The morning air was sharp, carrying the scent of wet grass and iron from the training ground. The boys of Eastern Vanguard Training Camp lined up, weighted vests strapped tightly to their torsos. For most cadets, the standard 10-kilogram load was enough to push them to their limits.
At the front of the pack, moving with precision and ease, ran the elite group—cadets who had proven themselves above the rest. They carried 20-kilogram vests, each step a testament to years of discipline and training. Among them were Sandy Wills, Nikks Simmons, and other top cadets, their faces showing strain but determination, their bodies in perfect rhythm as they kept pace together.
The whistle blew.
And they ran.
The track stretched for ten grueling kilometers—a winding, uneven course designed to push the boys to their breaking point. Regular cadets quickly began to separate, some falling behind, some barely keeping pace under the 10 kg load.
Sandy and Nikks moved in sync, their friendship honed over years in the orphanage , where they had trained under Charles, the warden. Charles, a retired warrior with a missing arm, had been a father figure to them and the other children. His teachings, though strict, had forged the foundation that allowed Sandy and Nikks to keep pace with the other elites.
For a moment, Sandy allowed himself a small smile. Nikks, as usual, tried to lighten the mood. "Think we're too good for this track yet?"
Sandy chuckled, but their laughter was cut short.
A booming voice echoed across the training ground.
"You two are talking!"
Coach Mike was approaching, eyes sharp and judgmental. He spotted Sandy and Nikks moving comfortably, chatting even with the 20-kg vests weighing them down.
"You think this is enough? Add 10 more kilograms. Now!"
Sandy froze mid-stride, Nikks' grin vanished instantly.
"What? Now?" Nikks gasped, slowing slightly under the sudden extra weight.
Coach Mike's gaze swept the other elites. "All of you—extra weight! Let's see who truly belongs at the front!"
The elite cadets groaned, strapping on 10 additional kilograms while running. The sudden shift made every step a battle against gravity. Arms and legs screamed in protest, their rhythm disrupted as their bodies fought to carry 30 kilograms each across the ten kilometers.
The whistle blew again. And they ran.
The track, already grueling, now became a test of sheer endurance. The elites separated slightly, each struggling to maintain pace. Sandy and Nikks fell back and forth with others, their bodies trembling under the added load, sweat stinging their eyes.
Coach Mike circled, his eyes scanning for weakness. "Push! No excuses! If you fall behind, I'll make you run laps after the rest finish!"
The last three kilometers were agony. Every step threatened collapse, but none of the elites stopped. Each stride forward was a battle won, each breath drawn a triumph over the weight crushing their muscles.
Finally, Sandy, Nikks, and four other elites crossed the finish line, collapsing onto the gravel. Sweat drenched them, muscles quivering under the punishing 30 kilograms.
Nikks let out a groan. "That…was…inhuman."
Sandy nodded, wincing. "Coach Mike…he's relentless."
The cafeteria doors were closing, but they had made it. Breakfast was earned, warm and satisfying—a rare victory in a world designed to test them from the first light of dawn.
For a moment, Sandy thought of Charles, imagining the old man's one-arm grin of pride.
They had survived.
But outside the camp walls, beyond drills and vests, the world would demand far more than 30 kilograms of agony could ever prepare them for.