The next three weeks were brutal. Days started before sunrise and ended long after the recruits had nothing left to give. Every hour was filled, running, drills, weapons handling, discipline. There was no time to think, only to move.
Some couldn't keep up. A twisted ankle. Heat exhaustion. A quiet conversation with the drill sergeant that ended with them packing their things.
One by one, they disappeared. By the end of the third week, only ninety-five remained.
On the final day, the recruits stood in formation, a single line stretched across the training grounds.
They looked different now. The exhaustion was still there, written across their faces, but it sat beneath something else… discipline.
They wore the standard combat uniform of the Verdal Army Corps. Forest-green fabric reinforced with modular plating. Light armor covered their chest, shoulders, and knees. Helmets rested under their arms, each fitted with a HUD and comms system.
They finally looked like soldiers. But none of them felt like one yet.
The drill sergeant stepped forward.
"If you've made it this far…" he said, his voice flat, "pat yourself on the back."
A few recruits shifted slightly, unsure if he was serious. He wasn't.
"Because this next month," he continued, "is where most of you break." Silence settled over the line.
"This isn't just about strength anymore. It's about what's in your head. How long you can keep going when your body's already done." He stepped to the side and pointed down.
"See those packs?" Each recruit had a black pack at their feet.
"Thirty pounds," he said. "You carry it the entire course. You drop it, you fail. You fail…" he paused, letting it sink in, "…you do it again."
No one spoke. The drill sergeant turned and pointed toward the forest ahead. It didn't look like a training ground. It looked like a punishment.
Mud stretched across the terrain, thick and uneven. The ground dipped and rose into steep hills. Rusted wire cut low across sections of the field. Further out, wooden structures and ropes broke through the trees.
"You'll run the course in this order," he said.
He raised a finger.
"Barbed wire crawl. Through the mud. Live rounds overhead." A few recruits stiffened.
"Then a twelve-foot wall. You don't get over it alone." Another finger.
"Ravine crossing. One rope. Don't fall." A third.
"And finally…" his eyes moved across the line, "…you drag a one-eighty dummy to the finish." He pointed to a yellow line barely visible in the distance.
"That's your end point."
The wind moved quietly through the trees. No one said a word.
"Pick up your packs," he ordered.
Straps tightened. Shoulders dropped under the sudden weight.
Mercer adjusted his pack, pulling it snug against his back. The extra weight pressed down immediately, but he said nothing.
Next to him, Elliot exhaled slowly.
"Thirty pounds…" he muttered under his breath. "Feels like more."
Mercer gave a slight nod.
"It will."
"Form two lines!" the drill sergeant barked.
They moved quickly, forming up with more precision than they would have three weeks ago.
Not perfect.
But better.
The drill sergeant looked them over, a faint grin pulling at his lips.
Then—
"Go!"