The military academy's training grounds lit up at five in the morning.
The sky was not fully bright yet.
There were already people running on the field.
Boots struck the ground in steady rhythm.
Breathing rose and fell in waves.
An instructor stood by the track,
a timer in hand.
Each time a group crossed the finish line,
he glanced up once,
then wrote a number on the board.
Life at the academy was never easy.
Physical training.
Tactics.
Weapons.
Theory.
Every course was tightly scheduled.
Cadets trained every day.
No one was an exception.
On the other side of the field,
hand-to-hand combat class had just begun.
Dozens of cadets stood in rows.
They wore training uniforms.
Protective wraps covered their arms.
The instructor stood at the front.
"Begin."
At the command,
everyone moved at once.
Punches.
Elbows.
Throws.
One motion after another.
The sound of bodies colliding echoed across the field.
Many were already drenched in sweat.
Their breathing grew heavier.
But training did not stop.
The instructor walked back and forth.
Occasionally stopping
to correct a movement—
or simply throwing someone to the ground himself.
Combat training never showed mercy.
If a movement was wrong,
the instructor would demonstrate.
Most of the time,
that demonstration meant slamming someone down.
But at the center of the field,
there was always a space left open.
Two people stood there.
One was the instructor.
The other—a cadet.
"Begin,"
the instructor said.
The next second, he moved.
A punch shot straight toward the cadet's chest.
Fast.
But the cadet was faster.
A shift of the body.
An arm raised.
Block.
Counter.
Clean.
No wasted motion.
The instructor struck again.
The cadet stepped back half a step.
Shoulders turned.
He caught the wrist,
pressed down,
used the momentum—
Throw.
The instructor was pulled off balance for a moment,
but quickly stabilized.
They separated again.
Around them,
the other cadets had stopped.
They were watching.
A few seconds later,
the instructor stopped.
He looked at the young man in front of him.
Silent for a moment.
Then he turned to the recorder.
"Hand-to-hand combat."
"Full marks."
The recorder nodded
and wrote it down.
Joseph Kane.
Combat.
Full marks.
—
The shooting range was on the other side.
Long lanes stretched into the distance.
Metal targets stood in neat rows.
The air carried a faint smell of gunpowder.
Cadets stepped into position one by one.
Load.
Raise.
Aim.
Gunshots rang out continuously.
Targets were replaced one after another.
The shooting instructor stood behind them.
After each round, he checked the results.
Many targets showed good scores.
Nine.
Ten.
Occasionally an eight.
But at the farthest lane,
one target was taken down.
The instructor looked at it—
and stopped.
The entire target
had only one hole.
Every bullet had hit the exact same spot.
He stared for a moment,
then placed the target on the table.
"Shooting," he said.
"Full marks."
The recorder wrote again.
Joseph Kane.
Shooting.
Full marks.
—
The hardest course in the academy
was not physical training.
Nor weapons.
It was strategic command.
A large simulation room.
A massive electronic map covered the wall.
Tactical models filled the tables.
Cadets were divided into groups.
Each would take turns as commander.
They had to complete deployments within a limited time.
Enemy and allied forces.
Terrain.
Supply lines.
Communications.
Everything had to be considered.
The instructor sat behind them,
observing.
Many cadets grew tense in this class.
One wrong judgment
could cost the entire exercise.
And failure meant lower scores.
That day's simulation lasted a long time.
Red and blue markers moved constantly.
Commanders rotated.
The situation kept shifting.
Until the final round.
A new cadet took the command position.
The young man stood by the table.
He looked at the map.
He didn't speak immediately.
A few seconds later,
he moved several unit markers.
Then said:
"Advance."
The exercise continued.
Models shifted across the table.
The instructor watched silently.
Time passed.
Finally,
the system produced the result.
Blue side victory.
The instructor stood up.
Looked at the board.
"Strategic command."
"Full marks."
The recorder wrote again.
Joseph Kane.
Strategy.
Full marks.
—
When the final results were posted,
the sheet was pinned to the main hall board.
Cadets gathered around.
Some checked rankings.
Some searched for their names.
Soon, someone noticed the top line.
Combat.
Full marks.
Shooting.
Full marks.
Strategy.
Full marks.
Only one name.
Joseph Kane.
Someone whispered,
"Perfect scores?"
The person next to him glanced over.
Said nothing.
But many remembered that name.
—
Time passed.
Graduation.
Orders were sent to various units.
One of them
went to a border outpost.
—
Mornings at the border were always quiet.
The air carried a damp chill.
Fog slowly spread from the depths of the forest.
Barbed wire fences blurred in the mist.
Several gray barracks stood side by side.
Rough walls.
Old metal roofs.
A flagpole stood in the center.
The flag moved slowly.
The outpost was small.
A row of dormitories.
A warehouse.
A duty room.
An office.
Thirty soldiers were stationed there.
Their daily tasks were simple.
Patrol.
Guard duty.
Record keeping.
Most of the time,
nothing happened.
—
Inside the office.
A window half open.
A man sat at a desk.
A stack of documents lay before him.
An ashtray sat beside them—
already filled with cigarette butts.
He looked about thirty.
Sun-darkened skin.
Fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
A cigarette rested between his fingers.
He took a slow drag.
Exhaled.
"My name is Mike,"
he said quietly.
"Deputy platoon leader at the border outpost."
He had been here for many years.
Long enough
to recognize even the sound of the wind.
He looked out the window.
In the yard,
soldiers were checking equipment.
Some cleaned rifles.
Some inspected magazines.
Unhurried.
Then—
An engine sound in the distance.
Coming from the direction of the forest.
Getting closer.
Mike looked up.
A military truck appeared on the dirt road.
Wheels crushed gravel.
Dust rose slowly.
The truck drove into the outpost.
The guard opened the gate.
It stopped in the center of the yard.
The engine shut off.
Silence returned.
The door opened.
A young officer jumped down.
Uniform neat.
Posture straight.
His movements were steady—
like someone accustomed to military life.
Mike watched from the window.
Said nothing.
The soldiers also looked toward the center.
The young officer stood there.
Calm gaze.
He looked over the outpost.
Said nothing.
The fog still drifted slowly through the yard.
The border morning remained quiet.
The new platoon leader had arrived.