Seventh Division Barracks, Northern Border - One month later...
That day came without warning, no prior instructions.
Young Desmond Fontclair, now twenty-three, was roughly cleaning his assigned rifle inside the barracks warehouse.
His military shirt was drenched in sweat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing tense arms marked with fresh wounds.
Muddy boots. Red knuckles.
Until a senior sergeant, with a harsh voice and mocking face, approached with intention.
"So you're the son of the 'Great Duke of Rosiental Font Villa,' huh?" he spat on the floor as he slowly and firmly circled him with suspicion, studying his expression and body for any sign of weakness.
"You think you're better than the rest because you were born in a golden cradle? Huh~ What made you leave your castle, huh? To pretend to be one of us?" he continued with a raised brow and a sly smile, laughing low in a clearly provocative, velvety tone.
Desmond, for his part, didn't respond or blink. He just kept cleaning the barrel of his weapon in silence with the dirty cloth.
"I'm talking to you, bastard! Did the cat eat your tongue? Or are you so useless you can't even speak?!" the sergeant insisted, suddenly shoving Font's shoulder from behind.
And that was enough.
Desmond barely turned his head, just over his shoulder, with an involuntary tic twitching his jaw as that familiar echo of his father rang in his mind:
"You're not a girl. You're a Fontclair. Let them all know. You strike and never apologize!"
Until his breathing grew dense. He stood without a word, setting the weapon on the table.
Without warning, he spun his body sharply and drove his right fist directly into the sergeant's face.
A strong, dry blow.
The sergeant staggered backward, crashing into a box of ammunition, spitting blood.
Something Desmond should not have done.
But he knew exactly what the man was provoking.
Desmond stepped forward, toward the stunned man now lying on the crates, holding his mouth and cheek.
"I heard you loud and clear, sir. You're the one who doesn't know how to pretend, or do your job right. But me? I know what I am. You said it, didn't you?"
He scoffed suddenly, then his voice dropped into a low, hoarse growl:
"A Fontclair," he said, standing in front of the sergeant, those arctic eyes staring down in the dim light.
"Anything else to say, Sergeant?" he added.
The sergeant just breathed heavily, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek with the same glare Desmond gave him.
"Good," Desmond said, turning on his heel and slowly walking away.
But that wasn't the end of the man's miserable intentions.
The sergeant had bad habits, an ace up his sleeve.
He wanted to see him break, scream and cry. Get him dismissed, stain his post, get him reprimanded, he thought, clenching his fist in hatred against Fontclair.
And sure enough, within hours, punishment arrived.
Desmond was hanging by his wrists, ropes pulled taut above his head in the central yard, under relentless rain.
The blows landed on his bare back, one after another, administered by another officer with a wooden rod.
"Twenty lashes for insubordination!" a Major shouted.
"One!" A wet lash. "Two!" Echoing with a loud "smack!" "Three!" Another.
Desmond did not scream. He didn't cry. He didn't beg.
He clenched his jaw until it cracked, fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms.
His body arched with each lash, bleeding from his back, arms, and ribs. But his feet never left the ground, though they trembled.
And in his mind, his father sneered:
"That feeling is trash. Pain, crying... burn it. Be the beast. The beast I made."
Closing his eyes, Desmond held his breath through each blow, letting that voice fade from his consciousness.
Because he wasn't made of stone. Each pain was like liquid fire on his skin, wracking him in profound silence.
---
The next morning, with no rest, he was sent on a scouting mission in the northern mountain zone. Armed with only a knife and a rifle with a single bullet.
The test wasn't to kill, but to return.
Alive.
And intact.
He made it.
Desmond had nothing to boast about, just another routine task to him. Used up beyond rank or duty. And tired? No. He learned everything necessary. Truthfully, he was incredibly fast, tactically sharp, strong with every strike, and agile. But inside, this was nothing compared to fighting wolves in his childhood-if it could even be called that.
When he returned to base, he had gashes on his side, numb fingers, and blood dried at the nape of his neck-but not his own.
He was forced to share a dormitory with three other soldiers.
All younger. All envious. Who only watched and knew how to jab with jealousy.
One of them, a certain Merrik, muttered under his breath:
"Acts tough because he thinks he's better... Look at him. Walks like the war belongs to him," he said, spitting to the side.
Another laughed:
"The duke's little mutt. Just obeys and growls. They say he bites, that's why no one gets close. Got respect, huh? Yeah, right."
Desmond walked in without looking at them, trying not to listen.
Closing his eyes just to avoid launching himself like before and receiving lashes again for it.
He only exhaled as he sat on the wooden bed, legs crossed, covering his eyes with his hat, trying to rest.
One tense night, the place echoed with voices, whispers, murmurs, low laughter-it was stressful.
Later, during dinner, it flared again.
As they ate dry, small rations, one soldier purposefully knocked over the plate of a younger, weaker recruit who could barely sit upright due to a high fever.
Desmond slowly stood from his seat.
Of course, there were his previous recruits, watching as he wore that same look whenever something bothered him, when something wasn't right. Though his gaze was pained, his heart was noble. Not of wealth, but of pulse.
Everyone around tensed. Just watching him approach.
He looked directly at the aggressor, voice low.
"Pick it up."
"What did you say?" the soldier stood up.
Desmond didn't repeat himself.
He answered with a sharp, sudden slap.
The sound was so loud it echoed through the mess hall, silencing everything and making everyone turn.
The one who got hit flew with the blow, crashing hard against another table, smashing it brutally.
Shouts erupted. Confusion.
Conflict among other groups.
Two soldiers jumped on Font, others helped the fallen one.
Desmond slammed them into the walls with rabid strength, eyes lit with pure rage.
The Major was alerted to the mess.
And this time... Instead of punishment, fair or not, Desmond received a long, silent stare.
"You defended your comrade?" the Major asked. His voice rough, lips curling into a crooked smile. "Good reflex, Fontclair. The pack matters more than honor."
Desmond slowly turned toward the one who spoke, the Major.
Unclear when he had arrived. But his eyes again were like that arctic dog's.
Something the man never expected to see in a noble within a pit of men fighting to survive another day.
Desmond released the soldier he had pinned to the wall, letting him fall, gasping for air.
"You think I'm here for my pack?" he said in that typical low, guttural tone, turning fully to take two slow, firm steps toward the Major, showing their height difference.
"If this is another stupid attempt to keep me in line, I hope you're satisfied. From what I've seen inside and out..."
"Captain."
"...I don't care in the slightest about your useless honors or games. I submit to training, missions, and work."
"Captain, that's enough."
"But you all..." he paused with a frosty breath.
"Every one of you is just another stumbling block. And this isn't the first time. Let this be the last. This isn't a threat, but a warning. One that won't repeat."
He brushed past the Major, shoulder grazing shoulder, leaving him speechless.
The Major stood frozen, clenching his fist.
He knew he wasn't the one Desmond spoke of.
That corruption was rotting inside the base. Someone-or something-was using officers and high ranks to try to break a stone clearly anchored deep underground.
And indeed, as Font said, this wasn't the first time. But he would do what was in his power to make it the last.
He was their best officer. Too valuable to be pushed out or have his honor smeared.
Then he, too, walked straight to the other door.
Everyone else, silent witnesses, returned to their places, finishing their meals and letting the day pass.
---
Later that morning outside...
Desmond sat alone on the benches under the shadow of the roof panels, arms crossed, cap slightly covering his eyes.
He thought of today's events, and other times they'd provoked or harassed him.
He figured it was just another temptation. Another provocation. Never surprising. But he would not tolerate others-especially the weaker ones-being used as stepping stones.
---
A few days later, the squad was sent to the front line. Two teams. Zero zone. Direct enemy. Real war.
Fire. Blood. Bodies. Hidden mines. Cold that cut to the bone.
Explosions shook the earth as if hell itself opened. Enough to make anyone think twice about going home.
Desmond didn't hesitate once.
He crossed the combat line in long, firm strides, rushing to reach the wounded.
Bullets whistled past him, some tearing through his jacket. One hit his shoulder, another his leg-but adrenaline numbed the pain.
Then spun quickly, drawing a black HK-45 pistol.
Fired, shouted, violently elbowed, kicked, punched. Slit throats with a hidden blade under his sleeve.
Reaching his injured recruits at last.
Pulled two of them back, tied to his torso with a rope-one missing a leg, the other an eye.
As Desmond returned them with care, protection and protocol. Still keeping his uniform camouflaged from the enemy's sight.
Covered in blood, wounded from his shoulder and leg, then walked firmly as if it were nothing but a scratches.
And his gaze... cold, solid, as always.
He quickened his pace, gently avoiding pain for those he carried, entering a nearby field hospital.
At the entrance, nurses rushed to lift the wounded, transferring them to stretchers while others prepared tools to clean the wounds before anything else.
Desmond, watching for a moment, staggered slightly, turning on his heel to go find the rest.
---
A week later, he was summoned to the general's office.
"Desmond Fontclair," said the general, watching him closely. "We thought you were a threat, but you turned out to be a useful storm."
Desmond said nothing. Just stood firm. Uniform worn and gloves soaked in dried blood.
"From today on, you're promoted to commander of the vanguard squad. You lead. No questions. No failure. Kill when necessary. And remember..."
"Yes, sir?"
"You're a war dog. Use it."
Desmond stood, saluted, and left the office without another word.
No one dared touch him now. Those who once mocked and envied him fell silent. Before the high ranks, he was admired. An unstoppable force who risked it all not just for himself, but for others.
He walked like a force wall. Unshakable.
And so, Commander Desmond Fontclair was born.
Not out of honor.
Not out of glory.
But out of sheer survival and fury.