The punishment was immediate.
They threw him into the pit.
Eleven hours without sleep, without food, and not a single drop of water.
Forced to train nonstop, drill after drill, without a moment of rest.
And when the next torment came, Desmond was ordered to stand with his legs apart, half-squatting, arms outstretched, holding two buckets filled with water under the rain.
One in each hand.
The chains around his wrists bit into his skin.
And the floor beneath him—wet, foul—soaked his boots and sucked them down.
Every now and then, a corporal would come down to spit insults and beat his sides with a rod.
"Look at the little noble! The golden-collared dog~ Nobody here's gonna save you now!" he laughed theatrically, spreading his arms wide to the sky and then striking Desmond once more in the ribs.
"You look exhausted~" he whispered, leaning in to meet his eyes, then gripping Desmond's cheeks hard.
"Now. Lift those arms, trash! Raise them or I'll cut them off!"
Desmond didn't reply.
His breath came ragged.
Because of course, he wasn't immortal.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Blood dried into his torn shirt.
But his red-blue, glassy eyes—hardened—remained fixed on nothing, unblinking.
His body, a block of frozen rage.
Hours later, just before dawn, they unchained him.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
The corporal circled him slowly, then waved at two recruits to remove the chains and the buckets.
"You're getting a mission, soldier. Leave or die."
"No." Desmond replied shortly, catching his breath before continuing.
"...I'll do it."
The corporal narrowed his eyes and walked toward the exit, almost pleased.
Being Desmond left alone in the pit, placing one hand on the wall to push himself up.
---
Once out in the open field, suited up in uniform.
The mission, in theory—on paper was simple:
Infiltrate. Locate stolen cargo.
Eliminate any resistance in a village occupied by deserters and raiders.
Then the squad geared up, changing into darker uniforms, moving to another room and pausing in confusion when they saw the rusty, clunky rifles with minimal logistical support.
They were cannon fodder.
Bait.
But Desmond knew it.
Something was off.
He tilted his head, a nearly imperceptible smirk crossing his face.
He played along, silently readying his rifle.
The others didn't know what to say.
They only watched Font prep the gear weapon strapped to his vest, knife in his boots, helmet fitted.
But he didn't care.
He wouldn't give those so-called "high command" bastards the satisfaction.
They moved out on foot, climbing into trucks—just a small group. Two vehicles. No more.
Minutes later, they were moving through ruins, dead silent.
Desmond's heartbeat the only rhythm in the chaos.
One by one, he eliminated enemies with ruthless precision.
A knife to the throat.
A shot to the temple.
A slash across the artery.
High kicks, elbows, fists like stone.
He tied up the few survivors—only three from the enemy side.
Luca, the copper-haired recruit from before, followed behind him, nervous, trembling with his weapon in hand.
But he watched Font's focus, his exacting command.
He had never insulted him.
Never struck him.
He simply watched and learned.
That night, when they returned, one of the veterans shoved Luca into the mud with wooden mugs in hand, knocking him flat on his back.
Covered in filth again, after showering and changing.
One of them kicked a puddle into Luca's face and bent over, grinning.
"How the hell did you survive, little rat? Bet you hid behind the noble dog!~"
Luca wiped his brow silently and didn't reply.
He lowered his head, tried to get up, but pushed him down again avoiding Luca to stand.
Desmond, who was cleaning his knife by a well, froze dead (stopped dead).
Turning slowly to what was happening, walking towards them with steady steps.
There were no words.
None needed.
Suddenly, he slammed a brutal punch into the veteran's face, a sharp crack breaking his cheekbone.
Till the man collapsed this time instead—face-first into the mud.
Desmond stepped on his hand, pressing with his boot until the bones cracked.
No one stopped him this time.
Not even when the man screamed louder than Luca had.
Desmond knelt in front of him, gripping the soldier's hair and yanking his head back hard to force eye contact.
"If I'm a dog..."
His guttural voice dropped lower—slow, painful, deliberate.
He leaned in, just inches from his face.
Tightening his grip on the hair.
Erik breathed raggedly through his nose, chest rising and falling in panic, gritting his teeth.
"Then let this be clear."
His breath steamed in the cold.
A growl in the night, his glacier-blue eyes sharp as blades.
"You don't touch the dogs that walk beside me. Because unlike you.. I protect my pack.
And you… you're no different than a stray."
Erik trembled beneath his shadow, bruised eyes barely open.
He nodded desperately, terrified.
Desmond let go—tossing him back into the mud.
Then.
As seeing him stand fiercely.
Luca stared, stunned.
Speechless.
He didn't know whether to speak, step forward and thank him, or just remain still.
But watched Desmond walk away without looking back, eyes fixed on Erik a moment longer, then vanish towards the tents.
But one thing was clear.
His way of acting...
was terrifying.
Yes.
He protected, in his own way.
No matter how threatening it seemed.
As Luca understood his way's without needing a single word.
---
A week later.
The enemy struck.
A surprise night ambush.
Desmond wasn't going to sit back.
Not after that night.
That mission.
They came for revenge.
And now it was time to strike back, hard.
Rain.
Screams.
Gunfire.
You could hear everything from outside the base.
Mud splashed with blood.
Desmond moved like a predator in the dark.
Stabbing an enemy soldier from behind, while dodging a bullet that grazed his ear.
Another soldier tackled him from a blind spot. Both fell, wrestling in the mud, fists flying every punch.
Desmond mounted over while subduing him—drew a blade from his boot and plunged it into the man's shoulder.
Which the enemy groaned roughly through clenched teeth then screamed.
Desmond twisted the blade in favor, using it to immobilize him, then smashed his head forward to knock him out.
Grabbed the man's neck.
Flipped him to tie his arms next.
His uniform was drenched in blood.
He led the rest forward with a savage yell.
No rank.
No permission.
Just instinct.
He gave sharp orders, pointed, directed, took control.
They fought for hours if needed, neutralizing every last enemy without killing them.
Till they finished and won the battle.
Desmond stood tall, arm wounded, ribs bleeding.
Still breathing hard, still upright.
The others stood, too. Silent.
Some worse off than him.
But firm.
They looked at him then straightened up and saluted.
Desmond blinked.
He didn't know what he was seeing or what he should feel.
But he smiled.
And returned the salute.
Grateful.
For all of them.
---
One month later…
A high-ranking officer from the General Staff, a one-star visited the base.
He walked the grounds, inspecting the soldiers' posture until he stopped before the tallest among them, standing at 6'3".
"Is this the great Fontclair?"
"Yes, sir. Cold as steel. Lethal and obedient. They call him 'Font,' as well, sir."
The officer narrowed his gaze, squinted slightly then passed him by, hands clasped behind his back.
"Put him at the front. Promote him."
"A dog that bites and obeys the whistle isn't easy to find."
he added, walking off toward the office.
And so it was.
Desmond was promoted.
Second-line Officer.
Lieutenant.
He received a new uniform.
A medal.
And, for the first time, a private room.
But when he entered that room...
he simply took off his gloves slowly, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at his hands.
Scarred.
Hands of a man who had never been saved.
Only transformed.
Respected.
Feared.
A Fontclair.
The obedient monster they wanted.