Jack hated war. In the morning, he had to teach rookies in the maintenance camp; in the afternoon, he had to endure Cyril’s grilling. Even a sliver of free time had to be spent preemptively putting himself through all sorts of self-imposed torments. If there were no war, who would bother with any of this? He’d even been bathing with Nya for days. — he was afraid one careless moment would leave him drained and collapsed.

  The recruits’ military training had been going on for a week, and Jack and Major Hank were getting along well. Hank was a veteran of ten years in mech maintenance who had worked his way up to primary through sheer technical skill — a man of broad experience. But after seeing Jack’s repair work, he had to admit, publicly and begrudgingly, that Jack was the best maintenance expert he’d seen in a decade.

  Some of the good-natured lads especially liked to joke and brag with Jack. After all, Jack had spent so long on the battlefield that his wartime stories were effortless to tell, and the boys listened with wide eyes. After Nya had visited the maintenance camp twice, the entire unit began to treat Jack like a demigod; his worship only grew. The air force’s loveliest rose had been plucked by this goofy, chubby instructor — he was fucking amazing!

  Jack was only a few years older than most of the recruits. The topics between peers were plentiful, and Hank was an easygoing man: as long as the training was on track, the jokes were harmless. So among the dozens of ordinary training camps and the dozen or so special camps at Garipan Military Academy, the maintenance camp had the friendliest rapport between students and instructors.

  That should have been a good thing. But because the maintenance kids stuck up for Jack so fiercely, trouble finally broke out.

  This intake at Garipan was a messy mixture — out of tens of thousands of applicants, every type of person existed. There were wealthy scions, proclaimed geniuses, celebrity commanders who’d appeared in the news, and battle-hardened veterans. Youth breeds rivalry, and at the Academy that took the form of countless rank-and-file lists pushed by bored students: beauty rankings, martial-arts rankings, athletic rankings, mech rankings, even a wealth list.

  Everyone goes through that; looking back, older, you just laugh. But at the time, no one saw through it. Those on the lists gloat or scoff; those excluded grind their teeth or pretend they’re above it all. The most vain and the most capable tended to be in the special forces camp — the cream of the Academy’s crop — and nothing embarrassed them more than the early days of basic training.

  They blushed to remember it: those who’d been tied up like SM princesses would rather wrap themselves in straps and choke than recall it. And even worse — the maintenance camp’s fat instructor was insufferable. If the maintenance drill had not ended just then and been pulled away in time, that fat bastard might have laughed himself dead and become the Academy’s top scandal.

  Sloane was in special forces. She felt joining the male special-ops course was the dumbest decision of her life, and of course, she ran into that damned fat man again. Last time, he’d been staggering and shoved around in the girls’ crowd — there had been a certain amount of groping — and she’d not forgotten. Now he kept appearing like an enemy. Enough was enough: a sleazy, leering fat man ought to be humanely eliminated.

  That sentiment flared in the special camp and spread like wildfire. During breaks, people would stand not far from Jack and shout provocations or insults. Jack didn’t want to stoop to their level; he’d just grin and ignore them, treat it like noise. To him, it didn’t matter, but to the recruits, it stung. The ones especially close to Jack became indignant for him.

  One day, Jack was slumped in a chair when a panicked recruit from the maintenance camp came barreling over, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him so hard his brain nearly bounced off his skull. Worried she’d shake his flab into soup, Jack scrambled upright. “What—what is it? What’s going on?”

  The recruit had always inhaled before she spoke; she gasped, chest heaving. When her breathing finally stabilized, Jack was about to collapse from lack of oxygen.

  Before his death, he understood that the maintenance camp and the special camp were at odds.

  That was unacceptable. Jack darted out. On the training field, both camps faced each other, muscles tensed. A few maintenance recruits lay on the ground, groaning — dead or alive, no one knew.

  Jack understood why it happened. He felt touched and furious. The maintenance boys weren’t the strongest — mostly clever heads with weak limbs — but they were rotten inside in a way Jack almost liked. The instructors and students had long been a compact gang. For them to fight the special forces over Jack was intolerable.

  Who the hell dared bully his troops? Jack shoved through the crowd.

  Among the throng were several seasoned special-ops veterans, looking down with disdain at the maintenance kids as if they were defective fruit. Jack’s chest fell — this was the last thing he wanted. Those veterans were veterans of fire and blood; they were one-in-ten-thousand elite fighters who would become frontline NCOs. If they threw down, the maintenance boys would end up maimed, and those elites’ futures might be ruined.

  When the maintenance troops saw their instructor, they cheered and cleared a path. Jack pushed to the ones on the ground, checked them over, and felt a stone fall from his chest. Though they moaned and writhed, they were only surface injuries. A couple scrambled up, pretending cold and stiffness — agile as ever.

  Jack was deflated; why didn’t any of his lads have that kill-or-be-killed spirit? They all played dead after two hits, writhing in some girl’s arms like they were about to die, making noises that were hard to tell if they were pain or pleasure.

  “Damn it, you’ve embarrassed me enough — I ran over here worried and you act like this!” Jack’s face hardened. “Get up! Stop faking it, stop playing dead!”

  The motley crew leapt to their feet faster than lightning. Standing opposite, Sloane snorted: “You get the troops you deserve. If the instructors are trash, so are the soldiers. I haven’t even tried yet, and they’re already on the ground!”

  “Did women beat you?” Jack snapped, furious. The maintenance boys blushed.

  Jack looked at the girl who’d spoken and, despite the staring contest, his practiced eye recognized her—it was Sloane, the same recruit who’d glared at him during registration. Of all people, it was her! Fate had them on the same narrow road.

  Sloane glared and snapped, “You Scoundrel! What are you looking at? Shame on you!”

  Jack blinked, thinking: “You glare with your chest; why can’t I look at you?” He ignored her and asked the maintenance boys, “How did this start?”

  They answered together: “They bullied us, said maintenance camp was full of rejects, said our instructor was a fat idiot.”

  Jack steamed. Those special-ops rookies were too much. A little thought made him decide that if he didn’t handle this, it would blow up. He calmed himself and spoke evenly: “Small things don’t need to become big. Situation’s tense — any camp could be sent straight to the Vega front. Do you know why you’re here? I think you do.”

  His gaze swept to the special veterans; they saw his intent, and the aggressiveness ebbed. “You were selected by the military because you’re the elite in your fields. Don’t waste energy on petty fights. Whether you want to be a general or a marshal, don’t fritter your life away on this.”

  Some special-camp recruits listened thoughtfully; most sneered. Jack waved it off: “Fine, nothing big — words only. Break it up.”

  Sloane whispered to her girls, loud enough for the circle to hear: “See? I told you he’s useless. What kind of instructor produces what kind of soldiers?” Laughter rolled through the special camp. Their looks at the maintenance kids were full of scorn.

  The maintenance recruits’ faces turned iron-gray. If Jack didn’t give them an answer today, they’d never respect him again. His temper flared. He shot a sideways look at the special camp. “You lot have been reading too much and have dogma stuffed in your heads. Respect and harmony — you don’t even know what those are.”

  The special camp stayed silent, only Sloane couldn’t help but shout, “Who do you think you are, teacher?”

  Jack pointed to his chest badge and the words on it: “Assistant Professor — Mech & Weapons Design, Jack Harlan. You can read, right?”

  Sloane froze, unable to believe this shameless, lecherous fat man could be an assistant professor. “Fake! You’re faking it! People like you — how could you be a professor?”

  Jack hated that sort of denial: he smiled, “Little sister, what part of me is fake?”

  Before Sloane could answer red-faced, Jack snapped, “You say I’m fake — is this Academy your family’s? How old are you? What do you weigh? Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” In the raging back-and-forth, Sloane lashed out and kicked.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Jack never fought with women; he argued with words. He dodged. Sloane swung again. A shout rang out: “Stop!”

  The special-ops captain had entered, and the entire special camp fell silent. Even Sloane stood stung, backing down.

  The captain wore the expression of a man used to mediating with children. In the army, everyone protects their own; when recruits clash, the higher officers don’t apologize — they fight it out until one side wins, and the losers get hammered into shape. The captain glared at Jack: “Thanks, Lieutenant Harlan — you gave us some trouble. Next time you want to teach them a lesson, leave it to me; they wouldn’t take you seriously.”

  Jack bristled. He opened his mouth to retort, then paused, scanning both groups of recruits. “Not satisfied with me?” he said, smiling coldly. “Fine. I’ll show you why you’re dissatisfied.”

  He walked to the command platform at the field edge and keyed the comm: “Major Hank, initiate FTX-7 drill.”

  Hank’s voice on the radio: “Jack, you sure? That plan—”

  “Affirmative.” Jack cut him off. “Also, start capturing Kong in OPFOR mode. Patrol route Alpha-3.”

  The recruits murmured. The special-ops captain frowned: “Lieutenant Harlan, what are you planning?”

  Jack’s smile vanished, replaced with calm seriousness. “I don’t want to prove who’s stronger. I want you to understand one thing: on the battlefield, personal bravery is bullshit. Staying alive depends on teamwork.”

  He looked at the special-ops recruits. “You can fight — I admit it.” Then he looked at the maintenance recruits: “You can fix — I admit that too.” “But if you fight separately, you’ll all die.”

  The field went quiet.

  “Thirty minutes. The exercise starts.” Jack’s voice echoed across the training ground. “Special camp: you will infiltrate the ‘enemy’ zone, accomplish the objective, and withdraw. Maintenance camp: you will be the QRF on standby.”

  “This isn’t a game,” his voice turned cold. “I’ll show you: when your mech on the field goes down, when Kong is approaching, you’ll understand what it means to rely on one another.”

  Sloane wanted to say something, but the captain’s stare stopped her. “Fall out. Prepare.” Jack waved.

  The atmosphere had changed. The insults remained, but now anxiety sat alongside them — because everyone knew the Kong.

  The fifteen-meter demon.

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Thirty minutes later, at the northern training ground, Jack and Major Hank stood side by side in the command tower before a holographic map: six Paladin SF mechs of the special camp moving to their objective; three light Paladins and one repair truck from maintenance standing by.

  On the map’s west side, a red marker slowly moved — captured Kong, the instructor-controlled enemy unit.

  “You sure you want to play that?” Hank asked. “Even in training mode, that thing will scare these kids to death.”

  Jack said nothing and stared at the screen.

  Comm channels from the special camp murmured: “Target building 200 meters.” “Roger, maintain formation.” “Clear left.” “Moving up.”

  Hank shook his head. “They’re matching up well.”

  “Wait,” Jack said lightly.

  T = 0:20

  Bravo-3, Paladin SF unit six, piloted by a corporal recently pulled from the front, moved through the trees when a yellow warning flashed on the HUD.

  “Uh… Captain, my Hydraulics are acting up.”

  “Can you hold?” the captain asked.

  “Maybe… wait.” The warning went red. “Shit! No—system failing!”

  “Bravo-3 status!”

  “Hydraulics critical! I… I can’t move!”

  Bravo-3 came to a slow halt, half-kneeling in a clearing. The other five mechs formed up around it.

  Comm erupted: “What the fuck?” “Exercise’s only twenty minutes in!” “Real failure or scripted?”

  The captain barked: “All units form perimeter! Bravo-3, stay put.”

  T = 0:45

  “Contact!” an observer’s voice broke in. “Kong bearing 270… distance—” he hesitated, “…7000 meters?”

  A pause. “Seven thousand? That’s far.”

  “Shut up!” the captain snapped. “Keep alert.”

  A few tense seconds passed. The captain’s voice trembled: “Command, Bravo-3 mobility kill, Kong in area, 7000 meters, requesting instructions?”

  Jack waited five seconds before answering. “Command? Command!” the captain called, frantic.

  “Lieutenant,” Jack said calmly on the open channel, “what do you think you should do?”

  The captain was stunned: “I… I…”

  Sloane piped in: “Call QRF! Maintenance QRF!”

  The captain jolted awake. “Right! Request QRF, now!” Jack cut the channel. “Maintenance QRF, copy? Move!”

  T = 1:00

  In the maintenance standby area, White-Bunny leapt up at the call. “Everyone, mount up! Grab the hydraulic emergency kits!”

  The maintenance recruits scrambled to their mechs and the repair truck. “ETA?” Jack’s voice asked.

  “Two minutes!” White-Bunny answered as she climbed into her light Paladin. “Kong’s at 6500 meters — you’ve got time.”

  She powered up and led the squad out.

  T = 1:30

  Inside the special camp’s perimeter, the recruits argued. “Captain, should we withdraw? Leave it?”

  “Shut up!” Sloane’s voice was cold. “We don’t abandon anyone!”

  The captain ground his teeth. “Form a defensive ring and wait for maintenance.”

  “But if Kong—”

  “I said wait for maintenance!” he insisted, though his voice wavered.

  Observer: “Kong at 6200 and still on patrol.”

  T = 2:00

  “How long now?” the captain asked.

  “Sixty seconds!” White-Bunny answered.

  “Kong at 5700.”

  “Looks like it’s heading this way…”

  “Keep alert.”

  T = 3:00

  The maintenance QRF arrived: three light Paladins and a repair truck stopped around Bravo-3. White-Bunny leapt under Bravo-3’s belly, headlamp on the Hydraulics.

  “Hydraulic pump ruptured… backup line damaged…,” she muttered.

  “How long?” a repair recruit asked.

  “Normally ten minutes,” she replied coolly. “I can do it in three.”

  “But Kong—”

  “Then I do it in three.”

  T = 3:30

  White-Bunny’s hands were steady and fast — wrench, bypass line, emergency connector. The support trainee handed tools smoothly — they had drilled this until it was second nature.

  “Kong at 4300 and still on patrol.”

  T = 4:00

  “Kong has changed course — it sees us!” the observer screamed. Jack keyed Kong into combat mode: target acquired. Kong accelerated — 70 km/h toward the special camp.

  “Kong accelerating! Distance 3600!”

  “Repair, how long?”

  “Two minutes,” White-Bunny said, head down.

  “You have two minutes,” the captain said, voice taut. “Do it.”

  T = 4:30

  Kong at 2900, its red optical sensors flashing like a demon. A special-camp recruit whispered: “Fuck… it’s huge…”

  “Hold steady!” the captain shouted.

  Sloane gripped her controls. She remembered the instructor’s words: Kong was a Tartarus Legion weapon designed to instill fear — fifteen meters tall, with thick armor and a chestplate featuring a roaring skull. Her hands clenched.

  T = 5:00

  Kong at 2300. Repair progress 50%. White-Bunny’s hands trembled.

  “Your hand—” another recruit whispered.

  “Keep working!” she bit back. Bypass line in; fingers moving in a cramped space.

  “Kong 2000!”

  T = 5:30

  Kong 1700. Repair 70%.

  Sloane: “1700! It’s closing fast!”

  The captain hesitated. He wanted to order a withdrawal. Sloane cut in: “No!”

  “But if they fail—”

  “They won’t!” she said, voice firm. For the first time, she believed the maintenance crew.

  The captain paused, then: “Hold position.”

  T = 6:00

  Kong 1200. Repair 85%. Kong’s footsteps thudded. BOOM. BOOM. The ground shook.

  “Should we—” a trainee stammered.

  “Focus on your work,” Jack said coldly.

  White-Bunny: “Last connection… steady…”

  Her hands trembled, but she kept moving.

  T = 6:20

  Kong 1000 — inside maximum effective range. “Suppressive fire!” the captain ordered. Training rounds slammed into Kong’s armor. It didn’t stop. Kong closed at 900.

  White-Bunny: “Ninety percent… almost—”

  T = 6:40

  Kong 800. Its chest opened: a multi-barrel energy cannon revealed. The observer nearly screamed: “It’s about to fire!”

  That low hum grew as energy amassed. White-Bunny: “Done! Start systems!”

  Bravo-3 pilot: “Hydraulics online… testing… good! All systems green!”

  Kong 700 — the energy gun charged.

  T = 6:50

  Jack’s voice: “All units, execute withdrawal. Now.”

  All mechs bolted. Kong’s energy cannon flashed its training-mode warning — low power and harmless, but enough to show that in real combat, two mechs would already be vaporized.

  Seven mechs raced away with Kong in pursuit — but at 2000 meters, it stopped. The exercise ended.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Thirty minutes later, in the command tower, the debrief began. Adrenaline still pulsed through the recruits.

  Jack showed the replay. He didn’t say much — he pulled up scenes.

  The first: T = 1:30, the special camp’s debate. “Should we leave him?” “No, we don’t leave anyone.” Jack paused, looked at the recruit who’d first suggested withdrawal. “You’d leave him? On a real battlefield, you’d regret that for life — or you’d die before you could regret it because next time it’s you, and they leave you.”

  He turned to Sloane: “Why did you say no?”

  “Because… he’s one of ours.”

  “Exactly,” Jack nodded. “He’s one of yours. Remember that.”

  Second clip: T = 5:30, the captain is about to order retreat. “All units… prepare to—” “No!” “They’ll finish it.” Jack looked at the captain. “You wanted to pull back. Sloane said no. You chose to believe her. That decision saved everyone. If you’d retreated, Bravo-3’s pilot would have died. On a real battlefield, he would have died.”

  Third clip: T = 6:00–6:40, split screen. Left: special camp providing suppressive fire. Right: White-Bunny’s trembling hands are still working.

  “See?” Jack pointed. “You held for six minutes — six minutes staring at Kong, not knowing if the repair would finish, not knowing if you’d live. You held. Maintenance did ten minutes’ work in three minutes. Under Kong’s footsteps, under the hum of a charging cannon, you finished.”

  He looked around the field. “You trusted one another. Special camp trusted the repair team to fix it. The repair team trusted the special camp to cover them. That’s why you survived.”

  The ground was quiet. Jack’s voice grew colder: “When Kong was 800 meters away, you didn’t withdraw. Not because you were brave — because you trusted one another. Remember this feeling.”

  “Remember: on a real battlefield, that’s the difference between life and death.”

  He looked at Sloane, then at White-Bunny. “Special forces can fight, but a broken mech makes you useless. Repair teams can fix, but without protection, they’re dead. You need each other. That’s the army.”

  Jack turned to go, paused at the door. “Both camps — combined training starts tomorrow. Special camp teaches tactics, maintenance teaches equipment. In two weeks, you’ll be real soldiers.”

  He left. Sloane walked over to White-Bunny, stood for a few seconds, then said, “Thanks.”

  White-Bunny wiped sweat. “No problem.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said before,” Sloane bit her lip.

  White-Bunny shrugged. “It’s okay. You’re not the first to think that.”

  Sloane inhaled. “Next time — I want you on my team.”

  White-Bunny blinked, then grinned. “Deal.”

  They shook hands. The camps began to mingle — not by orders, but because they understood something. Some talked about Kong’s terror; some asked about hydraulic systems; some swapped comm numbers.

  Major Hank came up to Jack: “Do you think they learned it?”

  “Look at their eyes,” Jack said. “Those seven minutes taught more than my ten thousand words ever could.”

  “You didn’t say anything,” Hank smiled.

  “The battlefield did the talking,” Jack said as he left the field. “And it said it better than I ever could.”

  As the sun set, Garipan Academy’s training ground saw the two camps stand together for the first time — not because someone ordered it, but because they now understood a truth: survival isn’t about how strong you are. It’s about how reliable your comrades are.

  — Chapter 90 End—