Eli stood at attention, his boots planted firmly on the frozen ground, the wind slicing through his uniform like a jagged blade. The Bernard Empire was rich, powerful, unstoppable—but it was cold. Not just in weather, but in everything.
"Move, you sack of shit!"
The Sergeant stalked the line of recruits like a hunting dog, his sharp eyes tearing through them, searching for weakness. He was a wiry bastard with a voice like gravel and a face carved from stone.
"Do you think the enemy will wait for you to warm your delicate little balls?!" The Sergeant spat, stopping in front of a shivering recruit. "Pathetic. Get down and give me twenty, you whimpering sack of rat-piss."
The poor bastard dropped to the ground, arms trembling as he pushed through the punishment. Eli kept his face blank, his muscles locked. Any sign of weakness and Vos would be on him next.
