Trials of the Continent

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Invitation

The workshop was Ameir's sanctuary. Tucked behind his family's modest home in Sudan, it was a small, cluttered haven that thrummed with life and creativity. The walls were lined with shelves, each crammed with tools, gears, and blueprints—evidence of countless hours spent immersed in his passion. On the workbench lay prototypes of machines Ameir had meticulously crafted over the years. Some were practical, like the irrigation pump that had transformed his village's agriculture. Others, like the self-balancing robot that occasionally wobbled before collapsing, were ambitious experiments waiting for perfection.
That morning, however, the usually vibrant workshop was still, the only sound the low hum of the ceiling fan. Ameir stood in the center, his hands tightly gripping a letter that had arrived two days prior. The thick parchment felt foreign in his calloused fingers, its luxurious texture a stark contrast to his surroundings. The words written on it were even more surreal:
"You have been chosen to represent Africa in the Trials of the Continent. Your ingenuity, determination, and potential have not gone unnoticed. Prepare yourself for challenges that will test your body, mind, and spirit. Departure is mandatory. Refusal is not an option."
The insignia at the bottom—a symbol of interlocking gears encircled by a crescent moon—shimmered faintly in the sunlight streaming through the window. Ameir had turned the letter over countless times, searching for answers. Who sent it? Why him? Yet, there were no clues. Only the stark, commanding text and the symbol that seemed almost alive.
"I don't understand," he muttered, pacing the length of the room.
The letter had come with a plane ticket, departure time, and a location—a private airfield several hundred kilometers away. No further instructions, no indication of what to bring, or even what to expect.
When Layla, his older sister, had seen the letter, her eyes had lit up with excitement. "This could be the break you've been waiting for," she had said, her voice brimming with hope.
"Or a trap," Ameir had countered, skepticism lacing his tone.
Layla had waved off his concerns with characteristic ease. "Who would go through all this trouble to trick you? You've been building machines since you were a kid, Ameir. Maybe someone important finally noticed."
Layla's words echoed in his mind now as he paused his restless pacing. It was true—his talent for engineering had always set him apart. Growing up, he had absorbed the basics of mechanics from their father, but his fascination had quickly grown into an obsession. While other kids played soccer in the dusty streets or gathered around the few working televisions in the village, Ameir scavenged discarded motors, old wiring, and scrap metal. His notebooks were filled with sketches and calculations, his mind constantly buzzing with ideas.
By sixteen, he had built a wind-powered generator that lit up their entire village. Neighbors who had relied on dim oil lamps and intermittent electricity were suddenly able to study, cook, and gather under bright electric lights.
But this? This was something else entirely.
The idea of leaving home sent a wave of anxiety crashing over him. On one hand, it was an opportunity—a chance to prove himself, to show the world what he was capable of. On the other, it was terrifying. He wasn't just representing himself; he was representing an entire continent. The thought pressed down on him like a weight he wasn't sure he could carry.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon. If he didn't leave now, he'd miss the flight.
With a deep breath, Ameir folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. His gaze swept over the workshop one last time, lingering on the projects that had defined his life. He grabbed a small toolbox, its contents carefully selected—just in case.
Stepping outside, he was greeted by the blazing Sudanese sun. Its heat was relentless, casting long shadows over the dirt paths that wove through the village. A few neighbors waved as he passed, their faces warm and encouraging.
"Good luck, Ameir!" one called out.
He nodded, forcing a smile. He couldn't let them see the doubt gnawing at his heart.
The bus ride to the airfield was long and uneventful, giving Ameir ample time to think. The words of the letter replayed endlessly in his mind: The Trials of the Continent. What did it mean? A competition? An experiment? A test? Each possibility brought more questions than answers.
When the bus finally rolled to a stop, the sun was dipping low in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink. The airfield stretched before him, its asphalt gleaming faintly in the fading light. At the center stood a sleek private jet, its polished surface reflecting the fiery colors of sunset.
A man in a crisp black suit waited at the base of the boarding stairs, a clipboard in hand. His demeanor was calm, professional, but there was a faint air of authority about him.
"Ameir Musa?" the man asked, his sharp gaze locking onto him.
"Yes," Ameir replied, his voice steadier than he felt.
"Welcome aboard," the man said, stepping aside to allow Ameir to ascend the steps.
Ameir hesitated for a fraction of a second, casting a final glance at the distant horizon. The weight of home—his family, his village, his workshop—hung heavy in his chest. But there was no turning back now.
As he climbed the steps and entered the jet, the door hissed shut behind him. The cabin was luxurious, far removed from anything he had ever experienced. The leather seats, the soft lighting, the hum of the engines—it all felt surreal.
The plane began to taxi, and Ameir sank into his seat, gripping the armrests as the jet lifted off the ground. The homesickness hit him in a sudden wave, but he forced himself to focus.
Whatever lay ahead—whatever this competition demanded—he would face it head-on.