The air was sharp, cold enough to burn the inside of his lungs. Asiro inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the pre-dawn mist settle over his skin. The Marine base was still blanketed in darkness, but the world was already awake.
Then the horn blared.
A deafening, bone-rattling sound, sharp enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.
"ON YOUR FEET, RECRUITS!"
The barracks doors exploded open. Shadows moved frantically, boots scraping against the floorboards. The entire building trembled as bodies rushed toward the exit. Some were half-dressed, others scrambling to lace up their boots before being trampled over.
Kai was already up, standing near the door, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a smirk.
Outside, the entire L7 Battalion was forming in rows. The sheer number of recruits, more than three hundred, stood stiffly in the dim morning light. Their breaths were visible in the cold air. The ground beneath them was hard-packed dirt, stretching toward the looming training field ahead.
Veteran Marines stood at the perimeter, watching with unreadable expressions. Some were leaning against wooden posts, arms crossed, as if silently placing bets on who would break first. Others walked between the recruits, studying their posture, their nervous energy, their worth.
Then, a figure stepped forward—a man built like iron itself.
Seaman First-Class Hagen Rourke.
His cold steel-gray eyes swept across the rows of recruits, cutting through them like knives. He was massive—taller than any of them except Kai, his presence alone suffocating. His uniform was pristine, his posture rigid, his face completely devoid of emotion.
No introductions. No welcomes. Just two words.
"Drop and hold."
A moment of hesitation. Then realization.
The recruits hit the dirt, dropping into plank position.
Asiro’s muscles tensed as his elbows dug into the cold ground. A few grunts echoed around him, but no one dared complain. The tension in the air was suffocating.
"Seems like some of you expected an easy ride," Rourke muttered, his voice barely above a growl. "Let me make something clear. This is your first and only warning."
Boots stomped through the rows.
"If I hear one complaint, one groan, one whisper of weakness… you will regret it."
A sharp thud.
A recruit to Asiro’s left gasped—a boot had slammed into his back, forcing him lower. The others stiffened immediately.
Asiro focused on his breathing. Keep it steady. Control the pain.
Rourke continued walking, his eyes scanning the trembling bodies beneath him. "We are the Marines," he said, voice cold. "We do not train warriors. We do not train men. We do not train hopeful little boys who think they’ll see adventure on the seas."
He stopped.
"We train weapons."
Silence. Only the sound of heavy breathing.
"You will be broken," he continued, "until your body is no longer yours to command. You will run until you collapse, you will push until your muscles rip apart, you will bleed until you forget the feeling of comfort. And if you survive…" He smirked. "Then you might just be worth something."
A few recruits were already shaking. One collapsed, arms giving out beneath him.
Rourke didn’t even look at him. He just muttered, "Weak," and continued walking.
"UP!"
The recruits scrambled to their feet. Some were slower than others. A mistake.
"Move too slow again," Rourke said, eyes narrowing, "and you run double the distance."
A few hurried to straighten their stances.
"Recruits!" another voice barked—this time one of the drill instructors. "You will be running five kilometers, weighted!"
A collective intake of breath. Some recruits’ faces twisted in disbelief.
"You heard me! Twenty-kilogram packs, no exceptions!"
Large sandbags were tossed to the ground. Recruits hesitated before picking them up, struggling to hoist them onto their backs. The weight was crushing, pressing against their shoulders, their spines, their legs already straining.
"Move!"
The stampede began.
The ground vibrated as the recruits sprinted forward, the sound of boots thundering across the dirt. The pace was brutal from the start. The weak were left behind almost immediately, their bodies unaccustomed to the weight.
Asiro gritted his teeth, adjusting his posture. The pack felt like it was trying to grind his bones into dust.
The cold air was gone now—his body was already drenched in sweat.
He focused on breathing.
One step. Another. Keep moving.
Ahead of him, Daisuke was running as if the pack on his back didn’t even exist. His muscles rippled, sweat gleaming off his skin.
Ahead, more recruits were falling behind. A few tripped, slamming face-first into the dirt. The instructors didn’t even pause.
"GET UP OR GO HOME!"
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Asiro kept moving. His breath came in sharp bursts, his legs burning. He ignored it. Pain was nothing. Pain was part of the process.
Somewhere behind him, a recruit screamed. His knee had twisted at an unnatural angle. He wouldn’t be finishing the run.
Asiro pushed forward.
The moment they crossed the finish line, the drill instructors gave them no time to recover.
"DOWN! ONE HUNDRED PUSH-UPS, NO REST!"
Asiro collapsed to the ground. His arms were already shaking, but he forced himself up.
One… two… three…
By the time he reached seventy, his muscles were screaming. His breath was ragged. His vision was going hazy.
Daisuke was already finished.
Some of the Experienced had collapsed, panting, before pushing back up again.
The weak recruits? They can’t.
"KEEP MOVING!"
Punches landed on stomachs. The sit-up drill. Every time they lifted themselves, an instructor slammed a fist into their gut.
Pain exploded in Asiro’s stomach. He gritted his teeth. Again. And again.
Some recruits vomited from the impact. The instructors didn’t even flinch.
Next—the squat drill.
Twenty-kilogram logs were hoisted onto their shoulders. Every squat was agony. Legs shook. Muscles locked up.
Somewhere, someone collapsed.
Fifty burpees. Every jump sent fire through Asiro’s legs. His vision swam. His chest burned.
The horse stance came next.
He held the pose, legs trembling, sweat dripping down his jaw.
Ignore the pain. Ignore the pain.
Then—CRACK.
A wooden pole slammed into his side.
He staggered but didn’t fall.
Another hit. His ribs screamed.
He clenched his jaw. His eyes stayed forward.
Fifteen minutes passed.
His vision was tunneling. The world was spinning.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
Another strike.
Then—darkness.
The next thing he remembered was gravel biting into his hands and knees.
The bear crawl.
Recruits were bloodied. Some were crying. Some were too exhausted to even feel pain anymore.
Asiro moved. One inch at a time. His breath was ragged, his hands shredded open, but he moved.
No thoughts. Just movement.
Then—finally—it was over.
He collapsed onto his side, gasping.
He wasn’t the last one standing.
But he wasn’t the first to fall.
And that meant something.
He didn’t know it yet.
But as his body lay broken, something inside him was already healing.
Faster than it should.
The moment the last recruit dragged himself over the gravel, battered and breathless, the drill instructor’s voice cut through the gasping silence like a blade.
“No time for rest! Get in formation—NOW!”
A wave of exhaustion rippled through the recruits, but none dared to collapse. Every muscle in Asiro’s body burned like it had been lit on fire. His lungs felt shredded, his arms trembled, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. But he willed himself to stay upright, stepping in line with the rest of the broken recruits.
He wasn’t alone in his suffering.
Hana was hunched over, her red hair clinging to her sweat-drenched face, arms twitching from exertion. Reiner stood with his usual resilience, but even he had a deep frown, shifting uncomfortably from the strain in his legs. Felix’s chest heaved, but his expression remained distant, calculating. Daisuke, however, was unshaken—the giant recruit stood tall, barely winded, stretching his arms like he hadn’t just endured hours of hell.
Asiro’s stomach twisted. What the hell is this guy made of?
The instructors didn’t give them long to wonder.
"Final test!" Seaman First-Class Hagen Rourke stepped forward, his steel-gray eyes sweeping over them like a hawk surveying the weaklings in its territory. His voice was low, cold, and precise. "You will hold these barrels. No breaks. No resetting. No mercy. If you drop it, you fail."
Another instructor—a burly Marine with a scarred jaw—motioned toward a pile of massive 50 kg barrels lined up before them.
"Last one standing wins," the scarred man barked. "Winner skips the next obstacle course. The weak get extra laps."
A few groans slipped out before anyone could stop them.
The instructors pounced.
"You got a problem, recruits?!"
"NO, SIR!" the recruits shouted in unison, though some voices cracked.
Asiro felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, heavier than any barrel. This wasn’t just a test—it was survival. He had no strength left. His arms had been pushed beyond their limits. His legs threatened to give out. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
And yet, this test was different. This wasn’t about speed, technique, or coordination.
This was about one thing—endurance.
Gritting his teeth, he approached his barrel.
As he bent to lift it, a cruel realization sank in—the cold metal was twice as heavy as it looked.
The moment he lifted it off the ground, his spine screamed in protest. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped apart. His arms, already dead from push-ups and burpees, nearly failed on the spot.
His body was done. Finished.
But Asiro knew one thing—he couldn’t stop.
The barrel lurched in his grip, and his legs wobbled dangerously.
"Shit—!" Hana cursed beside him, fighting to keep her balance.
"Too slow, recruits!" one of the instructors barked. "You drop it now, you might as well walk off this field and never come back!"
A grunt of effort came from Asiro’s left—Daisuke had already lifted his barrel effortlessly, his massive frame barely breaking a sweat. "Hah! This ain''t shit," he muttered, grinning like a lunatic.
Of course, Asiro thought bitterly. Of course he''s fine.
The minutes crawled by like an eternity.
The sheer weight of the barrel became unbearable within seconds, let alone minutes. Sweat dripped down Asiro’s face, soaking into his uniform, burning his eyes. His fingers ached, the muscles in his forearms screaming for relief. He shifted his stance, trying to redistribute the weight—but it didn’t matter.
The pain didn’t fade.
It only got worse.
"Shit—!" a recruit near the front lost his grip, the barrel slamming into the dirt with a heavy thud.
"One down!" one of the instructors barked. "Who''s next?"
Asiro’s breath grew ragged. His arms quaked like they were going to snap in half. His lungs fought for air. The corners of his vision darkened.
He fought to block it all out.
Pain didn’t matter.
Fatigue didn’t matter.
Only one thing mattered.
Do not fall.
Another crash echoed through the air—two more recruits dropped their barrels, collapsing to their knees in pure agony.
Keep going, Asiro told himself, sucking in a shallow breath. Don’t think. Just stand. Just hold it. Just survive.
Minutes passed.
More barrels fell.
Bodies hit the ground, gasps of pain filling the silent field.
Asiro’s mind became a blur. He couldn’t see straight anymore. His muscles didn’t feel like his own—just raw nerves on the verge of giving out. Every heartbeat throbbed against his skull.
His body wanted to quit.
It begged him to stop.
And yet, somewhere inside, a different part of him surfaced—the part that had survived fire, loss, and destruction. The part of him that had been shattered long before this training.
I can’t afford to be weak, he thought numbly. I can’t afford to fail. I won’t, I can’t.
Something inside shifted.
The pain dulled.
Not because it disappeared.
But because he simply stopped acknowledging it.
"Shit," Felix muttered from beside him, his voice hoarse, "you’re still standing?"
Asiro barely registered the words.
One by one, the recruits dropped.
Twenty minutes.
Then thirty.
Then forty-five.
At this point, only three remained.
Felix, expression unreadable, his body trembling but refusing to quit.
Asiro, half-conscious but unmoving.
And Daisuke.
Standing tall.
Not even breaking a sweat.
The instructors watched closely now. They knew the final stretch was coming.
Asiro’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and fire. His vision blurred and refocused, his muscles locking up completely.
His breathing became ragged.
The barrel slipped slightly.
The moment it tilted, he realized it was over.
The weight dragged him down. He tried to fight, to stop his arms from failing, but it was too late.
With a final gasp, his muscles gave out.
The barrel slammed to the ground.
His knees hit the dirt a second later.
Asiro collapsed, gasping for air like he had been drowning for hours.
The world spun.
The sky above him blurred.
Only two were left.
Felix and Daisuke.
Daisuke smirked.
A moment later, Felix’s legs buckled. His barrel crashed down beside him.
Daisuke stood alone.
A brutal silence settled over the field.
"Winner," Rourke announced. "The Giant Guy."
The giant recruit rolled his shoulders, stretching, completely unbothered by the test.
Asiro, lying on the ground, couldn’t even feel his arms.
His breath was still coming in ragged gasps. His whole body felt broken.
But… something was wrong.
Something felt different.
His exhaustion should have lingered. He should still be trembling uncontrollably.
Instead… the pain was dulling too quickly.
Too fast.
He blinked, his breathing steadily returning to normal.
A sinking realization crept in.
I should be hurting more than this.