marble.
"Stop!" one of them barked. "You can't just run in here!"
Arnold didn't stop. His voice rang through the grand entrance hall, loud enough for the bustling participants to pause and stare. "You're unfair! All of you! You think grades and talent mean nothing unless someone powerful approves it, but I've worked for every point, every achievement! I'm better than your elite students, and you're too scared to admit it!"
A hush fell over part of the hall. Judges and organizers had started to look toward the commotion, intrigued. One of them, a woman in her late forties with keen features and a clipboard tucked under her arm, stepped forward. Her eyes locked on Arnold as he skidded to a stop near the registration desk, chest heaving from the run.
"You speak boldly for someone your age," she said, her voice calm but cutting through the noise. "What grade are you in, and how old are you?"
Arnold swallowed, bracing himself against the pounding of his heart. "I'm nineteen. I'm a finalist in Mechanical Engineering at Gilmore University, and my CGPA is 4.95."
The woman's eyes widened slightly, taking in the data with visible surprise. She gestured toward a nearby desk. "Let me see that record."
Arnold handed over his phone, the screen still displaying his grades and awards. She studied it, flipping through the various semesters with a practiced eye. After a moment, she looked up. "Impressive. It seems you've worked very hard, and your record supports your claim. Very well. You may participate. But make no mistake—this competition is not forgiving. One misstep, and you fall behind the others immediately."
Arnold nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He felt a surge of vindication. This was his chance. This was what the flash drive had meant. Someone had put him here for a reason, and he wasn't about to waste it.
He was directed to a side entrance where other participants were gathering and given a uniform to change into. Teams were huddled together, checking laptops and discussing strategies. Many glanced at him with curiosity, some with outright skepticism as he was the only one without a team. Arnold ignored them. He had to focus.
The hall was massive, an auditorium-like space filled with rows of tables, each equipped with computers, projectors, and materials for problem-solving. Judges and mentors moved between stations, observing, taking notes, and occasionally whispering to each other.
Arnold found his assigned table near the center. A laptop, notebook, and writing tools were already arranged neatly in front of the seat, part of the competition setup. He lowered himself into the chair, drawing in a quiet breath as he prepared mentally.
A loud chime echoed through the hall, drawing attention from every corner. A large screen at the front of the room flickered to life. The competition had officially begun. The first task appeared, bold and clear:
"Design a prototype solution for optimizing urban traffic flow during peak hours. Consider real-time data, resource limitations, and emergency vehicle access. Submissions will be evaluated for creativity, feasibility, and scalability."
Arnold leaned forward, eyes bright with focus. "Alright," he muttered under his breath, leaning forward.
He glanced at the other participants. Some were already typing furiously, while others sketched diagrams with nervous precision. Arnold didn't feel intimidated. He felt alive.
"Let's see," he whispered to himself, tapping his pen against the table. "Sensors, signals, routing… integrate live traffic feeds…"
Beside him, a participant frowned. "Do you even know where to start?"
"I do," Arnold replied calmly, his fingers hovering over his laptop. "You just need to think in layers, not lines."
The murmurs of the hall faded as he focused. Numbers, patterns, and simulations streamed through his mind. He drew out sensor networks, signal algorithms, and emergency corridors on his notebook, then translated them into his code. Every past project, every late night of tinkering, every problem he'd solved flashed before him.
One of the judges leaned slightly closer. "Impressive concentration for someone your age," she murmured to another. "He's not just smart… he's audacious."
Arnold typed rapidly, sketching out traffic routes and adjusting light sequences. "If I reroute buses dynamically while prioritizing emergency vehicles…" he muttered, pausing to jot a quick diagram.
A nearby participant whispered, "He's fast… way too fast."
Arnold ignored it, suppressing a smirk. This was his element. He belonged here just as much as anyone. The ticking clock and the hum of computers fueled him instead of intimidating him.
Minutes passed in a blur. When the judge called out, "Ten minutes remaining," Arnold was already reviewing his final simulation. He leaned back, fingers trembling slightly, and pressed the final command.
A pop-up appeared on his screen: Simulation Complete – Efficiency Optimized: 97%
He froze. Ninety-seven percent. Higher than any pre-tested model the judges had shown at orientation.
"Done?" a participant asked nervously.
Arnold didn't answer. He stared at the screen, heart racing. This wasn't about bragging—it was about proving himself.
One of the judges leaned over his desk. "Your solution… it's unconventional. Did you account for unplanned roadblocks?"
"Yes," Arnold said. "I ran multiple scenarios with accidents and traffic surges. The system adapts in real time, keeping emergency routes clear while preventing citywide gridlock."
The judge raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. And the data feeds?"
Arnold brought up a simple visualization of dynamic lights, rerouted buses, and ambulances navigating congestion. "Sensors provide live updates. The algorithm prioritizes critical paths first."
She nodded, stepping back. "Bold. Let's see the others."
Arnold exhaled, leaning back. Around him, competitors whispered nervously and scrapped entire plans. He glanced at the clock: five minutes left. One more test.
He adjusted a single variable and hit Run. The pop-up flashed again: Efficiency Optimized: 98.3%
A murmur ran through the hall. Arnold allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
Then the judge's voice cut through. "Final question for all. If your system encounters a completely unexpected obstruction—say, an accident blocking three major arteries simultaneously—how would your algorithm respond?"
Arnold froze for a heartbeat, then leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "I have a solution," he said, fingers already hovering over his keyboard again. "But it's going to require me to override the current assumptions…"
The room fell silent. Every eye turned toward him. He looked down at his screen, heart hammering, a thrill of anticipation flooding him.
This was the moment. His chance to prove that he wasn't just another late applicant, but someone who could stand toe-to-toe with the so-called elite.
And he was ready.