The training ground in the early morning was cold.
The gray surface was pressed flat, fine gravel spread evenly across it.
When boots stepped on it, a faint friction sound emerged.
Low.
Stretched by the wide-open space, then quickly swallowed by the air.
The entire ground looked like a single slab of stone.
Straight lines.
No excess marks.
The formation was already set.
Row after row.
Horizontal and vertical lines perfectly aligned.
Shoulders nearly at the same height.
Equal distance between every person.
The morning air was damp and cold.
Breath lingered briefly between nose and lips before dispersing.
A command rang out.
Short.
Clean.
Everyone moved at once.
Boots lifted.
Fell.
The rhythm was as steady as a machine.
Footsteps formed a uniform vibration across the ground,
like a straight line extending into the distance.
Iosef stood in the front row, to the right.
Back straight.
Shoulders steady.
His gaze rested on the flagpole in the distance.
The flag swayed slowly.
The wind was weak, but enough to produce a faint rustling sound.
This kind of life—
he had been used to it since childhood.
The Kain family was a military lineage.
His grandfather was an officer.
His father too.
Generations before them had also worn uniforms.
The corridor at home was long.
The walls were covered with photographs.
Black and white.
Color.
The sizes were not identical,
but they were arranged with perfect precision.
Every gap consistent.
The men in the photos almost all wore uniforms.
Epaulettes.
Medals.
Caps.
Some stood at the center of formations.
Some beside armored vehicles.
Some in front of military flags.
They all stood straight.
Serious expressions.
No smiles.
No hesitation.
As if they already knew where they belonged.
Those photos had always been there.
Silently watching those who came after.
No one ever told Iosef he had to become a soldier.
But it felt like the only path.
The house was always quiet.
There were many servants.
But few spoke.
They walked lightly.
Footsteps barely audible on the carpet.
Occasionally, someone would pass from the other end of the corridor.
If they saw Iosef, they would pause, slightly lower their head, then leave quickly.
At first, he didn't understand.
Later, he got used to it.
They were avoiding him.
Not out of hostility.
But instinct.
The dining hall was large.
The table long.
The wooden surface polished smooth, reflecting soft light.
His father sat at the head.
Tableware was arranged precisely.
Knife.
Fork.
Plate.
Glass.
Everything had a fixed position.
Meals were almost silent.
Only occasional faint contact sounds.
Servants approached at the right moments—
replacing plates,
adding food.
But they never lingered.
Once done, they left immediately.
No conversation.
No laughter.
The entire room felt like a disciplined meeting chamber.
The atmosphere at home resembled a military camp.
Iosef began training at a very young age.
Physical conditioning.
Endurance.
Discipline.
His father was extremely strict.
Time was divided into fixed segments.
Morning training.
Morning classes.
Afternoon conditioning.
Each had standards.
If a movement was inaccurate,
he had to repeat it.
Many times.
Until it met the requirement.
But the Kain family had another tradition.
Martial arts.
Even though modern warfare relied on firearms,
the family believed—
The body was fundamental.
Weapons were only tools.
The person must be strong.
So from a young age,
Iosef had a private martial arts instructor.
An older man.
Hair already graying.
Movements extremely steady.
He spoke little.
Training was usually in the backyard.
There was a wooden floor.
Polished repeatedly.
Firm underfoot.
Minimal decoration.
A simple rack held wooden practice weapons and protective gear.
Each session lasted a long time.
At first—basics.
Stance.
Feet apart.
Center of gravity lowered.
Breathing steady.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Footwork.
Forward.
Back.
Side.
Iosef repeated movements again and again.
Sweat slid down his forehead.
Fell onto the wood.
Occasionally, the instructor corrected him.
"Relax the shoulders."
"Tighten the waist."
"Again."
His voice was low.
Never angry.
If the stance was unstable,
he started over.
One day.
Two days.
One month.
One year.
This training continued for years.
His body stabilized.
Muscle strength became balanced.
Steps grew steady.
Movements smoother.
He rarely failed.
At least in training.
At ten years old,
everything changed.
That day was oppressive.
The air pressed down.
Clouds hung low.
Almost no wind.
Training proceeded as usual.
The instructor had him repeat a basic sequence.
Steps.
Weight shift.
Strike.
At first, everything felt normal.
Breathing steady.
Steps stable.
But minutes later—
Something felt wrong.
A strange pressure spread from his chest outward.
Like something pulling down.
The air grew heavy.
The instructor noticed immediately.
He stepped forward.
"Stop."
Iosef didn't stop.
His body kept moving.
But it grew heavier.
The ground seemed to pull him down.
The air pressed like stone.
The instructor frowned.
"Iosef."
The moment the name left his mouth—
Gravity lost control.
A dull shock spread across the ground.
The air compressed.
The instructor's body dropped violently.
His knees slammed into the floor.
Wood cracked.
His entire body was pressed down.
Breathing became difficult instantly.
Iosef stood still.
Eyes open.
But consciousness unstable.
The air grew heavier.
Objects began to sink.
A flowerpot shattered.
Table legs bent.
Wood creaked.
The instructor tried to rise.
Failed.
Bones made disturbing sounds.
Servants panicked.
Some shouted.
Some ran.
No one dared approach.
Gravity kept increasing.
The air became a crushing weight.
Then—
A gunshot split the air.
Bang.
Clear.
Iosef's body jerked.
His vision shifted slowly.
Toward the far end of the yard.
His father stood there.
Gun raised.
Pointed at the sky.
Smoke lingered.
His expression was severe.
His voice cut through the yard.
Low.
Suppressing anger.
"Get a hold of yourself."
Iosef said nothing.
Breathing heavy.
His father continued.
Each word like an आदेश.
"Control your ability."
A pause.
Then—
"Not the other way around."
Silence.
Iosef's awareness slowly returned.
The pressure weakened.
The ground stopped sinking.
The air normalized.
The instructor lay on the ground.
Breathing hard.
Ribs visibly deformed.
But alive.
Only then did the servants approach.
A stretcher.
A doctor.
The chaos lasted a long time.
After that day, everything changed.
Iosef had awakened his ability.
Gravity control.
The atmosphere at home grew colder.
Servants avoided him even more.
In the corridor, if they saw him,
they turned away immediately.
Conversations stopped when he approached.
It was no longer just respect.
It was fear.
Iosef said nothing.
He continued training.
Physical.
Ability control.
His father became stricter.
Loss of control could not happen again.
The ability had to be controlled.
Suppressed.
Commanded.
Years passed.
One night—
Iosef returned from training.
The corridor was quiet.
Lights steady.
As he passed the study,
he heard voices inside.
His grandfather.
His father.
The door wasn't fully closed.
He didn't stop.
But the voices carried out.
His grandfather sighed.
Softly.
"This generation…"
A pause.
"No chance for a general again."
His father didn't answer immediately.
Silence.
Then—
"Ability users are suppressed in rank."
Another sigh.
"The military doesn't trust uncontrollable power."
The corridor was silent.
Iosef stood still.
Didn't speak.
After a few seconds—
He walked on.
Steps steady.
Unchanged.
On the training ground,
commands rang out again.
His thoughts returned.
The formation remained perfect.
Boots struck the ground in unison.
Same rhythm.
A soldier's life never changed.
Discipline.
Orders.
Execution.