**Kira's Log, Supplemental**
**Republic Guardian Force Cadet – Class 2**
**Shire Valley Training Grounds recording**
**40 days after Rothgard's Fall**
**Sweat and sunrise. The body breaks. The mind remembers.**
The first pale rays of dawn crested the Black Spine peaks, painting the sky in soft rose and gold. The night's ethereal glow—the luminous forest vines and iridescent creepers that had lit the trees like living lanterns—had long since faded to a cool morning hush. Kira jogged at the front of Class 2's formation, twin tails swaying with each stride, foxkin lungs burning but refusing to falter. Forty recruits of Class 2 pounded the packed-earth track in ragged unison, boots thudding like distant thunder. Torin ran at her left shoulder, single tail flicking in rhythm, while Borin's broad form anchored the line a few paces back, his dwarven breathing steady as forge bellows.
Morning PT had become a ritual. Every dawn began with a punishing five-mile run at a pace that left even the strongest gasping, followed by calisthenics drawn straight from the old Marine and SEAL playbooks the instructors had imported. Push-ups until arms trembled, burpees that turned the ground slick with sweat, flutter kicks that set fire to every core muscle, and endless mountain climbers that made the legs feel like they belonged to someone else. The instructors moved among them like predators, voices sharp as whips, demanding impossible perfection. "Chest to the deck! No cheating the last inch! You think the Imperials will give you mercy for sloppy form?" One slip, one half-hearted rep, and the entire squad paid with extra sets.
Kira's mind drifted through the montage of the past seven days as her paws pounded the earth. History lessons in the afternoons were just as punishing in their own way. The instructors had laid bare the long, bloody record of Earth—centuries of kings and emperors squabbling over crowns and grudges while their people bled. The Punic Wars, where entire civilizations ground each other to dust over trade routes and pride. The Crusades, holy wars fought in the name of faith, yet fueled by greed and petty rivalries. One king didn't like another, so thousands marched to their deaths. It reminded her too much of Albion's own nobles—lords and counts constantly scheming for glory, station, or one more scrap of land, sending young men and women to die for their egos. The pettiness of it all left a bitter taste.
Yet the Americans were different. They spoke of war not as a path to glory or advancement, but as a grim professional duty. Do the job. Accomplish the mission. Come home to those you protect. No songs of heroic sacrifice, no chasing titles or honors through bloodshed. Just disciplined, efficient, deadly competence. It was both comforting and strangely alien.
The advanced tactics and squad maneuvers drilled into them each afternoon were a different kind of forge. The three classes were pitted against one another in non-lethal paint-round force-on-force drills. Class One's speed-focused scouts versus Class Two's balanced fire teams versus Class Three's heavy assault squads. The paint rounds stung like real hits, leaving vivid bruises and egos more battered than bodies. Instructors enforced discipline nearly religiously—every movement, every formation, every decision dissected with merciless precision. "Again! That flank was sloppy. You think the Imperials will wait while you sort your feet? Perfect or dead—your choice."
A low, throaty roar rolled across the field from the spaceport. Kira's ears perked as two VS-22 Jackel gunships lifted off in formation, their fusion-torch engines glowing blue-white as they climbed toward the mountains. Moments later, a flight of FS-64 Switchblades streaked overhead, forward-swept wings cutting the dawn sky like dark blades, contrails stretching behind them. The sight sent a shiver down her spine—reminders that the war beyond the valley was not paused for their training.
"Keep the cadence," the Class Two lead instructor barked from the side of the track, jogging backward with infuriating ease. "Eyes forward. No talking unless it's to curse the ground you're kissing next evolution."
Torin's breathing remained measured. "Albion trained us to run from dragons and shadows," he said quietly enough for only Kira to hear, "but nothing prepared me for this endless, deliberate breaking." Kira managed a tired grin despite the burn in her lungs. "Taylzfyr, you're telling me. But we're still here. Still running." Borin's deep voice rumbled from a few paces back. "Keep pushing, you two. The real test starts at breakfast."
The company rounded the final bend of the track, the manicured field opening up before them. The flagpole stood tall, the two banners snapping in the morning breeze. The barracks waited beyond, clean and waiting. But the instructors showed no mercy. "Form up for push-ups! Fifty! Now!"
The line dropped as one, the cool grass pressing against sweat-soaked uniforms. Kira's arms shook as she lowered herself, the burn in her shoulders a familiar friend after a week of this ritual. Torin matched her rep for rep. Across the field, Class One and Class Three were already forming up for their own evolutions, the competitive spirit the instructors cultivated hanging thick in the air.
By the time the company finished the final set and staggered toward the barracks for showers and breakfast, the sun had fully risen. Class One was already moving out for their own history block, while Class Three marched in the opposite direction. Kira fell into step with Torin and Borin as they approached the barracks doors.
Kira wiped sweat from her brow. "Another day," she murmured to Torin, voice low enough for only him to hear. "Another chance to prove we belong here." Torin's single tail flicked once in agreement. "We belong. The question is whether we survive long enough to matter." The doors opened. Clean uniforms waited. Hot food waited. And beyond the valley, the war waited.
The forge turned another revolution.