The grenade hit the ground with a dull metallic clink.
In an instant, every face on the field changed. Panic spread like wildfire, cutting through discipline and training as raw instinct took over. Only Locke remained where he stood, his expression calm, his eyes fixed on the grenade lying between them.
Almost reflexively, the recruits scattered. Some dove for cover, others sprinted in blind panic, boots kicking up dust as they fled. A few who were too close stumbled and fell in their desperation to escape.
Yet amid the chaos, two figures did not retreat.
Locke stood unmoving, as if the danger meant nothing to him. And beside the rolling wave of fleeing soldiers, a thin figure broke against the current—charging forward instead of away.
Under Locke's steady gaze, the young man lunged toward the grenade. He dropped to the ground without hesitation, clutching it tightly against his chest. Curling his body over it, he tried to shield everyone else with his own frail frame.
His eyes darted up, locking onto Locke, who still hadn't moved.
"Sir, run!" he shouted, his voice tight with urgency.
Fear was written all over his face, but his body only tightened further around the grenade, as if he could somehow absorb the blast himself. Every instinct in him screamed danger, yet he chose to stay.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
But the grenade never exploded.
The field slowly grew quiet again. One by one, soldiers lifted their heads, confusion replacing fear. Chester stared in disbelief at the young man still curled on the ground, bracing himself for an explosion that never came.
Carter's gaze shifted as well, her expression sharpening as she studied the thin recruit who hadn't moved, even now.
Around them, everyone stood frozen, watching him.
He was still shouting, still telling them to get away, still prepared to take the full force of a blast that would never come.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound of slow applause cut through the silence.
A faint smile appeared on Locke's face as he stepped forward. He walked straight up to the trembling figure, reaching down with one hand to grab his shoulder and pull him to his feet.
"Sir…" the young man murmured, still dazed.
His eyes dropped to the grenade in his arms, realization finally dawning. It hadn't exploded. It was never going to.
Locke's gaze flicked briefly to the badge on his chest before he spoke, his voice clear enough for everyone to hear.
"You did well, Steve."
The words shattered the stillness.
For a heartbeat, no one reacted. Then murmurs spread, quickly turning into agreement. Even the instructor, who had shown nothing but disdain before, found himself nodding, unable to deny what he had just witnessed.
Steve stood there, stunned.
Looking at the man in front of him—the war hero, the legend—he felt something crack open inside his chest. It was as if a beam of light had pierced through everything that had weighed him down.
Off to the side, Chester's expression shifted as well. He stepped forward, stopping beside Locke before raising his hand in a formal salute.
"I was wrong," he said simply.
Earlier, he had allowed the instructor's treatment of Steve. He had even silently agreed with it. But now, Locke's actions had made something unmistakably clear—what it truly meant to be a soldier.
Locke gave Steve's shoulder a light pat before stepping away, his attention turning to the instructor.
"There are always people who think the weak don't deserve respect," he said evenly. "People who judge value based only on appearances. That kind of thinking… is nothing but stupidity."
The words landed heavily.
The instructor lowered his head, unable to meet Locke's gaze. Around them, every eye turned toward him, the weight of judgment shifting.
"Major Hoss," Locke continued, his tone calm, almost casual. "Care to spar with me? I'm smaller than you. You've got a good chance of winning."
A ripple of excitement swept through the gathered soldiers. Whispers broke out instantly—everyone wanted to see it. The admiration in Steve's eyes burned even brighter now, impossible to hide.
Hoss stared at the man in front of him, momentarily stunned. He could feel the attention of everyone around him, the pressure building. Embarrassment flared, quickly followed by something hotter—something sharper.
Pride.
He glanced at Locke's frame, then at his own powerful build. A thought crept into his mind, impossible to ignore.
What if… he actually won?
"Major Hoss, stand down," Chester snapped, sensing where this might go.
But Locke raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Colonel Chester, I'll allow it," he said. "One-on-one."
He lifted his hand slightly, curling his fingers in a silent invitation.
Hoss's hesitation snapped.
With a sudden step forward, he threw a heavy punch straight at Locke's head.
Gasps broke out.
But in the next moment, Locke tilted his head slightly to the side, the movement so subtle it almost seemed effortless. The punch passed harmlessly by, missing him by inches.
Hoss's eyes flickered.
He didn't stop.
Clenching his teeth, he launched into a flurry of strikes—fast, aggressive, relentless. Fists cut through the air in rapid succession, each one aimed with precision and force.
Yet Locke barely moved.
A slight sway here. A small shift there. Every attack slipped past him as if he had seen it all before.
Hoss pressed harder, stepping in with a powerful kick that carried a sharp whistle of wind.
Locke stepped back, avoiding it cleanly.
The difference was becoming obvious.
Still, Hoss refused to stop. He surged forward again, determined to overwhelm him.
Locke watched him calmly.
"Major Hoss," he said, his voice carrying even as he moved, "I let you attack for a while. Now… it's my turn."
In the same instant, his eyes sharpened.
Then he moved.
To everyone watching, it happened too fast.
Locke's fist cut forward, slipping through Hoss's guard as if it wasn't even there. It drove straight into his jaw with brutal precision.
A single strike.
Hoss's eyes rolled back instantly. His massive body lifted off the ground, launched upward by the force before crashing down hard onto the dirt.
The impact echoed.
Silence fell.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The man who had been considered one of the best fighters in the camp had been completely overwhelmed. He hadn't landed a single hit. He hadn't even come close.
And then he was down.
One punch.
Knockout.
Shock rippled through the crowd. Some soldiers stood frozen, mouths slightly open, unable to process what they had just seen.
"Is… is that really the only combat hero in the U.S. Army?" someone whispered.
The next moment, the silence shattered into deafening cheers.
Voices rose all around, filled with excitement and awe. Even Steve couldn't hold back, his eyes locked onto Locke with pure admiration.
Chester and the other officers exchanged looks, their expressions filled with respect.
"As expected," Chester said, stepping forward, "Colonel Locke—the fastest-promoted man in U.S. military history."
He didn't even spare a glance at Hoss lying unconscious on the ground as he walked past him.
Locke simply shook his head.
"This wasn't about humiliating him," he said. "I just wanted to make one thing clear. Never underestimate someone who has ambition… and a reason to fight."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted.
It passed over the cheering soldiers and settled quietly on Steve.
Steve, who was already looking at him.
The soldiers around them seemed to sense it. One by one, they stepped aside, creating a clear path. A few who had mocked Steve earlier approached him awkwardly, offering apologies.
Everyone understood now.
Colonel Locke valued him.
And that alone was enough to change everything.
As the recruits were dismissed and returned to their dormitories, a group of soldiers carried the unconscious Hoss away on a stretcher toward the medical center.
Locke remained where he was for a moment longer.
Watching.
Steve turned back more than once as he walked away, unable to stop himself.
Locke smiled faintly.
This… was exactly the result he wanted.