An hour and thirty minutes later, the technical lecture concluded. The atmosphere in the block had shifted from nervous anxiety to a buzzing enthusiasm. The veterans, who had spent the 9th Crollean War wrestling with the heavy, single-shot bolt-actions of the M-20 era, were particularly fascinated. A semi-automatic rifle wasn't just an upgrade; it was a revolution.
"Eight shots without having to move your hand from the trigger," Sergeant Hollister muttered as they filed out. "The Grendheich won't know what hit them."
But the enthusiasm was quickly tempered by the reality of military life. Instead of heading back to the warm Mess Hall, Easy Company was marched to a rocky field just outside the camp perimeter.
"No dining hall today!" Captain Snow shouted. "You're in the field now. Platoon leaders, distribute the K-rations!"
The recruits were handed small, wax-sealed boxes and metal canteens. Inside, they found either "Spiced Mutton"—a greasy, flavorful beastfolk favorite—or the human standard "Pork & Beans." There was also a "Honey Bar"—a rock-hard block of compressed honey, nuts, and sun-dried fruits designed for quick energy—and a packet of powdered coffee.
The recruits sat on the grass, looking confused at the cold cans. The veterans, however, didn't hesitate. They moved with a silent, practiced efficiency, gathering scraps of dried mountain wood and small stones. Within minutes, half a dozen small, smokeless fires were crackling.
"Watch and learn, kids," a veteran named Miller said, balancing his metal helmet over a small flame. He dumped his pork and beans into the helmet, which served as a makeshift pot. "This is how you survive. You can eat your rations cold like a sad dog, or you can contribute to the pot and eat like a soldier."
Jack watched, impressed, and started gathering wood for his own squad. Soon, the smell of heated spices and coffee filled the air.
"Don't get too comfortable!" Hollister barked, standing up with his canteen. "Sterling, Pollux, Ramirez, and Teller! You're first rotation. Sterling, you lead. Scout the perimeter. I want a four-man patrol circling the rally area."
Jack stood up, his half-eaten honey bar stuffed into his pocket. "Yes, sir. Let's go, guys."
"Why do we have to scout?" Ramirez complained, his stomach growling. "The only thing out here is rocks and more rocks."
"Because in a real fight," Jack said, mimicking the Sergeant's tone, "the 'stiffs' don't wait for you to finish your dessert. They come when you're hungry and tired. Keep your eyes peeled anyway."
For the next fifty minutes, nine patrol squads from the three platoons circled the field, their eyes scanning the horizon while the rest of the company ate. It was a tedious, tiring process, but it drove home the point: security never sleeps.
At 1400 hours, they were marched back to the Technical Block II for a very different kind of lesson. The new instructor, a sharp-featured woman named Sergeant Vane, didn't bother with a warm welcome.
"Anyone can reload a rifle in a sunny field," Vane said, pacing the front of the room. "But can you do it when your eyes are burning from smoke, or when it's 0300 and you're in a lightless trench? Blindfolds on! Now!"
Jack pulled the dark cloth over his eyes. Total darkness.
"Your satchels are designed for your instincts, not your eyes!" Vane's voice boomed. "The left slot is for your 'Light Cells.' The center is for 'Combat Cells.' The right is for 'Comms.' If you pull a flashlight battery when you need a rifle clip, you're dead."
"I can't even find the buckle," Jay Rool hissed from somewhere to Jack's left.
"Shut up and feel for the notch, Private!" Vane barked. "Now, listen for the snap! Clear your chambers!"
Jack felt the cold steel of the M24. He hit the release, hearing the familiar hiss of the mana-lock. He reached into the center of his satchel, his fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edges of a crystal clip. He slid it home. Click.
"RADIO DOWN!" Vane suddenly screamed.
The room erupted in frantic movement. Jack had to drop his rifle to his sling, reach into his satchel's right pocket, pull out the Comms cell, and imagine swapping it into a radio.
"Too slow, 3rd Platoon!" Vane shouted. "Again! RIFLE DRY! RELOAD!"
Jack fumbled. His fingers were shaking. He reached for a clip but his hand hit the flashlight cell instead. He felt the smooth, rounded edge and realized his mistake instantly. He shoved it back and grabbed the sharp, angular crystal clip. Snap. Hiss.
"Three seconds, Sterling!" Hollister shouted, hovering over him. "You're at four! Again!"
They drilled for two hours. By the end, Jack's fingertips were raw from the sharp edges of the crystal clips, but he no longer needed to look. He could tell the difference between a radio cell and a rifle clip just by the texture of the casing.
At 1630, Captain Snow took over for close-order marching.
"Easy Company! Fall in!" Snow's voice echoed across the parade grounds. "Left! Left! Left-Right-Left!"
The mixed-race squads struggled to find a rhythm. The long strides of the humans didn't always match the heavy, shorter steps of the beastfolk or the light, quick pace of the elves.
"Pick up the step, Private Luvillan! You're an airborne soldier, not a poet in a garden!" Snow shouted. "Hold that line! If the person next to you moves, you move! We are one body! Left! Left! Left-Right-High!"
After the grueling march, the company was dismissed for evening chow at 1730. The Mess Hall was a cacophony of scraping trays and loud chatter. Jack found himself sitting across from a thick-necked newcomer who was staring suspiciously at the mystery stew.
"Is it always this grey?" the new guy asked. He had a patch on his bag that read Caleb Ironwood.
"Only on days ending in 'Y'," Jack replied, gesturing for him to sit. "I'm Jack. That's Kenlil, he's an elf, ignore the ears, they're just for show."
"Ironwood. From Oakhaven," the man grunted, sitting down. "Back home, we eat venison. This looks like someone boiled a boot."
"Eat the boot, Caleb," Kenlil chimed in, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. "The boot gives you the strength to survive the Captain's singing. If you don't eat, the Gauntlet will swallow you whole tomorrow."
Nearby, a group of elven recruits from Oakhaven were talking to Jay Rool. A girl named Lyra Moonshadow was listening intently as Jay explained the 'White Glove' inspection.
"So he actually checks the dust?" Lyra asked, her brow furrowed. "Back in the city guard, we just had to make sure the weapons were polished."
"Sergeant Lewis doesn't just check for dust, Lyra," Jay whispered dramatically. "I'm convinced he has a magical eye that can see through lockers. He caught me with a crumpled sock yesterday. I spent four hours painting a fence because of one sock."
At 1830, they filed into the Technical Block for the Regulations Lecture. The atmosphere was somber. An older warrant officer named Albert Johnson stood at the front, tapping a cane against a chart of a perfectly made bunk.
"Listen up, because this is the difference between a weekend pass and a week of latrine duty," Johnson began. "Article One: The Locker. Your extra boots will be polished to a mirror sheen and placed on the bottom right. Your fatigues will be folded into ten-inch squares. No nine-inch, no eleven-inch. Ten."
He pointed to a drawing of a bed. "Article Two: The Bunk. The 'Dust-Seal' fold at the head must be exactly four inches. The wool blanket will be tight enough to bounce a silver coin. If the coin doesn't bounce, your weekend doesn't exist."
The recruits scribbled notes furiously.
"Article Three: Personal Conduct," Johnson continued, his eyes narrowing. "Gambling is prohibited. Fighting between races is a court-martial offense. We are the 98th. If a Human hits a Beastfolk, they both go to the stockade. If an Elf mocks a Human's lack of magic, they go to the stockade. You are a family now. Act like it."
He went through a list of 'Don'ts': Don't leave the barracks after 2100. Don't speak to the female recruits in their bunkhouses. Don't smuggle civilian spirits.
"And finally," Johnson added, a ghost of a smile appearing, "Don't ever, under any circumstances, try to out-sing Captain Snow during a run. He will take it as a personal challenge, and you will end up running until your legs fall off."
By 1930, the final ninety-one recruits had arrived, filling the Easy Zone to its maximum capacity. The bunkhouses were now packed, the air smelling of fresh cedar and new leather.
Jack sat on the porch of E-2-1 with Kenlil, Tavros, and several of the new guys from Oakhaven. Among them were Caleb Ironwood, a lithe elven scout named Elias Star-Runner, and a wiry human girl named Cassidy Flint.
"So, is it true?" Cassidy asked, leaning against a post. "Did you really see action in Marmello before coming here?"
Jack took a slow drag of his cigarette. "I don't know if it's a real action. But Marmello was a different kind of fight. Here... everything is about the team. You'll see it tomorrow."
"We heard the 98th is the 'Suicide Squad'," Elias said, his voice quiet. "That we're just bait for the Grendheich Fallschirm."
Tavros let out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated in the wood of the porch. "Bait? Kid, look at me. Do I look like bait? We're the predators. They're jumping us behind the lines so we can tear the heart out of their logistics. It's scary, sure. But look around."
Tavros gestured to the sprawling camp, the lights of the other companies twinkling in the distance.
"You've got veterans like Sergeant Grayson or Hollister who've seen the worst of the Crollean War. You've got guys like Jack who can see the outcome of a fight before it starts. And you've got us," Tavros grinned, baring his teeth. "The 506th. We're the biggest, meanest family you'll ever have."
Caleb nodded slowly, his initial suspicion fading into a begrudging respect. "Oakhaven sent fifty of us. We're good with bows, but these rifles... they're something else."
"We'll teach you," Jack said, standing up and stretching his sore muscles. "Hollister wants the veterans to partner up with the new guys for the morning drill. Caleb, you're with me. Cassidy, you're with Natalia. Elias, you're stuck with Kenlil."
"Stuck?" Kenlil cried out in mock offense. "I am a fountain of wisdom! I will teach you the ancient elven art of not puking during the three-mile mark!"
The group laughed, the tension of the day finally breaking. As the moon rose over the Tanaban peaks, the "Marmello Boys" and the "Oakhaven Newcomers" began to blend. They shared stories of home—of the docks, the forests, and the families they'd left behind.
For the first time since arriving, the "Easy Zone" didn't feel like a prison or a factory. It felt like a home. Jack looked at his squadmates—a mix of races, cities, and backgrounds—and felt a strange, quiet confidence. They were a long way from being soldiers, but they were no longer strangers.
"Lights out in five!" Sergeant Grayson's voice boomed from the end of the row.
"See you at 0500, Ironwood," Jack said, clapping Caleb on the shoulder.
"I'll be there, Sterling," Caleb replied. "Just make sure your 'Gauntlet' is ready for an Oakhaven hunter."
Jack smiled, stepped into the bunkhouse, and for the first time in days, fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.