Winter mornings always make people long for their warm beds, unwilling to rise.
But reality has no mercy.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The deafening clang of the bells shattered the quiet, followed by a piercing whistle that tore through the dormitories. Startled recruits bolted upright, faces dazed, before panic kicked in.
They weren't civilians anymore. They were soldiers of the training corps.
"Levington! Get up, you'll be late!" Ellis shook his friend with desperation. His mind echoed with the warning of the dorm supervisor: anyone late to morning assembly runs five laps around the square.
One lap—one thousand meters. Five laps—five thousand. A punishment that bordered on torture.
The rest of the room erupted in chaos—uniforms tugged on crooked, boots half-laced, recruits scrambling in blind panic.
The instructor by the door only shook his head. This was, without doubt, the sloppiest batch of cadets he had ever seen.
…except for one.
The bed beside Levington's was perfectly made. The blanket folded with military precision, cup and pillow aligned, nothing out of place. Its owner had risen an hour before assembly, dressed neatly, eaten a light breakfast, and gone out to run laps—by his own choice.
The instructor couldn't hide his amazement. Fourteen years old, and already more disciplined than the rest combined. He runs himself ragged, yet his eyes burn with something fierce. Why?
This was supposed to be a peaceful age. Why did this boy fight as if tomorrow might never come?
Out in the square, the cold air cut like blades.
"Hah… hah…"
Lock's breath came hard, every inhale scraping his throat raw, every exhale burning in the winter frost. His clothes clung to him, drenched in sweat despite the cold, his steps heavy as lead. Yet he pressed on, forcing himself through the final lap.
At last, staggering to a stop, he slowed to recover. And then it came:
Ding. Winter run complete. Distance: 13,002.356 meters. Willpower +1. Endurance +1.
A tired smile tugged at his lips. Exhaustion forgotten, he basked in the sweet confirmation. Immediate reward, direct growth—effort was never wasted.
People didn't truly fear hardship. They feared working for nothing.
As he stretched, other recruits arriving at the square stared at him with thinly veiled dread. To them, Lock was a monster. Who punished themselves like this—and smiled while doing it?
They whispered among themselves. Pervert. Freak. Does he enjoy suffering?
Lock ignored them, greeting Ellis with a nod before taking his place in line.
The instructor arrived soon after—not Erwin, but a stocky middle-aged man in uniform.
"I am Klaus Radner, your direct instructor," he announced, voice sharp. "From today onward, I'll be responsible for your training."
His eyes swept across the gathered recruits like knives, pausing on the stragglers who had arrived late. Disgust filled his gaze.
"Pathetic. The first morning assembly, and half of you can't even arrive on time. In this corps, there are rules. Those who were late—five laps. No breakfast until you finish. Everyone else, dismissed until breakfast is over. Training starts immediately after."
He turned on his heel without another word.
Lock noticed the way Klaus's eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. Meaningful. As if Erwin had already spoken to him.
Watching the man's bald head retreat, Lock touched his thick hair unconsciously. Thank God I'm not bald.
The punishment was brutal. The latecomers dragged their feet into their laps, stomachs growling, knowing they wouldn't see food until their punishment was done.
The training corps existed to feed the three branches of the military, and its program reflected that. Marches, endurance drills, horseback riding, lectures, weapon assembly, swordplay, hand-to-hand, and above all—maneuver gear training.
The omnidirectional mobility gear was the cornerstone. Without it, a soldier was nothing but Titan fodder. And learning to use it began here, with the simplest but harshest test: balance.
To balance upright under the pull of the gear's twin cables meant passing. To fail was to wash out.
Everyone knew it. Failure here meant every sacrifice so far was wasted.
The recruits gathered, faces tight with nerves.
And Lock?
Lock stepped forward first, shoulders squared, eyes steady.
It was time.
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