The helicopter moved steadily through the air, its rotors beating a constant rhythm that drowned out any thought of casual conversation. Eighteen of us sat strapped into our seats, facing forward, each lost in our own anticipation. No one spoke, not because we had nothing to say, but because the weight of what awaited us pressed too heavily on our chests to allow idle words.
A few minutes into the flight, one of the soldiers accompanying us stood and secured himself with a harness before activating the control panel mounted along the cabin wall. A large screen slid down smoothly from the ceiling, and the low hum of electronics blended with the sound of the rotors.
Then the screen lit up.
Aakash Patil's face appeared, calm and composed as always, and the atmosphere inside the helicopter shifted instantly. Spines straightened, wandering thoughts snapped into focus, and even the restless nervous energy that had been simmering since takeoff seemed to still.
"Good morning, entrants," Aakash began, his voice steady and deliberate. "I'm sure all of you are feeling a mix of excitement, nervousness, and fear, which is only natural at this stage."
No one smiled. No one relaxed.
"Before the practical examination truly begins," he continued, "it is my responsibility to explain the rules and the point system clearly, because misunderstanding either may cost you your future as a professional trainer."
As he spoke, the helicopter banked slightly, and through the narrow reinforced windows, the familiar outline of Mumbai's coastline slipped away behind us. Concrete, towers, and roads gradually gave way to endless blue as we crossed into open airspace above the sea, the city shrinking until it was nothing more than a distant memory.
"For the next three days," Aakash said, "you will be living and surviving on an island."
A subtle tension rippled through the cabin, some people shifting in their seats as the implication sank in.
"One thousand students have qualified for this stage of the entrance examination," he continued. "You will be divided across five separate islands, with two hundred students assigned to each one."
The screen shifted to display satellite images of several isolated landmasses scattered across the ocean.
"This exam is not designed to test obedience or memorization," Aakash said evenly. "It exists to evaluate your survival instincts, adaptability, judgment, and the way you treat both Pokémon and fellow humans when operating in active wild zones without constant supervision."
He paused briefly before moving on.
"Now, let's discuss the point system."
The display changed again, showing silhouettes of Pokémon marked with different colored scarves.
"To earn points," Aakash explained, "you must engage in battle and defeat Pokémon native to your assigned island. These Pokémon have been categorized based on their strength and threat level, and you will be able to identify their category by the color of the scarf worn around their necks or limbs."
The first set appeared.
"White scarves indicate baby or very young Pokémon," he said. "Defeating them will earn you zero points, and engaging them without necessity is strongly discouraged."
The next category followed seamlessly.
"Blue scarves represent low-level opponents. These Pokémon will earn you one point upon victory, and most of you should be capable of handling them safely if you act responsibly."
The image shifted again.
"Green scarves indicate intermediate-level threats. These Pokémon are stronger, more aggressive, and far less forgiving. While some skilled entrants may be able to defeat them alone, doing so will require sound judgment and control. Victory against them will earn you two points."
The cabin felt tighter as people leaned in unconsciously.
"Orange scarves," Aakash continued, his tone sharpening slightly, "mark high-risk targets. These Pokémon are dangerous, and engaging them alone is not recommended. Group coordination is advised, and a successful battle will earn five points."
Then came the final category.
Red.
"These Pokémon," Aakash said, "are elite-level threats on your island. Red-scarf targets possess overwhelming strength, and retreat is the recommended course of action."
His gaze from the screen felt piercing.
"However," he added calmly, "if any entrant or group manages to defeat a red-scarf Pokémon, they will be awarded ten points."
A murmur stirred in the helicopter, quickly dying as Aakash continued.
"You must also understand that defeat has consequences," he said. "Losing a battle will result in the loss of the same number of points that victory would have granted."
The screen shifted once more.
"There are additional rules," Aakash said. "Sneak attacks, ambushes, or coordinated assaults against other contestants are strictly prohibited. However, you may challenge fellow examinees to regulated one-on-one battles similar to official arena matches, and points will be awarded based on the strength of the defeated Pokémon, as determined by examiners monitoring the islands."
Several expressions darkened with calculation.
"One final detail," Aakash said. "In addition to the one thousand registered examinees, there will be additional entrants present on the islands."
That statement landed heavier than anything before it.
"You will encounter them during the exam."
He let the silence linger before concluding.
"Do your best," Aakash said. "India is watching."
Then his expression hardened, just slightly.
"And make no mistake," he added, "the rest of the world is watching as well."
The screen went dark.
As the screen slid back into the ceiling and Aakash's image vanished, the helicopter remained filled with a heavy, contemplative silence. The sea stretched endlessly below us, indifferent to the tension building inside the cabin, while the steady thrum of the rotors felt almost oppressive now that no one spoke.
That silence was broken when the two soldiers accompanying us stood up.
Without ceremony, they moved into the center aisle and unlocked two reinforced black cases that had been secured to the floor since takeoff. The sharp click of metal clasps echoed through the cabin, instantly drawing everyone's attention.
One of the soldiers opened the first case.
Inside were not weapons—but emergency signal flares.
Each was compact, sealed against water, and clearly military-grade, with bright markings and clear usage instructions etched onto the casing. The soldier began handing one to each entrant, his expression stern and unmoving.
"These are emergency signal flares," he said evenly. "They are not tools for convenience, panic, or shortcuts."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Activating a flare will immediately notify rescue and monitoring teams. It also means you have withdrawn from the examination. Once a flare is fired, you are eliminated. No points retained. No re-entry."
His gaze swept the cabin slowly.
"Only use it if your life is in genuine danger and no other option remains."
The flare felt heavier than it looked when I took it, not because of its weight, but because of what it represented. This wasn't protection. It was surrender—clean, final, and irreversible.
Once every entrant had received one, the first case was closed and locked again.
The second soldier then opened the remaining case.
Inside were rugged watches, built thick and functional, with reinforced glass and broad straps designed to survive harsh conditions. As they were distributed, the soldier explained their purpose.
"These watches will track your battle points in real time," he said. "Victories, losses, penalties, and eliminations will be logged automatically. Tampering with the device in any way will be treated as cheating and will result in immediate disqualification."
I strapped the watch onto my wrist and felt a faint vibration as it activated. The display lit up, showing my entrant number and a point tally fixed firmly at zero.
It didn't feel like a score.
It felt like a countdown—one that would rise or fall depending entirely on the choices I made over the next three days.
This was no longer just an entrance exam.
It was a proving ground.
And somewhere ahead, beyond the horizon, five islands were waiting to decide who would move forward—and who would be left behind.