Rain poured down like buckets, drumming against the rusted roofs of the barracks.
Mud soaked their boots, creeping up soldiers' trousers like scabies.
Inside the camp, voices were few—hoarse, hardened by the cold and merciless early mornings.
And in the midst of it all stood Fontclair.
The first week was a misjudgment.
"This is a training camp, not the Duke's hell." he thought on his first day.
But when his first superior screamed in his face, spat on him, and humiliated him in front of everyone, his patience's crust finally cracked.
"Pick up that piece of garbage weapon, you fancy girl!" barked Captain Brask—a man with shoulders like walls and a nose broken from countless fights.
Desmond stood in soaked uniform, knuckles red. He said nothing. Just stared.
Cold. Like a silent predator.
"Got crap in your ears?" Brask repeated, pushing him with the buttstock.
The blow was sharp. But seconds later, Desmond punched the captain's jaw with brutal precision.
Silence.
Brask hit the mud with a splat!
Crimson blood mixed with mud at the corner of his mouth.
He laughed slowly, low—licking the inside of his cheek as he rubbed his jaw.
He nodded to his men.
Desmond was dragged off by three corporals, growling, struggling—handcuffed and thrown into an iron cell with no bed, no blanket.
He stayed four nights in darkness, rat echoes his only company.
Little food, pure misery.
His fury boiled.
Not at the punishment—but at losing control, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, eyes fixed on the barred door.
His father was right: No crying. No begging. No trembling.
Be a monster—and be efficient.
Damn it…!
---
When released, he didn't apologize. Didn't speak. Just waited for the next order amid the sneers of those who watched with envy.
And it came.
A reconnaissance mission.
Five men.
Pitch-dark night.
Hostile territory.
"Move your bum's bastards!" barked the second sergeant.
Desmond marched at the front with his assigned squad.
During the incursion, they split.
Each man to a strategic point to stay hidden and strike when ordered.
Hours passed. They advanced deeper, knocking out some guards with swift, dry blows to the head, then tying them up.
Then, two comrades were captured near the open field.
They told Desmond what happened—they'd been kidnapped.
Without a second thought, he charged out to rescue them.
Machete in hand. Face smeared with dirt and steely resolve.
One captured soldier sobbed, knees trembling in the mud.
The other bled from the abdomen.
The rest couldn't sleep. One screamed in terror. Two struggled to free their hands.
As the soft crunch of earth sounded…
One of the hostiles flinched.
Fontclair pressed a hand over his mouth—signaling silence.
"Desmond…" whispered the soldier with cloth still in his mouth when Font withdrew his hand, removing the blindfold.
"No… They're going to kill us. Please… get us out…" he sobbed.
"Nuisance. Stop the crying. Fight." Desmond replied.
He cut the rope from the first captive, then moved quietly to the others—freeing them and muffling them.
Then he slipped in like a predator, knife in hand, face camouflaged with dried mud under the dark night.
One guard narrowed his eyes at a flash of pale blue in the gloom.
But Fontclair had moved swiftly—slitting his throat when his back was turned.
The second guard collapsed in a muffled cry as steel pierced his chest in one swift motion.
He didn't have time to escape from the man who struck like lightning.
The five reunited behind Desmond.
Limping. Silent. Alive.
That night, they saw him differently.
But envy never sleeps.
---
Two days later, three soldiers cornered him at the shooting range.
Among them was Riken, a twisted bastard with jealousy dripping from his grin.
"Think you're better than us because you saved those cowards?
You're nothing but a guinea pig.
Though not bad for a noble dog."
he spat, twirling his rifle threateningly.
Desmond remained still.
Eyes locked.
"Come on, rich boy. Hit one of us.
Let's see if your Major saves you this time!
Be a great lieutenant—DO IT!" he mocked.
"Wouldn't you obey?"
Silence fell.
One of them yanked Erik and Brayan—two of those Desmond had saved—pushing one to the ground.
They called him a "human dead weight."
"That's enough." murmured Font.
Desmond dropped one with a single punch. Then the second.
Riken lunged with a drawn knife.
Desmond blocked it with his forearm—bleeding before driving his knee into Riken's chest and headbutting him to the ground, shattering his nose.
He then elbowed another in the clavicle.
Sending him crashing down and pressed his chest mercilessly.
And with a threatening look. All were left motionless.
Then stepped away, helping the other two who were mistreated, lending his shoulder to the exit to take the right aisle to treat them.
Hours later, at the Coronel's office. Desmond stood firm and saluted.
"Sir."
The Coronel, fingers steepled, exchanged a glance with the Major—and then looked at Desmond.
They gestured for him to sit.
Instead of punishment, he was praised by Lestrov himself, a two star Major.
The Coronel crossed his arms and met Fontclair's ice-blue eyes.
"We need rabid dogs—not whining bunnies.
You've proven discipline under pressure.
Now—lead Delta Recon Unit."
"It's too much, sir."
"Do you question my decision, boy?"
"…No, sir."
"So be it, First Captain.
See you later in the field."
He nodded, smiling, and left.
Alone now, the Coronel leaned back—proud.
Fontclair turned to him, firm.
"Thank you."
Desmond stood, shook his hand.
"Not for me. For you—for giving your best."
The Coronel offered a proud smile.
Fontclair straightened and walked out, eyes burning with unmistakable surprise.
Promoted. Again.
Feared. Efficient.
"First Captain."
Desmond, arm still bandaged, stood gazing down the corridor, nodding in silent resolve.
Only thinking about one thing on his way back to his room:
"Being the monster works."
And so began his reputation:
Blood for respect.
Silence for command.
No mistakes.
Only results.
Here, and from here on.