"Alright," Pierson said, dragging a line of wooden figures into place across the dirt. His tone was calm but commanding. "Your first training: hand-to-hand combat. First, you'll practice on these figures. Then you'll face me. After that, you'll fight each other." He stripped off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, and began taping his knuckles.
The five of us exchanged nervous glances.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Sir!" we shouted together, though my voice was steadier than my heart.
We lined up and began hammering the wooden figures. At first, only fists. My hands connected solidly, the rhythm familiar—I'd been taught by my father and Narkit, so hitting wood was nothing compared to sparring with them. Ferry moved like a boxer, light on his feet, jabbing sharp and fast. Barnett's strikes were different—precise, fluid, like she was practicing some martial art I'd never learned. Valkin…well, he threw his arms out awkwardly, hitting once each turn as if the dummy would get bored and give up. Alfred, though, surprised me. He wasn't flashy, but his hits were neat, controlled—he at least knew the basics.
After ten minutes, Pierson barked: "Legs. Use your kicks."
We shifted stances. My kicks snapped into the figure without trouble. Ferry stayed in his boxing rhythm but added in low kicks, sharp and heavy. Barnett's style flowed even more with her legs than her fists—she almost looked like she was dancing. Valkin's kicks were…well, his foot reached the target, and that was victory enough for him. Alfred kicked cleanly, though not with much power.
"Stop!" Pierson's voice cracked across the ground. He tossed us bottles of water. "Drink. Rest for five minutes. Then one by one, you'll face me."
That sent a jolt through us. He stood there, taping his fists tighter, bare arms thick with muscle, calm eyes like steel. He wasn't just our instructor anymore—he was a wall we'd have to climb.
"Don't get nervous," he said evenly. "Your enemies will be stronger, faster, and meaner than me. Don't judge by size or face. Stay focused. Confidence keeps you alive. Overconfidence kills you. Stand tall, fight smart. I'll stay on the defensive," He clapped loudly. "Ferry. You're up. Barnett, you referee."
Ferry stepped forward, shaking his arms loose, trying to hide his nerves. They faced each other.
Barnett raised her hand. "Ready…go!"
Ferry bounced on his toes, light, sharp, then lunged forward. His fists fired like pistons, a blur of jabs and hooks. Pierson blocked them one by one, arms like fortress walls, but Ferry's speed kept him moving back step by step.
Then Ferry suddenly pivoted and launched a high kick at Pierson's head. It looked perfect—until Pierson's hand shot up, caught his ankle midair, and shoved him backward. Ferry hit the dirt, rolled, and scrambled back up with a growl. He darted low, hammered a kick into Pierson's knee, then drove forward with a punch into the Captain's stomach.
The sound of impact was brutal.
Pierson stumbled, hand clutching his abdomen, and dropped to one knee with a pained grin. "Well…done." He was still gasping as he clapped Ferry on the back. "Well…done."
Ferry wiped sweat off his brow, pride glowing through his exhaustion.
"Valkin!" Pierson barked next.
Valkin froze. "Sir,—I'm not good at this…"
"What do you mean?" Pierson snapped. "That's why we are training. Move."
With reluctant steps, Valkin came forward. They squared off.
Barnett gave the signal.
Valkin, perhaps panicking, charged straight in like a bull. The move actually toppled Pierson to the ground. For a second, we all gasped—but then, just as Valkin leaned over to press the attack, Pierson's leg hooked and swept his footing. Valkin crashed down, and before he could scramble free, Pierson's legs locked around his waist, pinning him in a chokehold.
Valkin slapped the dirt in surrender within seconds.
Pierson let him go, and Valkin bolted for his water bottle, panting like he'd just run a marathon. We couldn't help laughing, though we tried to stifle it.
"Don't give up that fast!" Pierson shouted after him. "You won't survive a battlefield if you collapse at the first stumble."
"But sir… I told you… I'm no good at this," Valkin wheezed, clutching his chest.
"You'll never improve if you chain yourself to that thought." Pierson's voice cut like a blade. His gaze swept over all of us, lingering longer than usual.
"Okay, Martin, your turn." The Captain dusted off his pants and looked straight at me. His tone was calm, but his eyes carried expectations.
I stood, shook the stiffness out of my arms, and stepped forward until I was face-to-face with him.
"Show me what you've got," he said, steady and unblinking.
Barnett blew the whistle.
Before I could even move, the Captain surprised me—he charged straight at me, springing into the air with a flying punch aimed for my head. Instinct kicked in. Instead of blocking, I shot my left leg straight upward. Mid-air, he shifted, crossing his arms to counter my kick. I dropped the leg quickly, spun in a full circle, and let my right leg snap out in a clean arc.
The kick smacked against his arm, hard enough to push him back a few steps. For a second, I thought I had him.
He came at me again, faster this time. I crouched low, planted my hand on the ground, and launched both legs into his diaphragm—a move my father had drilled into me countless times. He stumbled. My chance.
I rushed forward, fist cocked. But I had miscalculated. In an instant, he caught my arm, yanked me forward, and with frightening precision, grabbed my throat and slammed me flat onto the ground. The air rushed out of me.
I refused to quit, struggling to push myself back up, but he raised his hand. The duel was over.
"Well done," he said, smiling as he clapped. "Better than I expected. Much better." He ruffled my hair and patted my back. The others cheered for me. For the first time, I saw real pride in his face.
"Alright… Alfred." The Captain's tone flattened, his expression dead serious. We all laughed at the way he said it. Alfred grinned nervously, but stepped up.
The Captain stood with his hands on his hips. Alfred just walked forward, staring at him like he was calculating something. Then, suddenly, Alfred darted in and kicked the Captain's kneecap from underneath.
The Captain dropped down, more in shock than in pain, clutching his knee. Alfred didn't wait for praise—he simply walked back to his place and sat down, smug.
"Good… good move, Alfred." The Captain chuckled, clapping once before calling, "Barnett."
She stepped forward, composed, and Ferry whistled.
Barnett didn't rush like the rest of us. She eased into a martial arts stance, circling slowly. She darted in low, aiming for his ankles to bring him down, but he danced back. As she rose to her feet, his foot slammed into her torso, staggering her. She countered with a sudden flying kick, but the Captain caught her mid-air, locking her arm and leg, then tossed her down—but gently enough not to hurt her.
"Good try," he said. "You've got skill, Barnett—just sharpen it a little more."
He turned back to all of us. "That's enough for today's combat training. Rest up. Next, I'll test you on firearms."
We were stunned. Something felt unfinished.
"Uh… Sir," Ferry piped up. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
The Captain smirked. "No. You're all capable enough. Making you fight each other won't prove anything. Remember—we're training for war, not some tournament. What matters is that each of you can survive and protect the others."
We let out a collective sigh, sat down, and took long swigs of water, our bodies aching but our spirits strangely high.
After fifteen minutes, the Captain called over a nearby sergeant.
"Sergeant Malkhin, heading to the armory?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Good. Bring back some low-recoil SMGs, ARs, and a sniper rifle. Pistols, too, if you can carry them. Valkin, go with him."
Valkin hesitated, then followed. Ten minutes later, the two returned, arms full: five MP-5s, HK416s, and a heavy case that clearly held a sniper rifle. They also had five Glock-17s.
"Alright, kids, gather up." Captain Pierson laid the pistols on the table. "First, your secondary weapon—the Glock-17. Lightweight, reliable, standard issue. Holds 17 rounds, which is why it's called the 17. You can attach a red dot or HoloSight if needed. Lasers and flashlights are optional, but in open war, they'll just give your position away. Risky move." He tapped the safety. "And this lever locks or unlocks the trigger."
He tossed each of us a pistol. "Line up. Aim. Fire when ready."
We each took our stance. The Glock felt smooth in my hands, almost too familiar. When the order came, I squeezed the trigger—steady bursts.
The recoil was nothing. My father and Narkit had drilled me well. Ferry fired like a boxer—sharp, precise. Barnett's stance looked martial, but her aim was on point. Alfred surprised me; he only missed one shot. But Valkin… he just froze. Not a single round was fired; his hands were trembling too much to pull the trigger.
The Captain walked up to him slowly, placed a steady hand on his shoulders. "Listen, Valkin. Shooting is about focus. Relax your arms. Grip the gun."
Valkin tried with his right hand, still shaking.
"Good. Now place your left hand over the right. Tighten. Deep breath. Aim with your eye… now fire."
The first few bullets went wide, but then—'crack, crack'—he started hitting. Not perfect, but it was a start.
"Better," said the Captain, patting his back.
Sergeant Malkhin stepped up with the report. "Sir, Ferry, Barnett, and Martin all scored headshots only. Alfred missed once, but also hit the head. Valkin missed ten."
"Impressive," the Captain said, glancing at Alfred. "Didn't expect that from you."
Alfred gave a small smile. "My father and brother are in the army. They taught me."
"Well… that explains a lot." The Captain ruffled his hair, earning a grin.
Next came the MP-5. Lightweight, barely any recoil. Ferry, Barnett, Alfred, and I cut through the targets. Valkin still missed five, but compared to before, that was real progress.
Then came the HK416. A beast. Its recoil slammed our shoulders. Alfred gave up after a few rounds. "I'm not breaking my shoulder for this," he muttered, dropping it back onto the rack.
The Captain just chuckled.
Then came my turn with the sniper. He pulled out a sleek SVD Dragunov from its case.
"You said you've sniped before, Martin. Used this one?"
"Yes, Sir," I said carefully. "My father trained me with it. Back then, I used foam padding to handle the recoil. That was four years ago. I think I can manage it now."
He nodded and handed it over. "Three shots. Make them count."
I lay prone, adjusted the scope, and took aim. A hundred meters. I exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger. 'BANG'. The recoil slammed my shoulder harder than I remembered. I bit back the sting and fired again. Then once more.
I rolled over, gripping my shoulder. The others laughed, but not in a mocking way.
Captain Pierson crouched beside me, padding my shoulder with cloth. He looked through his binoculars. "Two hits out of three. Damn good. Your father taught you well."
The day didn't stop there. We learned first aid, tourniquets, bandages, and field kits. Then maps and compasses, how to call coordinates over a radio, and even how to guide bombers.
Two weeks passed in a blur of sweat and bruises. Valkin, once shaky and unsure, now hit most of his shots. His punches no longer looked like flailing arms. He had grown. We all had.
Then, over breakfast, the Captain finally spoke the words we'd been waiting for.
"Well done, all of you. In these two weeks, you've grown more than I expected. Now it's time to announce your leader."
We sat up straight. My heart thudded.
"The leader is…" He paused, enjoying our nerves.
"…Ferry."
Barnett and I both shouted at once. "WHAT?!" Even Ferry's jaw dropped.
Ferry scored ninety-eight percent across every test. Barnett and Martin, you tied at ninety-seven. Close, but not enough. So Ferry leads."
Ferry leaned back with a smug grin. "Ha! I knew it."
The Captain stood, brushing his hands. "Congratulations, Ferry. Today you rest. Tomorrow—the final test. A group exercise."
I raised my head. "And after that… war?"
The Captain's smile faded. He let out a long breath. "Yes…"