The introductions began after that.
One by one.
Names.
Countries.
Histories reduced to a few sentences.
I barely listened.
My body was there, standing among them, but my mind had gone quiet—heavy, slow, like it was sinking underwater. Voices reached me, but they didn't stay long enough to matter. Accents blended together. Faces blurred.
Fighters from everywhere.
Some spoke proudly.
Some spoke briefly.
Some didn't speak at all.
I drifted.
By the time the last man finished, I had almost forgotten where I was.
The general's voice cut through the room again.
"That's enough for now," he said. "I can't tell you the full plan yet."
A few people shifted in their seats.
"There is a time for that," he continued. "For now, officers will take you to your assigned training zones."
He scanned the room slowly.
"Any questions?"
That was a mistake.
Hands went up immediately.
One man leaned forward. "I want more money."
Another laughed and said, "I just want to kill people faster."
Someone else said openly, without shame, "I want women. If I'm going to die, at least let me live first."
Voices overlapped.
Demands.
Desires.
Egos colliding.
Everyone wanted something.
Everyone except me.
One question had been circling in my head since the screens went dark, growing sharper with every second.
I raised my hand.
The room quieted again.
The general looked at me. "Yes?"
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't decorate the question.
"What's the percentage," I asked, "that we make it back alive… till the last mission?"
The room froze.
Even the people who had been smiling stopped.
The general didn't hesitate.
"One percent," he said.
For half a second, no one reacted.
Then shock rippled through the room.
Someone cursed under their breath.
Someone laughed nervously.
Someone slammed a fist against the table.
Fear rose like heat.
Anger followed it.
But me?
I laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just a short, honest laugh.
The sound echoed strangely in the room.
Heads turned toward me.
Some stared like I was insane.
Some looked offended.
Some looked afraid.
I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, still smiling.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's see."
No one laughed with me.
Training began almost immediately.
Groups were divided. Orders were given. People moved with purpose—stretching, testing weapons, exchanging glances heavy with rivalry.
I didn't move.
I sat down on a metal bench near the edge of the hall and watched.
They were good.
Very good.
Not ordinary humans.
Their bodies moved with confidence, control, and efficiency. The way predators move when they know they are not prey. Each one of them could wipe out dozens of normal people without breaking a sweat.
If you dropped them into a city full of civilians, they would be unstoppable.
I watched silently.
Measured breathing.
Perfect balance.
Sharp reflexes.
I didn't feel impressed.
I felt calm.
That's when a shadow stopped in front of me.
I looked up.
A man stood there—tall, broad shoulders, scars carved deep into his face. His eyes were alive with something restless. Not hatred.
Challenge.
"I want to duel you," he said.
I didn't even stand.
"No," I replied. "I'm not interested in killing anyone right now."
A few people nearby paused, listening.
I stood up and turned away.
That's when he spoke again.
"Scared?"
The word hit something old inside me.
Something ugly.
Something that had learned how to smile while breaking bones.
I stopped.
Slowly turned back.
"Alright," I said.
The circle formed quickly.
No weapons.
Just bodies.
Just skill.
The man cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, smiling like this was already over. He came in fast—aggressive, powerful, throwing a heavy right meant to end things early.
I stepped aside.
Not rushed.
Not panicked.
The punch missed by inches.
He followed with a knee, trying to crush my ribs.
I blocked it with my shin and pushed him back gently—almost politely.
He frowned.
Then he tried everything.
Hooks.
Elbows.
Low kicks.
Feints meant to bait me.
I avoided all of it.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just… not there.
The room grew quiet.
People stopped training.
He started breathing harder.
I didn't.
Then I moved.
First strike—a sharp Muay Thai elbow, cutting across his cheek.
Second—a straight boxing jab to the nose.
Third—a knee into the thigh, deadening the muscle.
Fourth—a hook to the liver.
He gasped.
Fifth—a low kick, precise, surgical.
Sixth—another elbow, this time into the collarbone.
Seventh—a cross to the jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Eighth—a knee to the stomach, folding him.
Ninth—a spinning back fist, clean, final.
He staggered.
I stepped in once more.
Tenth—a controlled strike to the chest, dropping him flat on his back.
Silence.
He didn't move.
I stepped away.
The room didn't breathe.
Shock hung heavy in the air.
No cheers.
No claps.
Just understanding.
I looked around once, then walked back to my bench and sat down.
Cold.
Uninterested.
As if nothing had happened.
Because for me—
It hadn't.