Minister Chukuemeka Onwudiwe, known internationally as Minister Diwe, sat behind his mahogany desk, his eyes fixed on the city skyline beyond the window. The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the office, but the silence between him and his secretary carried more weight than any noise could. A small lamp cast a dim glow over the paperwork sprawled across his desk—documents outlining the agreement he had just finalized.

  Across from him, his secretary, Ikenna, adjusted his tie, his fingers fidgeting slightly before he spoke. “Sir… do you think what you agreed to was a good idea?”

  Diwe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let the question hang in the air, his fingers lightly drumming against the desk. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Do you want the honest truth or the fake truth?”

  Ikenna hesitated for only a second before straightening. “The honest truth.”

  Diwe gave a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple. “Then in the long run… it was a bad idea.”

  Ikenna’s brows furrowed. “But, sir—”

  Diwe raised a hand, cutting him off. His voice was calm, measured, but there was an underlying weight to it. “We will have to nurture our best cadets, train them, shape them into the finest warriors… only to send them off to foreign lands. If we had a choice, I wouldn’t even consider it.”

  Ikenna’s expression remained neutral, though his jaw tensed. He adjusted his glasses before responding, “But, sir, we will be getting massive benefits now. Our country is going to rise with this technology and the influx of scientists. We can become a true powerhouse.”

  Diwe sighed, shaking his head. “You’re being na?ve, Ikenna.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers lacing together. “Their main goal is to suck us dry to the bone. Do you truly think this is charity?” His eyes locked onto Ikenna’s, sharp and piercing.

  Ikenna shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his notepad. “But with the resources they’ve given us—”

  Diwe slammed his palm lightly against the desk, not in anger, but in emphasis. “And if they aren’t satisfied with what we nurture? What do you think will happen then?”

  A pause. Ikenna swallowed, his throat bobbing. “They’ll demand compensation.”

  Diwe nodded slowly. “Exactly.” His voice was quieter now, but there was something far more ominous in the way he said it. He pushed back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if calculating a future only he could see. “And what happens when we can no longer pay their price? When they’ve bled us of our best minds, our strongest warriors, and our natural resources? What do you think will be left?”

  Ikenna remained silent, his grip tightening around his notepad.

  Diwe let the silence stretch before exhaling sharply. “It can destroy us. Kill our country without a single war being fought. No soldiers, no weapons—just policy, trade, and dependence.” He gestured vaguely toward the documents on his desk. “It may look like a fair trade now, but this… this is just a game of farmers and the barn.”

  Ikenna’s brows knitted together. “Farmers and the barn?”

  Diwe gave him a knowing look. “Yes. They are the farmers. We… are the barn. As long as we produce what they want, they will keep us standing. But the moment we fail to deliver, what do you think happens to a barn that no longer serves its purpose?”

  Ikenna didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The answer was clear.

  Diwe stood up, adjusting his cuffs, his expression unreadable. “A single screw-up… and our land is done for.”

  The air in the office felt heavier. Ikenna shifted, looking down at his notes but not really seeing them. He took a slow breath before speaking. “Then what do we do, sir?”

  Diwe’s lips curled into a thin smile, though there was no amusement in it. “We play along. For now.” His gaze drifted back to the city skyline, his hands clasped behind his back. “But we prepare. Quietly. Because when the farmers come to collect, I intend to make sure they don’t leave with everything they want.”

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  Ikenna nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of those words. In that moment, he truly understood—this wasn’t just about trade.

  It was survival.

  And Minister Diwe was already planning the next move.

  Warden Gregory sat behind his desk, his sharp gaze scanning the five kids standing before him. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

  "All six of you will be joining the military. You'll train day and night, and once you start, there is no turning back."

  The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy fog. The children processed it slowly, glancing at one another. Then Jonathan, the tallest of the group, frowned.

  "Six? But… who’s the sixth?"

  Warden Gregory leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

  "Sam, of course."

  James' eyes lit up as he turned to his friends, searching their faces for approval. Seeing their determination, he straightened his back and raised his right hand in a sharp salute.

  "Understood, sir!"

  The warden’s smirk deepened. "Let’s get started."

  As soon as he spoke, the door creaked open, and in walked Sam, accompanied by a soldier. The kids stiffened—Sam’s presence changed everything.

  The soldier stepped forward, his presence commanding yet calm. His sharp, calculating eyes swept over them like a predator assessing its prey. He was their trainer from now on.

  As they went to the training grounds for their test evaluation

  "Although I need cadets, I won’t make reservations for useless ones," Warden Gregory added coldly. "If you don’t have the skill, the deal is off… and Sam goes back to confinement."

  James clenched his fists. The others exchanged determined looks. They weren’t just fighting for themselves anymore.he added as they were being taken to the guards training grounds

  The trainer exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "You should know," he said, his tone almost casual, "I never hold back. Even for kids."

  Before anyone could react, he vanished.

  THUD!

  James gasped as the trainer’s fist slammed into his stomach like a sledgehammer. His feet barely left the ground, but the sheer force made his body tremble. He staggered back, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Sam, reacting instantly, lunged forward with a fierce punch aimed at the trainer’s ribs.

  The trainer twisted his body, effortlessly dodging the strike. In the same motion, he pivoted on his foot and sent a sharp, precise chop toward the back of Sam’s neck—intended to knock him out cold.

  But Sam wasn’t like the others.

  With uncanny reflexes, he blocked the strike with his forearm, the impact sending a shockwave through his body. Still, he wasn’t fast enough to stop the trainer’s follow-up—a brutal downward punch that sent him crashing to the ground.

  The trainer didn’t stop. He shifted his attention to Amanda.

  The girl’s eyes widened as he lunged at her. But instead of freezing, she instinctively stepped back, her movements smooth and controlled. Each retreating step kept her just outside his reach.

  She was fast. Too fast for a normal kid.

  But speed alone wouldn’t save her.

  The trainer suddenly altered his pace, feinting left before cutting right in an instant. Amanda’s reaction was a fraction too slow. A swift strike to the back of her neck—and she collapsed.

  Sophia, who had been standing beside Amanda, tensed. The moment the trainer turned to her, she moved.

  She copied Amanda’s exact movements.

  Step back. Dodge left. Shift right. Avoid. Barely miss.

  The trainer raised an eyebrow. She had memorized Amanda’s every action and repeated it flawlessly.

  But that meant she would fall for the same trap.

  Just like before, the trainer feinted left and cut right. Sophia tried to adjust—but she was a second too late.

  Another sharp strike. Another body down.

  Jonathan, the biggest among them, roared as he charged first. His sheer size and strength made his movements slower, but when he swung a fist, it carried real power.

  The trainer dodged the first punch. The second came right after, forcing him to step back. Jonathan grinned—he was fast for his size.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  The trainer ducked under his next punch and delivered a devastating blow to his ribs. Jonathan grunted. A second punch landed on his jaw. His head snapped back.

  The third strike, a brutal hook to his temple, sent him sprawling. Out cold.

  Only one remained.

  William—the smallest of the group.

  His thin frame made him look weak, but the moment the trainer moved, William reacted.

  He dodged. Once. Twice. Every attack.

  The trainer’s strikes barely grazed him. The boy’s reflexes were abnormal, his body bending and twisting in ways that made him frustratingly hard to hit.

  But the trainer had seen this before. Pure evasion couldn’t win a fight.

  He waited. Calculated. Found the moment.

  And with a single precise strike to the side of William’s head—he was down.

  The dust settled. Five bodies lay unconscious on the ground.

  The trainer exhaled, turning to Warden Gregory to give his report.

  Then he froze.

  James was standing.

  His breath was ragged, his body trembling, but his legs never gave out. He endured it.

  The trainer’s mind raced. All of them were good. But I only used 20% of my strength to knock them out—even Jonathan needed three strikes but they were at the same force.

  But James…

  His eyes narrowed. I accidentally used 50% of my strength on him when I said I don't hold back.

  And yet—he was still standing