The trumpet blast came at 04:30 — thirty minutes earlier than scheduled.
Aiden jolted awake to the sound of canvas flapping, men scrambling, boots thudding against the muddy ground.
"OUT OF YOUR BUNKS! MOVE, YOU SACKS OF BONES!"
"ON THE FIELD IN THIRTY SECONDS OR YOU'RE DEAD WEIGHT!"
Aiden rolled off his cot, body screaming.
His arms felt like rebar hammered into his skin.
His legs shook with every step.
His ribs throbbed under the bruises from the drone blast.
But he moved.
Everyone moved.
The sergeants didn't wait to see if anyone lagged.
"LINE UP! DRESS RIGHT, DRESS! EYES FRONT!"
Someone puked.
Someone fainted.
A sergeant dragged them out of formation like trash.
"THE ALIENS DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE TIRED!"
"RUNNERS TO THE FRONT! COWARDS TO THE BACK!"
"WE'LL MAKE SOLDIERS OUT OF YOU OR WE'LL BURY YOU!"
Aiden's throat felt like dust.
His lungs burned.
His heartbeat drummed behind his eyes.
But he stayed standing.
Barely.
"GO! GO! GO!"
They sprinted toward the obstacle course — a monstrous sprawl of walls, pits, mud dunes, razor wire, and rope climbs.
Aiden slammed into the first wall.
His hands slipped in the mud, but he forced himself up and over, landing hard on the other side.
Screaming echoed around him.
"MOVE!"
"PULL HER UP! DON'T LET GO!"
"KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN!"
"CRAWL, YOU MAGGOTS!"
The razor-wire crawl felt endless.
Mud filled Aiden's nose and mouth.
Stones cut into his knees.
Someone behind him cried out as the wire tore a gash across their shoulder.
A sergeant paced above them on the wooden platform.
"FEEL THAT PAIN?" he barked. "THAT'S WEAKNESS LEAVING YOUR BODY!"
A faint voice whispered behind Aiden, "Then why does it feel like I'm dying…"
The sergeant heard it.
He crouched down and bellowed, "BECAUSE YOU ARE DYING! YOU DIE A LITTLE LESS IF YOU MOVE FASTER!"
Aiden crawled harder, pushing through the burning in his ribs.
On the rope climb, his arms nearly gave out.
He hung there for a moment, trembling, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Then the System spoke quietly inside his skull.
[Phase Two active.]
[Neural adaptation: improving grip efficiency 12%.]
[Muscle response: improving pulling strength 8%.]
Aiden gritted his teeth — and pushed.
He climbed.
Faster.
Stronger.
Not easily, not gracefully, but with raw desperation.
He slapped the top of the tower and slid down the rope, legs shaking but still working.
Next came squad drills sprinting, taking cover, yelling commands, reloading rifles under pressure.
"MOVE LIKE YOU'RE BEING SHOT AT — BECAUSE YOU WILL BE!"
"WATCH YOUR SECTOR! KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN!"
"IF YOU POINT THAT BARREL AT A FRIEND AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY SHOVE IT—"
"YES DRILL SERGEANT!"
Aiden dropped behind a barrier, slammed in an empty magazine, racked the charging handle, and peeked out.
"GOOD!" a sergeant shouted. "YOU HAVE THE INSTINCT OF SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T WANT TO DIE! THAT'S A START!"
His partner, a young man named Parker, fumbled his reload and dropped his mag into the mud.
"Shit! Shit—!"
"PICK IT UP!"
"I can't—!"
"PICK IT UP, OR I'LL BURY YOU IN THIS MUD!"
Parker scrambled desperately, tears mixing with dirt.
Aiden grabbed the mag and shoved it into his hands. "Do it again. Faster."
Parker nodded, trembling.
"Thanks," he whispered.
Aiden didn't answer.
There wasn't time for kindness.
But he felt it.
These weren't soldiers.
These were normal people.
And they were breaking.
"PAIR UP!"
They lined up on the combat mats more mud than mat and began drills.
Punching. Blocking. Grappling.
Rolling on the ground until bruises blossomed on bruises.
Aiden faced a recruit twice his size.
He took a shoulder to the ribs and nearly collapsed.
[Structural damage minimal.]
[Recommend shifting weight left before impact.]
"NOT NOW—!" Aiden hissed internally, then immediately took a fist across the jaw.
The sergeant barked, "PAIN IS A TEACHER, RECRUIT! IF YOU WON'T LISTEN TO ME, LISTEN TO THAT!"
Aiden staggered then stepped back in with a straight jab.
SMACK.
The big recruit stumbled.
The sergeant's voice cracked with surprised approval.
"That's it! HIT BACK! THEY'RE NOT GODS THEY'RE TARGETS!"
Aiden panted, sweat burning down his face.
His body was breaking.
But he wasn't.
Not yet.
The rifles were old, scratched, battered.
But still effective.
"LOAD!"
"FIRE!"
"AGAIN!"
"FASTER!"
"RELOAD WITHOUT LOOKING!"
"YOU THINK ALIENS WILL WAIT WHILE YOU FIGURE OUT WHICH WAY THE MAG GOES?!"
Gunshots cracked the air.
Aiden's shoulder bruised after thirty rounds.
After sixty, it felt shattered.
After a hundred, he could barely lift the weapon.
But he kept firing.
[Neural adaptation: recoil compensation improving 6%.]
He exhaled, steadied the rifle.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The shots tightened.
Not perfect.
But better.
The sergeant grinned a wolfish, brutal grin.
"Oh yeah," he said quietly. "You're starting to look like soldiers."
By late afternoon, the sun hung low and red like a dying star.
Recruits collapsed on their knees, sucking air.
One sobbed openly.
One curled into a ball refusing to move.
Another vomited until he collapsed.
Aiden lay on his back, chest rising in ragged breaths.
Everything hurt.
Everything.
The System pulsed.
[User condition: Extreme fatigue.]
[Improvement markers: Significant.]
[Recommendation: Consume calories. Hydrate. Rest window approaching.]
"Rest… sounds good," Aiden muttered, barely conscious.
The mess hall was a massive tent with floodlights and folding tables.
Food was ladled out mechanically protein mush, bread, water, vitamins.
Aiden sat with Parker, another recruit named Ellis, and a trembling woman named Sarah.
No one talked at first.
They were too tired to speak.
Then the screens flickered on.
A broadcast.
Global.
The room quieted instantly.
Anchor appeared, wearing a ballistic vest over her clean shirt.
"This is the Emergency Response Network," she began.
Her voice was steady, but her eyes were dead with exhaustion.
"Here are the updates as of 2000 hours."
Everyone leaned in.
Aiden felt his stomach twist.
"Lost cities:"
She took a breath.
"Warsaw. St. Louis. Johannesburg. Kyoto. Vancouver. Manila."
A murmur spread like a cold wind.
"Partially overrun."
"Paris. Mumbai. Beijing. Mexico City. Nairobi."
Sarah's spoon froze mid-air.
"Recovered sectors."
She looked at the screen, as if making sure she was reading correctly.
"Soldiers from the African Union and Brazilian forces retook the Port of Lagos."
"And a combined American–Canadian strike force recovered fifteen blocks of downtown Vancouver."
"In Europe, a Polish–German coalition pushed the aliens out of the Vistula Bridge."
Small victories.
But victories nonetheless.
Aiden exhaled not relief, exactly but something close.
Then the anchor continued, her voice darkening.
"Casualties today. Estimated between 600,000 and 1.2 million worldwide."
A plate clattered to the floor.
Parker whispered, "Oh God…"
Aiden's chest tightened.
His family flashed across his mind.
Then all the families that hadn't survived today.
The anchor forced her voice steady.
"This is the most devastating day in human history."
The screen cut to black
No one ate after that.
No one spoke.
No one moved for a long time.
Finally, Aiden stood, trembling, exhausted, but burning inside.
"We train tomorrow," he said softly.
Sarah looked at him with hollow eyes. "What's the point…?"
Aiden clenched his fists.
"The point," he said, voice low but firm, "is that someone out there is dying right now, buying us the time to be ready."
His voice shook with fury and determination.
"We don't waste that."
They looked at him tired, broken, scared.
But they nodded.
Not because they believed they'd win.
But because they understood.
The war wasn't coming.
It was here.
And they were the line.