Once the basic disciplinary framework is forcibly established, physical and combat training comes crashing down on you.
Training schedules are planned down to the second, and sleep time is compressed to physiological limits.
Every day before dawn, the piercing bugle call would break through the camp, and the candidates had to complete their preparations within a specified time and begin the dozens of kilometers of cross-country running with heavy stone weights or metal poles on their backs.
What followed was endless obstacle courses, armed swimming, dizzying high-altitude rappelling, and survival training in extreme environments such as high temperature, extreme cold, vacuum, and toxic gas in specially designed cabins.
Their bodies were repeatedly pushed to the brink of collapse, and paleness, muscle spasms, and incessant vomiting became the norm.
The nutrient solutions and physical therapy provided by the Mechanic Church only maintained minimal physiological functions to ensure they didn't actually die, and then, after a brief recovery, they were pushed back into an even deeper abyss of suffering.
Combat skills training was equally brutal and efficient.
They began to systematically learn how to use various standard weapons—from the most basic combat knives and low-powered training bolt guns, to heavy explosive bolt guns that require extremely strong physiques to operate, and then to dangerous and precise plasma weapons and thermoelectric guns.
Despite using unsharpened training weapons and basic protective gear, fractures, internal bleeding, and severe contusions still occur frequently during sparring sessions.
The instructors, composed of experienced Black Templar veterans, stood like rocks at the edge of the field. Their cold gazes swept over each combat team, and they would never stop any combat within the "reasonable" range unless there was a clear deadly danger.
Here, failure not only means the pain of the moment, but also the possibility of missing key training periods during the recovery period, which could lead to eventual elimination.
In this cruel crucible, the three people's paths diverged drastically.
Kax felt as if he had returned to familiar territory.
The brutal survival rules of the bottom hive gave him an instinctive intuition for violence.
In close-quarters combat training, he moved with ghostly agility, his moves were cunning and ruthless, and he could always accurately find his opponent's weaknesses.
He learns to operate weapons very quickly, especially weapons like bolt guns that require a certain level of skill; he can master recoil control and firing rhythm in a very short time.
He could imitate the tactical movements demonstrated by the instructors almost perfectly after watching them only once, and he could even make almost instinctive on-the-spot responses in actual combat training.
His progress is astonishing, as if the art of combat is already ingrained in his genes, ready to be unleashed with just the right amount of pressure.
However, his lone wolf tendencies were exposed in team tactical drills that required close coordination. He often disrupted the overall formation by being too forward or ignoring coordination signals, which drew stern reprimands from the instructors and resentful looks from his teammates.
Cesare found that his once-proud aristocratic swordsmanship seemed impractical here.
During his first sparring session with a training combat knife, he was easily defeated by an opponent from Necromunda with a simple and fierce thrust. The humiliation and pain instantly brought him to his senses.
But he did not succumb to despair; the learning abilities and resource integration awareness he gained from his aristocratic education began to take effect.
He carefully observed every detail of the instructor's demonstration and meticulously recorded the characteristics, advantages, disadvantages, and applicable scenarios of different weapons.
His precise perception of the plasma weapon's overload critical point, and his rapid mastery of the effective range and diffusion range of the thermal gun, even earned him a rare "acceptable" evaluation from his instructor.
He viewed training as a technical challenge that had to be overcome, using his mind to compensate for the lack of physical instincts and combat experience. Although his progress was not as dazzling as Kax's, it was steady and solid.
Groom, on the other hand, faces the most difficult adaptation process.
His long years living in the Necromunda factory shaped his instinct to use force for production and collaboration, rather than for killing.
When he first held the training dagger to the "enemy's" throat, he hesitated noticeably and was countered by his opponent, who then sent a sharp pain through his ribs.
During the live-fire exercise, watching the human-shaped target in the distance being torn apart by explosive arrows, his stomach churned.
This instinctive aversion to acts that directly take lives made it extremely difficult for him in the early stages of combat training.
But he did not give up.
He regarded every training session and every shooting session as a process that had to be completed on an assembly line.
With his extraordinary physical strength and endurance, he forced himself to repeat every tedious tactical movement until it became muscle memory.
When he is knocked down during sparring due to hesitation, he will silently get up and get back into position.
His progress was slow and painful, sustained entirely by unwavering perseverance and a simple belief in carrying out orders to the end. Sweat often soaked through his training clothes, but the determination in his eyes never faded.
Elimination is silent yet omnipresent, like the persistent damp air in a training camp.
Some people broke down completely due to the increasing mental pressure. They once tried to climb over the electrified barbed wire in the middle of the night. Their figures flashed by under the searchlight and then disappeared forever into the shadows outside the camp, leaving only a brief silence when the instructors called roll the next morning.
Some people, having reached their physical limits, collapsed after a 60-kilometer full-load cross-country run, their cardiopulmonary function completely failing. They were then silently dragged away by waiting mechanical laborers, as if cleaning up a damaged piece of training equipment.
On the weapons handling field, candidates who are always a step behind in their reactions will have their number tags removed on the spot by the instructors, and a cold "lack of combat talent" will mark the end of their fate.
In the tactical simulation room, anyone who makes three fatal mistakes in a row on the simulated battlefield will be labeled as "lacking basic tactical thinking" and will sadly pack their meager belongings.
Sigismund would occasionally visit the training ground to observe.
When a five-man squad abandoned their wounded teammate in a simulated urban warfare exercise to gain a favorable position, the Black Templar Marshal went straight to the recorder and used his power armor-clad finger to draw a conspicuous red cross on the numbers of all the squad members.
"The Black Sanctuary needs sharp blades, but it will never tolerate a dagger stabbed in the back." His deep voice echoed across the arena, sending chills down the spines of every candidate.
Meanwhile, Osiris' monitoring network, like an invisible spider web, enveloped the entire training process.
Thousands of sensors capture each candidate's heart rate, muscle fatigue, and neural reaction speed in real time; every training result, every psychological assessment, and even who they sit at the same table in the mess hall or talk to in the barracks are all transformed into data streams and fed into his massive logic core.
He was searching for that perfect balance: exceptional physical ability must be paired with unwavering willpower, fighting instincts must be guided by tactical thinking, and obedience to orders must not stifle the leadership potential to make decisions at critical moments.
The sweat on the training field had long since evaporated, the bloodstains had been washed away, and the tears were insignificant.
The number of candidates steadily decreased like grains of sand in an hourglass: 3,127, 2,400, 1,500, 800... Behind each number was a dream that came to an abrupt end.
When the three-month training cycle finally came to an end, the team standing in the center of the training field had become so sparse that it was hard to tell.
Ultimately, only fifty people remained who passed all the rigorous tests and achieved the highest standard in every training subject.
They stood in the afterglow of the setting sun, their training uniforms tattered and worn, their exposed skin crisscrossed with old and new scars.
But their eyes are completely different from three months ago—the confusion, fear, or arrogance they felt when they first arrived have faded, replaced by a calmness that comes after a thousand trials, like a steel blade that has been tempered and tempered, its sharpness concealed but its edge hidden.
Their posture was as upright as a pine tree, and every subtle movement showed the coordination and strength that came from rigorous training.
These fifty people became the selected candidates.
They were allowed to shower, received eight hours of undisturbed sleep, and were provided with clean and tidy temporary uniforms and double the amount of food.
However, no one rejoiced at this; everyone understood that it was merely the calm before the storm.
The instructors remained silent about the upcoming arrangements, but this deliberate calm only deepened the unease in everyone's hearts.
They only knew that they had passed this stage of the test, but were completely unaware of the final trial that was about to begin and would determine their fate.
The atmosphere in the camp was heavy and oppressive, with everyone silently preparing to face the unknown challenge that would change their lives forever.