Opening the door, Casia saw the cracked wall, where sheets of printed paper—covered with dense black text—were still wedged in place.
He didn't bother washing first. He emptied the remaining water in his kettle and, while drinking, skimmed through most of the instruction documents in his hand.
Pulling out a chair, he sat down, massaging his throbbing forehead. Then, word by word, he read through the contents.
The title was simple: "Third-Star Academy First Real Combat Training Notice". Yet the contents were far from brief. For Casia, accustomed to the military academy's minimalist style, the level of detail—including precise rules, task divisions, and operational instructions—was unprecedented.
Perhaps it was because the academy had compressed the usual five-year program into three years. He considered that normally, attrition rates for freshmen were already high, and now, with condensed training, even the progressive real-combat curriculum had to skip some adaptation stages. To ease the psychological burden on new students and help them survive, the academy had modified the typical task style for this round.
Senior students had said that in previous real-combat courses, the academy only issued orders—no intelligence, aside from necessary transportation, equipment, or falsified identities. How to approach, plan, and execute the mission was entirely up to the students, which led to high failure rates in early missions.
This compromise—providing detailed guidance—was likely reserved only for newly enrolled students.
"Random teammates, random missions, but difficulty levels are within the same range. Of course, exceptions exist for individual top-tier students," Casia murmured, setting the printout aside and lying down. "So the academy will assign some elite students solo missions to accelerate growth. The squads are likely composed of top-ranking students, with tasks tailored according to individual strength and development speed."
Equipment, ammunition, cold weapons—all mission-related resources required personal application. Students could choose what suited them best, cultivating personal specialties in the process. Thinking this over, Casia finally shrugged off his clothes and stepped into the shower.
The notice had put every Third-Star Academy student into an excited frenzy. The surgery's enhancements had shown everyone a glimpse of a bright future. Past training scores could no longer fully reflect personal strength; only real-world performance would provide an accurate measure. This first real-combat training represented the chance for every student to demonstrate their true abilities.
Post-shower, the departure time had arrived. Ye Jielin knocked promptly at the door.
The physical training arenas were shaped like elongated centipedes, with temperature gradients artificially controlled. Students trained endurance, camouflage, and various combat techniques within tolerable temperature ranges. Occasionally, they were sent for manual labor—helping with construction, carrying steel beams, and other heavy materials—a method long praised among students for developing human physical potential. Carrying half-ton steel in temperatures from −50°C to −70°C was grueling, but no other training matched the load it placed on the body.
Casia, already accustomed to manual labor from his steam factory days, welcomed this method. His current priority was building his physical foundation; the more challenging the training, the more the inhibitory tubes limited him.
He had previously controlled latent rejection reactions according to Sucalius' methods, briefly boosting all bodily functions. Yet such sudden power was difficult to manage—what Sucalius called a "runaway" rather than an "enhancement." Now, precise control was Casia's goal.
The Branko Mountains were perpetually shrouded in clouds, the nights falling without warning. Back in his dorm, Casia felt as if he had no strength even to breathe. His heart pounded painfully, but as he rested, he could feel blood flow slowly returning to a calmer pace, thick and vibrant as red mercury.
Staring at the gray-blue ceiling, he memorized the intricate textures above. Rising, he felt thirsty, but his water bottle was empty, and the cup on his desk held only cold, dry air. Beside the cup lay a stack of new books, multiple times leafed through, and a sheet of white paper with the words "Will" written atop. Next to it rested a pen soaked in black ink; the page had remained pristine since his surgery, not even collecting dust.
"I guess it's time I write something," Casia muttered to himself, fetching water from Ye Jielin's room.
"Ye Jielin, have you finished your will?"
Only Casia could address her without the customary "Big Sister Lin" honorific. Atohwan had tried, but after a few beatings and failing to retaliate, he gave up.
Casia filled his cup and glanced at Ye Jielin, leaning against her bed, glasses on, engrossed in a book. She removed her glasses with a sigh and retrieved a folded piece of paper from beneath her books, tossing it to Casia.
Opening it, the top read "Will", but beneath were merely a few hastily scribbled words: "Avenge me."
"True to your style," Casia chuckled, returning it to the desk. Ye Jielin lay back down, warning him to close the door before immersing herself in her book again.
Back in his room, Casia sipped half a cup of warm water, soothing his throat. Unlike Ye Jielin, he hesitated for a moment before uncapping his pen. On the pristine white sheet, for the first time since his surgery, new words began to appear:
"To my beloved mother and sister Lilia, I have lived well in my lifetime. Please do not grieve for my death…"