The explosion rang in Shakal's ears. The battlefield had been chaos—bullets slicing the air, fire eating up the night, men screaming over the radio. He remembered charging forward with his squad, barking orders like thunder. Then came the blast.
Darkness swallowed him.
When his eyes opened again, there were two suns overhead. The air was heavy, glowing, alive with an invisible force that pressed against his skin. Around him stretched mountains like swords piercing the sky, rivers glimmering like liquid silver. It was… another world.
Shakal groaned, pushing himself upright. His uniform was still torn and scorched, his boots caked with dust. "...This isn't my base. Unless command decided to upgrade the landscape with a fancy sun-lamp."
His soldier's instincts kicked in immediately. He scanned the terrain, hand twitching where his rifle should've been. "Unknown location. No comms. No squad. No ammo." His jaw tightened. "...Damn it. Alone again."
A sudden roar cut the silence.
Not far away, two robed figures clashed in mid-air—yes, in the air. One hurled fire from his palms, the other slashed with a glowing sword that cut through stone like paper. Their battle split the ground, leaving craters and smoking earth.
Shakal's eyes narrowed. "...The hell is this? Super-powered circus?"
The fire-wielder sneered as his opponent crashed to the ground. "Without proper cultivation, you're nothing but trash!"
The defeated one coughed blood, his voice trembling. "I'll train harder… I'll become stronger!"
Shakal muttered, "Cultivation? Strength? Power?" He studied their movements like a sniper watching targets—stance, breathing, footwork, control. His lips curled. "Sloppy. Wide open guard. Unsteady breathing. No discipline. On my battlefield, they'd be corpses."
The victor turned, finally noticing him. "Who dares spy on a cultivator duel?"
Shakal raised a brow. "Cultivator? You mean… picnic wrestlers with fireworks?"
Both stared. "Pic…nic? What technique is that?"
Shakal stepped forward, voice snapping like a whip. "You fools—are you doing a picnic here?! Stretch your body! Harden it until it won't break even if a god smashes it with a hammer!"
The boys blinked in confusion.
"What's a picnic?"
"Is… is he insulting us?"
Shakal marched toward them, his gaze like steel. "Your footwork is garbage, your breathing is chaos, and your body looks like it'll snap if the wind blows. In the army, I'd make you run fifty laps just for standing like that!"
The victor scoffed. "Fifty laps? Around the mountain?"
Shakal barked, "Make it a hundred!"
The loser, still groaning on the ground, raised a weak hand. "Uh… Instructor… what's a lap?"
Shakal's expression twitched. "...You don't even know what a lap is?" He slammed his palm against his forehead. "Heaven help me. I've landed in clown school."
The two cultivators exchanged nervous glances. Something about this man's voice, his stance, his sharp gaze—it made them obey before thinking.
"Alright," Shakal growled. "Lesson one: discipline. Cultivation without discipline is like firing a rifle blindfolded—you waste bullets and hit nothing. Lesson two: the body is your fortress. Build it so strong that even if gods strike, the walls won't fall. Lesson three—"
He jabbed a finger at them, voice booming. "Stop gasping like dying chickens. Breathe properly! In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it!"
They hesitated—then obeyed. And to their shock, their qi flowed smoother.
The loser's eyes widened. "Wh-what is this technique?"
Shakal snorted. "Technique? This is warm-up, rookie. You lot collapse after two flashy moves. In my world, we carried forty kilos and ran ten kilometers before breakfast!"
The victor's jaw tightened. "You… you must be a hidden master!"
"Hidden master, my ass," Shakal muttered, glaring. "I'm a soldier. Remember that. A soldier doesn't pray for strength—he trains for it."
Suddenly, a faint light surged in his vision.
[You have begun forming your own Cultivation Path: The Divine Battalion Method.]
[First Stage: Soldier's Foundation.]
Shakal froze, then let out a slow laugh. "Heh. Looks like this world comes with its own training logbook. Perfect."
He looked at the two shaken cultivators. His grin widened into something dangerous. "From now on, you two are my recruits. And if you don't like it, the exit is death. Now—drop and give me fifty push-ups. Move!"
Both groaned in despair, collapsing into the dirt.
"Instructor is a demon!"
"Why must we suffer like this?"
Shakal crossed his arms, watching them with a smirk. Another world. New soldiers. New battlefield. And if I play my cards right… a kingdom of my own.
The wind howled across the strange land as Shakal's voice thundered again.
"I am Shakal. I'll forge discipline into chaos. I'll build a divine land out of nothing. And this land—my Faguniya—will march over gods themselves."
Far above, in the divine arena of gods, unseen figures stirred.
"A mortal with no clan… teaching cultivation like war?" one murmured.
"Discipline as a path… this will be entertaining."
And thus began the legend of the Soldier God.