The students were visibly tense, a sheen of sweat already forming on a few foreheads despite the early hour. Combat training at Paragon wasn't a matter of simple drills—it was a crucible. As the most prestigious academy across all disciplines, Paragon held no sympathy for the weak. If anyone fell behind, they wouldn't slow the pace. No, they'd raise the bar higher, forcing the rest to ascend or be crushed under the weight of expectation.
In a twisted way, that was a good thing. Like torn muscle fibers healing stronger, relentless hardship forged resilience. At least, that held true for humans. Other species adapted differently—some accelerated their growth through unique forms of exertion, rapidly boosting specific stats. And as for me? There was no way I'd waste time on tedious endurance training... not when I could simply regenerate.
A sudden tremor rolled beneath our feet, silencing every thought. The roof above us split open with mechanical precision, and a twenty-two-foot-tall man plummeted into the open field, landing with a seismic thud in the middle of the formation.
Dust and debris swirled as the impact rattled our bones.
He stood fully clad in deep green imperial officer attire, a thick cigar clenched between his teeth, exhaling plumes of smoke that coiled like serpents around his towering frame. I couldn't make out his rank at first—the haze was too dense—but everything else about him spoke volumes: the weight of his presence, the way the very air grew heavier as he straightened his back... this man was a Sergeant. I was certain of it.
"On your feet!" he barked, his voice a physical force that knocked us out of our stupor.
Those who had been thrown off balance scrambled upright, instinctively backing away to give him space. When the smoke began to clear, my guess was confirmed. Though he wasn't a proper member of the Second-Class Army yet—he only carried an S-rank badge—it was obvious that rank was the only thing holding him back.
His black cape billowed as he moved, revealing dozens of tight, careful sewings—medals of honor stitched directly into the fabric. His green eyes scanned us like a blacksmith inspecting raw ore, and after a slow, heavy pause, he shook his head in disappointment.
"I don't think skipping endurance training is an option," Moriarty muttered under his breath.
The towering figure stepped forward, each footfall heavy with authority.
"From now on, you will address me as Sergeant Rex—or simply Sergeant," he declared, his voice gravelly and commanding. "I will be your combat training instructor for this semester... and for the ones that follow."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the rows of students. The silence grew tense, brittle.
"Let me make one thing clear right from the start—I have no mercy for anyone who can't keep up with my training schedules. If I catch you slacking off... you'll be thrown onto an apocalyptic planet with no supplies for ten days. Whether you survive or not is none of my concern."
A few students shifted nervously. Someone in the back stifled a gulp.
"And for those of you doubting whether I have the authority to send you that far for that long... allow me to remind you—even soldiers under the Second-Class Army of the Emperor have the clearance to authorize solo expedition missions."
His words echoed like iron doors slamming shut. The threat wasn't a bluff. It was procedure.
"How is an S-rank serving under the Second-Class Army?" someone blurted out from the crowd, too loudly and too shocked to filter their voice.
Sergeant Rex didn't seem offended—if anything, he welcomed the question with a rare flicker of patience.
"As long as you train properly, you won't have to worry about things like rank," he replied. "All you need is confidence in your own abilities. Keep pushing yourself, and maybe one day you'll be able to fight above your rank as well, young man."
Then the moment passed.
"Now drop down wherever you are and give me a hundred push-ups. If I hear so much as a grunt, a pant, or any other pathetic sound—you all start over from the beginning."
No one dared to argue. Silently, we followed his command. His eyes swept the field like a hawk, sharp and unblinking. No one escaped his scrutiny.
And then, his gaze locked onto our direction.
"You!" he barked suddenly. "Why do you have a pet that isn't doing push-ups? Start over—all of you!"
I clenched my jaw. Looking at him might've made things worse, so I simply turned to Wally and let him hop off my shoulder.
He clanked down beside me and began mimicking our movements, his metal arms stretching out stiffly.
Why the hell does he want a robot to do push-ups?
"Now tell me your names one by one, according to your roll numbers," Sergeant Rex ordered, pulling out a clipboard with a pen clipped to it. "If anyone tries to sneak in a sound during the roll call—all of you start over."
He wasn't bluffing. His expression was as flat and cold as forged steel.
Thankfully, no one was foolish enough to test him. Not a whisper escaped—until someone sneezed.
The dry dust clinging to the floor had finally claimed a victim.
"That's how enemies figure out your location!" Rex roared, snapping his board shut. "The next thing that blows is your head! Start over!"
And so we did. Again.
By the time the roll call was finally completed, most of us had already done over seven hundred push-ups. You'd think he might offer a water break—or at least a moment to catch our breath—but no.
Instead, he raised his voice and pointed at the perimeter of the training hall.
"On your feet! Run a hundred laps around the room—now!"
Groans tried to escape but were bitten down.
"And the same rules apply," he warned. "Fall or trip, and you'll be finishing the rest hanging off someone else's shoulders. Never leave your comrades behind in battle. Save those you can. Is that clear?!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" we shouted in unison, voices hoarse but defiant.
Somewhere around the middle of the laps, Samuel's legs buckled. His momentum faltered, and he was just about to hit the ground—until Moriarty caught him mid-stumble, throwing Samuel's arm over his shoulder and continuing the run without missing a step.
Samuel opened his mouth to say something, breath ragged.
Moriarty shook his head, eyes forward. Don't speak.
Samuel got the message instantly.
The exercise dragged on, though this time Sergeant Rex only made us run three hundred laps—only, as if that made it merciful. Still, compared to the last trial, it was a small blessing.
When it finally ended, many of us immediately switched to manual breathing techniques, trying to slow our heartbeats and regain control. No one had been given permission to do so, but at that point, survival trumped formality.
"Alright," Sergeant Rex said, voice as sharp and unbending as ever. "Get some rest for a few minutes. We'll start the next one soon."
He didn't need to say anything more. At those words, nearly everyone collapsed where they stood, hitting the ground like falling trees—bodies limp, breath heaving, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
"Alright, time's up. Gather around," Sergeant Rex ordered, glancing at his pocket watch before slipping it back into his coat.
We formed a loose semi-circle around him without a word. The short break had been enough to catch our breath and regain just enough stamina to keep going.
"This seems to be your current limit," he said, scanning our worn-out faces. "Given that you're all still C-ranks, I expected as much. So, we'll now move on to weapon training. Grab a training weapon—all of you!"
We followed without hesitation, each person picking out their preferred armament from the racks lining the walls. The selection was impressive—everything from swords, spears, and hammers to ranged weapons that fired non-lethal rounds. There were even staves and enchanted rods set aside for witches and wizards.
As we returned to our places, weapons in hand, Sergeant Rex stepped forward.
"Now, you might be thinking I'll teach you how to use your weapon of choice—and you'd be right," he said. "But before that, we begin with the most important step. One that applies to all of you, regardless of weapon."
He took a breath, planting his feet firmly in demonstration.
"Footwork. The very foundation of combat. Your stance decides everything. Lose control of your footing, and you've already lost the fight."
His gaze sharpened as he paced.
"For melee fighters, it's how you control your center of gravity. For ranged fighters, it improves your aim. For spellcasters, it stabilizes your focus and strengthens your casting posture. No matter what path you take, it begins with the ground beneath your feet."
He smirked faintly—a rare expression from him. Something that none of us felt great about.
"Now then... shall we begin?"