The girls and the boys, under the orders of the drill instructor, were sent to the track field and told to run.

  "Run no matter what," the instructor barked. "If you stop, punishment will follow."

  He raised his hand, and when it came down, they started running.

  Cale took this opportunity to talk to Mirelle. He slowed his pace as the girls had been positioned behind the boys.

  "Are you alright?" Cale asked. Mirelle smiled faintly as he approached her.

  "Yeah, I'm fine... I always have trouble sleeping in a new bed. I'll get used to it soon," she responded, followed by a yawn. "How about you? Did you sleep well?"

  Cale grimaced. He didn’t want to sound weak or worry Mirelle. "I slept well," he said, his gaze shifting ahead to Garret, who was leading at the front. The memories of st night resurfaced. His hand instinctively moved to his neck as he remembered nearly being choked to death by Garret.

  "Are you alright, Cale?" Mirelle asked, concern cing her voice as she noticed his reaction.

  "I'm fine. My throat feels a little sore—maybe from the cold," Cale lied. "How are your roommates? Did they cause you any problems?"

  "No. Jai and Nia are pretty friendly. We talked a lot st night." Her hand went to her red braids. "They said they liked my hair."

  "Well, you have nice hair," Cale complimented her.

  Mirelle seemed flustered for a moment. "Thank you."

  Before their conversation could continue, the drill instructor's sharp voice cut through the air. "Faster! Move it!"

  Cale gave Mirelle a quick nod before picking up the pace, weaving through the runners until he caught up with Tristan and Davion. The two boys ran side by side in silence, their expressions unreadable.

  They heard someone approaching from behind and instinctively moved to the side.

  "Hi, Tristan. Hi, Davion," Cale said cheerfully, falling into stride with them.

  His eyes quickly caught on to the split in Tristan’s lower lip. A thin line of dried blood marred the skin, and the corner of his mouth was slightly swollen.

  "What happened?" Cale asked, his voice low but edged with concern.

  Tristan sneered, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as if brushing the injury away. "One of my roommates thought he could treat me like I was beneath him—just because I’m skinnier than him."

  Davion shot Tristan a wary gnce but remained silent. Cale frowned, waiting for more.

  Tristan tilted his head, jerking his chin slightly toward the boy trailing a few paces behind them—a broad-shouldered recruit with a swollen eye and a cut across his cheek. "That son of a bitch didn’t take it well when I fought back. Thought he could rough me up, teach me a lesson." Tristan scoffed. "Guess he learned one instead."

  Cale’s stomach twisted. He could see the pride in Tristan’s stance, the defiance in his narrowed eyes, but beneath it, there was something else—a flicker of something raw. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or something deeper, but it made him think.

  What would have happened if he had been in Tristan’s shoes? Would he have fought back? If he had punched Garret and Marek, what would they have done to him? The image of Garret’s arm tightening around his throat the night before fshed in his mind, and he swallowed hard.

  Would they have stopped? Or would they have made sure he stayed down?

  A shiver ran down his spine. He had always tried to avoid unnecessary fights. But looking at Tristan—his split lip, his hardened gaze—Cale couldn’t help but wonder if avoiding fights had just made him weak.

  "You should be careful," Davion muttered, breaking the silence. "If he gets a chance, he might try again."

  Tristan smirked. "Let him try. I’m not the kind to let something like that slip."

  Cale’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wasn’t sure if he envied Tristan’s courage or feared the cost of it.

  As they ran, Cale turned to Davion, wiping the sweat from his brow. "So, how are your roommates?"

  Davion shrugged. "They’re quiet. At least, they are with me."

  Tristan chuckled at that, fshing a knowing grin. "Maybe I’d be quiet too if I had to share a room with a big guy like you, Davion."

  Davion frowned slightly, unsure of what he meant. "What do you mean?"

  Tristan smirked. "You’re intimidating. And you being quiet doesn’t help. Makes you look even scarier."

  Davion’s eyes widened at the thought. "I should probably clear that up with them. I don’t want them thinking I’m going to hurt them."

  Both Cale and Tristan chuckled, shaking their heads as they kept their pace steady.

  The rhythmic pounding of feet against the dirt track filled the air, broken only by the occasional grunt or gasp of exhaustion. Their breaths came harder, their legs burning from exertion. Sweat drenched their backs, soaking through their training clothes.

  Suddenly, Cale heard a heavy thud behind him. He turned his head just in time to see a stocky boy sprawled on his belly on the track. His chest barely moved.

  "Get up!" the drill instructor barked, his voice cutting through the morning air like a whip crack.

  But the boy didn’t move. His arms y limp at his sides, and his face was pressed into the dirt.

  The instructor’s face hardened. His jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the rest of the recruits. Cale’s stomach twisted—what kind of punishment would this boy receive for passing out?

  One by one, more kids began to stumble, their bodies giving in to exhaustion. Some colpsed onto their hands and knees, gulping down air, while others simply crumpled onto the track, too drained to stand.

  The instructor’s voice rang out again. "Stop!"

  The runners slowed, their bodies barely able to keep upright. Some recruits fell to the ground the moment they stopped, their chests rising and falling in frantic heaves. Others bent over, hands braced on their knees, struggling to catch their breath.

  Cale scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar figure. His gaze nded on Mirelle. She was standing, hands on her thighs as she gasped for air, but she was still on her feet. Relief spread through him, and a small smile tugged at his lips. She had made it.

  "Ten-minute break. Then we move on to bodyweight exercises," the instructor announced, his chin jutting toward the pull-up bars.

  Cale took a step toward Mirelle, but before he could reach her, a firm hand cmped onto his shoulder, halting him. He turned to find Garret smirking down at him, his grip tightening slightly.

  "You’ve got some endurance, little brother," Garret said, his tone ced with amusement.

  Cale grimaced. "Yeah, back home, I liked running through the hills and the nearby forest," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Garret’s arm looped around Cale’s neck, squeezing just enough to assert his dominance. "Hmm, that means we could be a little rougher with you. Maybe I should start teaching you how to throw some punches."

  Cale tensed. If this was anything like st night, it wouldn’t be a lesson—it would be a beating.

  Before he could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air. "Hey, big nose."

  Tristan approached, his expression sharp and defiant. Garret turned his gaze toward him and sneered. "What do you want, stick?"

  Tristan’s eyes hardened, his steps slow but deliberate. "What did you just call me?"

  "Stick," Garret repeated, his smirk widening. "You should be careful. What if the wind picks up and carries you away?"

  The tension between them thickened, drawing the attention of several recruits nearby. Eyes flicked toward them—some wary, others eager to see where this would lead.

  Tristan clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The air felt heavy, charged with the kind of stillness that preceded a storm. Before anything could happen, a shadow loomed over them.

  "What’s going on here?" The instructor’s voice sliced through the tension like a bde.

  Garret turned his smirk toward the approaching figure, his expression smooth and unreadable. "Nothing, sir. I was just praising my friend for his stamina."

  The instructor’s gaze flicked between Cale and Garret, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "You’ll have time to talk ter. Enjoy the rest while it sts."

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked away. The gathered recruits slowly dispersed, the moment fading, but the tension still clung to the air like the st traces of smoke from a dying fire.

  Garret threw one st smirk at Cale before finally releasing him, his grip loosening but the unspoken warning still clear. Cale exhaled, the phantom pressure of Garret’s arm lingering around his neck.

  Tristan stepped beside him, his gaze still locked on Garret. "You alright?"

  Cale nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

  Tristan didn’t reply, but the way he stood close said enough.

  "What did he do to you?" Tristan demanded, his eyes narrowing as he studied Cale’s expression.

  "What? He did nothing to me," Cale lied, his voice a little too quick, a little too forced. He didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to seem weak.

  Tristan scoffed, crossing his arms. "You’re such a bad liar," he said before turning and walking toward Davion, his shoulders tense with unspoken frustration.

  Cale’s fists clenched at his sides. His stomach felt tight, a dull ache settling deep in his gut.

  The moment passed, and before long, they found themselves in the middle of bodyweight exercises, their muscles already sore from the morning’s run.

  "Holy shit!" Tristan excimed, looking at Davion in disbelief. "Aren’t you tired?"

  Davion barely looked winded, his breaths controlled, his movements fluid. "I think I can still do a couple more. I usually do them with some additional weight, but today I decided to take it easier," he responded, lowering himself into another one-legged squat with perfect form.

  The drill instructor had taken notice of Davion’s sheer strength and decided that he would train separately from the others. Of course, the added workload came with a promise—there would be a reward for his extra effort.

  "Forty," Davion finally counted, stopping as he exhaled deeply, his muscles flexing with exertion.

  He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself before letting his gaze drift toward the instructor. The drill instructor, who had been overseeing the girls’ exercises, turned and met Davion’s eyes. With a firm nod, he acknowledged his effort.

  A slow, satisfied smile crept onto Davion’s face. It felt good to be noticed, to be appreciated.

  Meanwhile, Tristan and Cale continued pushing through their sets, their endurance and strength nowhere near Davion’s. They did their best, muscles burning, sweat dripping, but the difference was clear.

  Tristan, in particur, seemed frustrated. His movements were sharp, almost aggressive, as if he were trying to prove something to himself. He wasn’t used to being the weakest in a group, and it stung. Every failed attempt to match Davion’s performance only deepened his scowl.

  Cale, on the other hand, simply focused on getting through it, his mind preoccupied with more than just the pain in his limbs. But even as his thoughts wandered, he couldn’t ignore the weight of Tristan’s frustration hanging in the air.

  "What the fuck!" Tristan yelled as he stepped into the outdoor shower. Freezing water poured down over him, sending violent shudders through his body. His breath came in gasps, his muscles clenching involuntarily. A robed figure stood by his side, impassive, watching over him like a silent warden. The man's job was to ensure the recruits didn’t take shortcuts—he was there to make sure they endured every second of the torment.

  "It's so fucking cold!" Tristan spat through chattering teeth, his entire body spasming as he forced himself to stay under the icy torrent.

  Davion, already finished, stood nearby, shaking out his damp clothes. "I told you it was cold," he said matter-of-factly.

  "Yes, you did," Tristan growled, water streaming down his face. "But you didn’t say it was cold as ice!"

  Davion simply offered a shrug.

  Cale stood back, arms wrapped around himself, watching as Tristan cursed loudly with every passing second under the freezing water. It was as if every fiber of his being was trying to escape the cold, but he had no choice but to endure it. Eventually, Tristan stumbled out, shivering, his teeth clenched as he rubbed his arms vigorously.

  And then it was Cale’s turn.

  The moment the ice-cold water hit him, Cale let out a scream, his lungs burning from the sudden shock. "Ahhh!"

  Tristan burst into ughter, his previous suffering momentarily forgotten. "Oh man, your face!" he wheezed between chuckles. "You look like you got spped by a ghost!"

  Cale’s body trembled violently, his arms filing as the water continued to pour down. The sheer, unforgiving cold seemed to seep into his bones, stealing the breath from his lungs. His skin felt raw, his muscles locking up as if the water was trying to freeze him in pce. He could barely move, barely think—only endure.

  From beyond the walled-off section of the showers, the girls’ reactions echoed through the training grounds. High-pitched yelps and shrieks filled the air, each one punctuated by bursts of ughter from those who had already gone through the ordeal. It was a symphony of misery and amusement.

  By the time the ordeal ended, Cale stumbled out, his limbs numb and uncooperative. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body still shivering from the relentless cold.

  But there was no time to recover.

  The moment they were done, the recruits were led straight into the next stage—combat training.

  They moved to the courtyard, where the ground had changed. Where there had once been only dirt, several pits filled with sand had appeared, their surfaces raked smooth. The sun cast long shadows over them, making the depressions look deeper than they were.

  The recruits gathered, tension thick in the air.

  The drill instructor stepped forward, his hands csped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over them like a hawk surveying its prey.

  "Today, we begin hand-to-hand combat training," he announced, his voice carrying across the yard. "Strength will only get you so far. If you can’t fight, you’re useless. If you hesitate, you lose. If you’re on the ground, you better know how to get up—or make sure your opponent doesn’t."

  Murmurs passed through the recruits, some shifting on their feet, others clenching their fists. Anticipation and uncertainty swirled together.

  The instructor then began demonstrating the basics of grappling and close-quarters combat. He moved with sharp precision, his motions practiced and lethal. He showed them how to position their feet for stability, how to break an opponent’s grip, and how to use leverage to throw someone twice their size. He demonstrated swift takedowns, joint locks, and methods to escape holds. Each motion was clean, efficient, devoid of wasted energy.

  "Technique matters more than brute strength," he expined. "If you learn this well, you can take down someone bigger, someone stronger."

  His gaze swept the group and nded on Garret. He motioned for him to step forward. Garret's expression was neutral, but the way he moved betrayed his eagerness to spar with the instructor. Within seconds, the instructor had him on the ground, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. The boy tapped out quickly, his face pressed into the sand.

  Garret didn’t take it well. His face darkened as he walked back to the group, his movements stiff with frustration.

  "You see? It’s not about size. It’s about control."

  After the lesson, the recruits were paired off and sent to the sand pits to practice what they had learned. The smooth sand cushioned their falls but also made movement difficult. Footing was unstable, and every step sank into the ground, forcing them to stay light on their feet.

  Garret, wanting to have some fun, walked toward Cale with the intention of sparring, but the instructor intercepted him. "You will spar with him," the instructor said, pointing to Davion. Garret’s face hardened—he had seen how strong that boy was.

  Cale found himself facing Tristan, who rolled his shoulders and smirked. "Try not to cry when I put you in the dirt."

  Cale smirked back, despite the nervous knot in his stomach. "We’ll see about that."

  The moment the drill instructor gave the signal, the pits came alive with movement. Bodies cshed, sand kicked up into the air as recruits struggled for dominance. Grunts of effort and the sound of bodies hitting the ground filled the space. Some recruits hesitated, unsure of how to fully commit to a takedown, while others threw themselves into the fight with reckless energy.

  Tristan lunged first, aiming for a quick takedown, but Cale sidestepped, grabbing his arm and attempting to use the leverage techniques he had just learned. For a brief second, he thought he had control—until Tristan shifted his weight and sent them both tumbling into the sand.

  The training was brutal, relentless, and messy. By the end of it, the once-pristine sand pits were full of sweat-soaked bodies, scraped elbows, and bruised pride. But no one walked away without learning something.

  In the end, Tristan had won the sparring match, but Cale had come close.

  Tristan extended a hand, helping Cale up. "Who knew the country pumpkin could fight so well?" he said with a smirk.

  Cale smirked back. "Thanks," he said, patting the sand off his clothes.

  Their attention was drawn to a nearby pit where a rge group of recruits had gathered, their voices hushed with anticipation.

  Curiosity piqued, Tristan and Cale pushed through the onlookers, peering into the pit at the ongoing fight.

  Garret lunged forward, his movements fueled by aggression, aiming to overpower Davion with sheer force. His arms shot out, trying to grab Davion’s shoulders, but Davion sidestepped smoothly, his movements controlled and deliberate. As Garret stumbled past, Davion wrapped an arm around his waist, pivoted on his back foot, and executed a fwless hip toss (Ogoshi), sending Garret crashing into the sand.

  A ripple of surprise ran through the spectators. Garret gritted his teeth, scrambling to his feet, but Davion was already pressing forward.

  Garret swung wildly, trying to nd a hit, but Davion ducked low, slipping beneath his opponent’s reach. With a quick shift, Davion secured an underhook, cmping down on Garret’s right arm while driving his weight forward. Off bance, Garret had no chance to recover before Davion swept his leg out from under him with a swift inside trip (Ouchi Gari). Garret hit the sand again—harder this time.

  Frustration fshed across Garret’s face as he scrambled up once more. This time, he rushed forward recklessly, arms outstretched for a desperate takedown. Davion reacted instantly, sprawling backward, fttening his hips to the ground to absorb the impact. As Garret struggled underneath him, Davion seized the opening, locking in a front headlock, twisting his grip, and rolling them both into a snap-down to anaconda choke transition.

  Garret thrashed, his hands cwing at Davion’s grip, but the hold was tight, expertly executed. His movements grew weaker as the pressure mounted, his face turning red with strain. The instructor, seeing Garret’s struggle, stepped in. "That’s enough!"

  Davion released his grip and rolled back to his feet effortlessly, barely even winded. He extended a hand to Garret, who ignored it, standing up with a face burning from exertion and humiliation.

  The crowd murmured in approval, some exchanging impressed gnces. Tristan let out a low whistle. "Damn… he wiped the floor with him."

  Cale’s gaze remained fixed on Davion. He had utterly dismantled Garret, just like… just like Garret had done to him. The difference was gring—Davion wasn’t just strong, he knew exactly how to use that strength with precise, disciplined control.

  Garret stormed off without a word, shoving past the recruits who quickly moved aside. Meanwhile, Davion stood tall, his expression calm, as if he hadn’t just dominated one of the toughest boy.

  Cale looked at him, then at Tristan. "Remind me never to piss off Davion."

  Tristan chuckled. "Yeah. No kidding."