The world ended in 2047 with a solar flare that

fried most electronics and turned the skies into

a permanent twilight. In the ruins of Quezon

City, the National Institute of Health had

become a sanctuary for the few who still

remembered how to heal. Its students were not

just scholars—they were survivalists.

Maria Delgado was one of them. A nurseintraining,

she lived in a dormitory carved from the remains

of a university library. Her mother, a former

teacher, lay bedridden in a makeshift clinic

nearby, her body failing from radiation sickness.

Maria’s only chance to save her was a rare dose

of medicine, but it required a permit—a permit

only given to those who passed the final exam.

The exam was not about books. It was about blood.

Students were tested on their ability to survive

in the wild, to navigate through abandoned

cities, to retrieve supplies from places where

the aswang still roamed. Failure meant expulsion—

not just from school, but from the last safe

zone. Expelled students were left to fend for

themselves, often never seen again.

Maria’s first test was a scavenging mission in

the old Makati financial district. She found

nothing but rust and ash, until she stumbled

upon a sealed container of medical supplies. But

the seal had been broken. Someone had been there

before her. The air smelled of decay.

She returned with the supplies, but the faculty

head, Dr. Reyes, refused to grant her the permit.

“You didn’t follow protocol,” he said, his voice

cold. “You took what wasn’t yours.”

Maria’s mother’s condition worsened. She began

hallucinating, whispering about the old days

when the sky was blue and the sun shone bright.

Maria knew she had only one more chance.

The second test was a simulation: a collapsed

hospital with simulated patients, all rigged to

trigger alarms if touched improperly. Maria

moved carefully, her hands steady, her mind

focused. She saved three lives before the system

shut down. The faculty watched in silence.

Dr. Reyes called her to his office. “You passed,

” he said. “But the permit is not given freely.

You will be assigned to the emergency ward. Your

mother’s case will be reviewed by the council.”

The council was made up of survivors, old men

and women who had lived through the worst of the

apocalypse. They debated for hours. Some said

Maria’s mother should be given the medicine.

Others said the resources were better used on

students who could contribute to rebuilding.

In the end, the decision was made: Maria would

receive the permit—but only if she agreed to

take her mother’s place in the emergency ward.

The nurse’s role was irreplaceable. If Maria

failed, her mother would die.

She agreed.

The next morning, Maria stood at the entrance of

the emergency ward, her mother behind her, pale

and trembling. The doors opened. The world

outside was silent. The sun, if it ever rose,

was hidden behind the smoke of a dead world.

Inside, the lights flickered. The machines

hummed. And Maria walked forward, knowing this

was not just a test of skill—but of sacrifice.

The permit was hers. Her mother would live.

But the cost had already been paid.