No announcement was made.
There never was.
Hell Week didn't begin with a speech or a countdown. It began with confusion—because confusion was the point.
0207 hours.
The alarms went off.
Sirens screamed through the compound, cutting into half-formed dreams. Floodlights ignited outside the barracks, white and merciless.
"Instructor! Instructor!"
The doors slammed open.
"GET OUT. NOW."
Li Chen was already moving.
They ran barefoot.
Cold concrete. Broken rhythm. Sand grinding into skin.
Some recruits stumbled.
Others cursed.
One fell and didn't get back up until a boot found his ribs.
Li Chen adjusted his stride to avoid collisions. He didn't help. He didn't hinder. Hell Week wasn't about kindness.
It was about endurance.
The beach swallowed them whole.
Waves crashed hard, violent and relentless. The tide was high, the water freezing enough to numb bone within seconds.
"In the surf!"
They went in.
Cold shock ripped through nervous systems. Men screamed without meaning to. Muscles locked. Breath fled.
Li Chen stepped forward and submerged fully.
The water closed over his head.
Darkness.
Silence.
His pulse slowed.
[System Status: Alert — Environmental Stress Detected]
He dismissed it.
They linked arms.
Surf torture.
Waves smashed into their chests, stealing breath, dragging bodies sideways. Time lost shape.
Minutes stretched.
Hours blurred.
Men shook violently, lips blue, eyes unfocused.
Li Chen stayed centered.
He regulated heat loss. Controlled shivering. Adjusted posture to minimize drag.
Grant watched from the shoreline.
"He's still thinking," Grant said.
"That won't last," another instructor replied.
Grant didn't answer.
They pulled them out just before hypothermia crossed the irreversible line.
Straight into movement.
Log PT again.
Heavier logs.
No teams this time.
"Overhead," Grant ordered.
Arms screamed.
Spines bent.
Men collapsed.
Li Chen lifted.
The log didn't rise easily—not because he couldn't lift it, but because he limited himself. Kept his output within human tolerances.
Still, the log steadied.
Grant's eyes narrowed.
Sleep deprivation set in by the first night.
Two hours.
Then none.
Tasks layered endlessly—navigation drills, carries, problem-solving puzzles designed to fail tired minds.
Li Chen watched men unravel.
One recruit laughed hysterically at nothing.
Another forgot his own name.
Li Chen felt the pull.
The fog at the edge of consciousness.
He tightened his focus.
[System Notice: Cognitive performance degradation detected]
[Recommendation: Partial compensation]
"No," Li Chen thought.
[Acknowledged]
The System paused longer than usual.
By day three, voices changed.
Instructors shouted less.
They didn't need to anymore.
The bell stood at the edge of the compound, brass and inviting.
Men stared at it.
One rang it.
Then another.
Each sound echoed like a gunshot.
Li Chen watched without judgment.
Grant approached him quietly.
"You hear it?" Grant asked.
"Yes, Chief."
"You thinking about it?"
"No, Chief."
Grant studied his face.
"You don't look tired."
"I am tired, Chief."
"But?"
"But I am still functional."
Grant laughed once.
"Hell of a line."
The breaking test came that night.
Open-ocean swim.
No lights.
No landmarks.
Just cold water and distance.
Men hesitated.
The whistle blew.
They went in.
The ocean was alive—currents pulling, waves rolling unpredictably. Panic took some immediately.
Li Chen swam.
Every movement economical.
He felt the current before it pulled. Adjusted angle. Let it carry him instead of fighting it.
A recruit to his left began to sink.
Arms flailing.
Li Chen shifted course.
He grabbed the man's vest, kicked harder, dragged him forward.
It cost energy.
He paid it willingly.
Grant watched through night optics.
"Why help?" someone asked.
Grant didn't answer.
They finished.
Not all of them.
The survivors collapsed onto the sand, bodies shaking uncontrollably.
Li Chen knelt, hands on thighs, breathing controlled.
Grant walked up slowly.
"You know what this week does?" Grant asked.
"Yes, Chief."
"What?"
"It removes excuses."
Grant stared at him for a long time.
Then nodded once.
That night—if it could be called night—Li Chen finally felt it.
The strain.
Not physical.
Something deeper.
The System flickered.
[Warning: User cognitive capacity exceeding monitoring thresholds]
[Adjusting internal parameters]
Li Chen's eyes opened.
Golden light reflected faintly in the dark.
"Keep up," he thought.
The System hesitated.
Then complied.
Hell Week wasn't over.
It had only just realized who it was dealing with.
And somewhere between the cold water and the endless pressure, something irreversible had begun.
Not his breaking.
His emergence