They gathered their gear quickly, the earlier calm of lunch evaporating as the weight of what came next settled over everyone. The hallway outside the classroom buzzed with nervous energy boots scuffing the floor, straps being tightened, quiet breaths drawn a little too deep. Jacob adjusted the sleeve around his leg where the wound had been, testing it. It held. The ache was there, but it no longer owned him.
Sergeant Walker didn't rush them.
He waited.
Only when everyone stood ready did he turn and start down the corridor, his pace steady and deliberate. The group followed, forming a loose line as they moved deeper into the facility. The reinforced halls grew wider, the lighting brighter, the air cooler. The hum beneath the floor intensified, vibrating faintly through Jacob's boots.
They passed several sealed doors marked with warning symbols and clearance codes before Walker stopped in front of a massive set of double doors.
"Training Room Alpha," he said. "This is where most of you will learn if you have what is takes to survive
The doors slid open.
The space beyond was enormous.
The training room stretched out like a hangar, its ceiling rising several stories high. The floor was made of reinforced composite plating, scuffed and scratched from past use. Thick padded sections bordered certain areas, while others were left bare and unforgiving. Along the walls stood weapon racks, storage lockers, and sealed crates marked with hazard warnings. Observation windows lined the upper levels, dark and unreadable.
At the far end of the room stood several large shapes hidden beneath heavy tarps.
Jacob's stomach tightened.
"Line up," Walker ordered.
They did, forming a rough row across the floor.
"Before we get to weapons or abilities," Walker said, pacing in front of them, "you learn how to move. How to stand. How to hit without breaking yourself in the process."
He stopped and turned sharply.
"Fighting isn't about strength. It's about balance, timing, and intent."
Walker demonstrated, shifting his stance. One foot slid back slightly, knees bent, weight evenly distributed.
"This is your base," he said. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. You lock your knees, you fall. You fall, you die."
He gestured for them to copy him.
Jacob adjusted his footing, instinctively settling into the stance. It felt... familiar. Not comfortable but right.
Walker moved down the line, correcting people with sharp taps to shoulders and legs.
"Too wide."
"Too stiff."
"You're leaning forward stop inviting the ground to hit you."
When he reached Jacob, he paused.
"Hm," Walker muttered. "Better than most."
Jacob didn't respond, but he felt Lucas glance at him from the side.
"Next," Walker said, stepping back, "striking."
He raised his fists, showing a basic guard.
"You don't swing wildly. Ever. Power comes from rotation, not arms."
He demonstrated a punch-short, precise, devastatingly fast.
"Again," he said, repeating it slower. "Hips turn first. Shoulder follows. Arm is last."
They practiced. Over and over.
Jacob felt sweat begin to form as his muscles burned, but something clicked. Each movement felt more natural the more he repeated it. Nearby, a few others were keeping pace Lucas among them, jaw clenched in focus, movements rough but improving.
Not everyone adapted as quickly.
Some stumbled. Some overextended. One trainee lost balance and hit the mat hard.
Walker didn't mock them.
He just watched.
"Pain teaches faster than words," he said calmly.
After striking came defense.
"Blocking isn't stopping force," Walker explained. "It's redirecting it."
He demonstrated simple parries, turning imaginary blows aside rather than meeting them head-on.
"Meet force with force and you lose," he said. "Angle matters. Always."
They paired up.
Jacob ended up across from a taller trainee whose hands shook slightly.
"Just go slow," Jacob said quietly.
They practiced blocks, then counters. Jacob adjusted instinctively, reading movement rather than reacting to it.
Next came conditioning.
"Drop," Walker ordered.
Groans echoed as everyone hit the floor.
"Push-ups. Fifty."
Someone protested. Walker ignored it.
By thirty, arms shook. By forty, breathing turned ragged. Jacob pushed through, teeth clenched, finishing just ahead of most. A handful of others finished close behind him.
Walker took note.
"Endurance matters," he said. "When your arms fail, technique fails. When technique fails, you die."
After a short water break shorter than anyone wanted Walker turned toward the tarps.
"Now," he said, "you meet your enemies."
He grabbed the edge of the first tarp and yanked it free.
Beneath it stood a life-sized replica of a Scavenger.
The thing was horrifyingly accurate greenish skin, elongated limbs, twisted face locked in a permanent snarl. Its yellow eyes were glassy but unsettlingly real.
Several trainees recoiled.
"These are combat replicas," Walker said. "Built to simulate resistance, movement, and weak points."
He pulled another tarp away.
Then another.
Scavengers. A winged Sky Reaper replica suspended on cables. A crouched Night Stalker form half-hidden in shadow.
"You don't fight air," Walker said. "You fight shapes, angles, and openings."
He motioned to the Scavenger.
"Target the joints," he said. "Show me."
One by one, trainees stepped forward, striking the replicas under Walker's guidance. Some hesitated. Some hit too softly. Some struck wildly.
Jacob stepped up when called.
He moved without thinking.
A low strike to the knee. A follow-up to the elbow. A controlled blow to the side of the head.
The replica jolted, systems reacting to the impacts.
Walker nodded once.
"Good. Efficient."
Lucas went next. His movements weren't as clean, but his intent was there. He overcommitted on the first strike, corrected himself on the second, and finished strong.
"Better," Walker said. "You learn fast."
They rotated through drills approaching, striking, disengaging. Over and over. Sweat soaked clothing. Muscles screamed. Breath came in harsh bursts.
By the time Walker finally raised a hand to stop them, everyone was exhausted.
"This," he said, voice echoing in the vast room, "is only the beginning."
He looked at them—truly looked.
"Some of you will adapt. Some of you won't. That's reality."
His eyes lingered briefly on Jacob, then Lucas, then a few others who had stood out.
"But effort matters," Walker continued. "And today, you earned the right to come back tomorrow."
No one cheered.
No one smiled.
But as they stood there, battered and breathing hard, Jacob felt something he hadn't felt since before the world ended.
Purpose.