Noah gasped for air, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. His legs felt like lead, weighing him down with every step as he trudged up the hill, desperately trying to keep up with the silhouette of the instructor ahead.
'How long have we been running? Minutes? Hours?' Time had blurred into a hazy, suffocating stretch of exhaustion. 'It doesn't matter. I just can't be last.'
A shudder ran through him at the thought.
Mark had been last yesterday.
A linebacker back on Earth, Mark had been built like a tank—broad shoulders, thick legs, and the kind of raw muscle that made him nearly unmovable on the field. But muscle alone didn't mean shit here. When the instructor had ordered them to run two miles under twenty minutes, Mark had fallen behind.
Too heavy. Too slow.
Noah still remembered the way Mark had collapsed at the finish line, panting and drenched in sweat, his face red with exhaustion. He'd thought that would be the end of it, that maybe Mark would just have to deal with the humiliation of coming in last.
He was wrong.
"You failed," the instructor had said, his voice cold, unreadable. "You need extra training."
That's when he brought out the log.
Not a small one either. A thick, bark-covered thing that looked like it had been hacked straight from a tree that morning.
"Half a mile," the instructor had ordered, dropping the log at Mark's feet. "On your back. Move."
Mark had tried to protest at first. "Sir, I—"
"Pick it up."
Mark had hesitated. That was the worst thing he could have done.
The instructor's foot lashed out, slamming into Mark's ribs with a force that sent him sprawling into the dirt. "On the battlefield, hesitation kills. Pick. It. Up."
Wheezing, Mark had scrambled back to his feet, wiping blood from his split lip as he bent down and heaved the log onto his back.
And then he ran.
Or tried to.
Noah could still see it—Mark's staggering footsteps, his gritted teeth, the way his entire body shook as he forced himself forward. Every step looked like agony.
The rest of them had watched in silence. Some pitied him. Others looked away, as if pretending it wasn't happening would make them less likely to be next.
By the time Mark finally collapsed, his face pale and his breath ragged, the instructor had simply looked down at him.
"Next time, run faster."
The thought of having to run half a mile with a log on his back reignited something in Noah's exhausted body. His burning legs protested, his lungs felt like they were tearing apart, but fear was a greater motivator than pain. He pushed himself forward, his footsteps growing steadier, his breathing ragged but determined.
'Don't be last. Don't be last.'
Each step pounded that thought deeper into his skull.
Finally, he reached the top of the hill, his legs trembling beneath him. Standing upon the level ground Noah's body sways as exhausted takes its fold. Falling to the ground.
The instructor stood in the center of the clearing, arms crossed, watching them with that ever-present, unreadable expression. Around him, the other students had already gathered—hunched over, gasping for breath. Some were bent at the waist, others resting their hands on their knees.
Noah swallowed hard as he realized how many were still struggling to reach the top. Turning back, he counted over ten people still making their way up the hill.
Among them, near the very back, was the aforementioned Mark. His face was bright red, almost like a tomato, sweat dripping from his forehead as he forced his massive frame forward. Each step looked agonizing, his movements sluggish as he barely passed the second-to-last runner—James, a skinny kid who looked almost sick. James' arms swung limply at his sides, his legs wobbling with each step, as if the weight of his own body was too much to carry.
The instructor glanced at his watch, his eyes flicking between the ticking seconds and the last two stragglers making their final push.
"10."
His voice rang out like a judge's gavel, hammering down on Mark and James as they scrambled up the rope, muscles burning under the weight of exhaustion.
"9."
"8."
"7."
Tension twisted their faces, every second dragging them closer to failure.
"6."
Mark, unwilling to face punishment again, let out a desperate roar—"AHAHAHAH!"—and surged forward, clawing his way past James.
"5."
"4."
"3."
"2."
James' face drained of color. His breaths came in ragged, frantic gasps. His fingers trembled as he struggled to keep up, but his strength was failing.
"P-Please… don't… PLEASE!" His voice cracked, eyes wide with terror as Mark pulled ahead.
"1."
The instructor's gaze locked onto them, his presence suffocating, squeezing every last drop of effort from their bodies.
Then, finally—
"0."
Mark collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, sweat drenching his skin.
"I DID IT!!!" His scream echoed across the training field before fading into ragged breathing.
The instructor's eyes lingered on James, unreadable.
The training was over but for one of them it had just begun.
A heavy silence hung in the air as James crumpled onto the dirt, gasping for breath. The rest of the trainees stood nearby, their expressions ranging from exhaustion to quiet amusement.
"Please SIR PLEASE! Sir Please don't make me run with the log. PLEASE SIR!" Crying his heart out James begs on his knees.
Ignoring James' cries, the instructor dropped a heavy log with a dull thud.
"Pick it up."
His monotone voice made it clear—he didn't care about the pain or suffering James was about to endure.
James' eyes widened in fright. His mouth opened, as if to protest, but no words came out.
The instructor's stare was suffocating.
James swallowed hard and forced himself to his feet. His arms trembled as he hefted the log onto his shoulder, the weight pressing down like a physical judgment. Step by step, he trudged forward, the burden dragging him with each unsteady step.
Noah shifted his weight, frowning. Isn't this a bit much?
Not everyone here was built for this. Some had never even exercised before today, yet they were being pushed like trained soldiers.
Before he could think further, a sharp voice cut through the tense silence.
"Tch. What a weakling."
Noah turned to see Devon smirking, arms crossed as he watched James struggle. Unlike the bulkier fighters, Devon was lean—built more like a sprinter or a street brawler. His dark, messy hair hung just above his fox-like eyes, amber irises glinting like a predator sizing up its prey. His sharp features only added to his roguish look, an expression of perpetual amusement resting on his face.
"If he can't handle this, he might as well lie down and die now. Save everyone the trouble."
The words were cold, delivered with a casual arrogance that sent a chill down Noah's spine.
"Shut up Devon not everyone did sports in school." A girl snapped.
Noah glanced over and recognized Ava, her arms crossed and her jaw set in irritation. Her dark ponytail whipped slightly in the wind as she stepped forward, glaring at Devon like she was ready to slug him. Unlike most of the others still adjusting to their new reality, Ava had already taken to combat training like a fish to water—her sharp physique and the ease with which she threw kicks made that clear.
Devon's smirk didn't waver. If anything, it widened. "Oh? Did I hit a nerve?" His gaze flicked to Ava, who clenched her fist, her muscles tensing like she was ready to swing.
He chuckled. "It's not my fault your sister decided to date a weakling like him. I'm just stating facts. If you can't handle the pressure, you're bound to break."
His words dripped with venom, his smirk lingering as he loomed over Ava, his amber eyes alight with cruel amusement.
Ava let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. "Devon, we get it—you need to run your mouth to feel important. But my sister? She figured you out real quick."
Devon's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it widened. "Oh yeah?" he sneered. "And what profound wisdom did she share with you?"
Ava matched his smirk. "She told me she expected a man. Turns out, all she got was a loud, insecure boy throwing tantrums for attention."
A few students chuckled, some even muttering under their breath.
Noah glanced around. A handful of people were watching now, their interest piqued. This wasn't just an argument anymore—it was turning into a spectacle.
Devon only rolled his shoulders, unfazed. "Cute. That the best you got? Some playground insults?" His amber eyes gleamed with amusement, daring her to try harder.
Ava's smirk didn't waver. She took a slow step forward, lowering her voice just enough for her words to sink deeper. "She didn't even hate you, you know. She just… pitied you."
Devon's smirk twitched—just for a second. "Pity, huh?" He scoffed, but there was something forced in the way he said it.
Noah felt a shift. Devon wasn't laughing this one off.
Ava tilted her head, her voice sharp and unhurried. "Yeah. She said you tried so hard to act tough, but in the end…"—she raised her hand, pinching her fingers together—"you were just kinda… forgettable."
The reaction was instant.
Devon's face flare in red and the crowd reaction just as sharp. With many of the boys saying "OOHH!" and even many of the girls joining in.
Noah caught Devon's fists clenching, his knuckles going white. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a hard line.
For a second, Noah thought he might snap.
Instead, Devon inhaled sharply through his nose, turned sharply on his heel, and walked off, his shoulders stiff.
Ava crossed her arms, watching him leave. "Guess she was right."