Chapter 3: Orders, Not choices

“Wake-up is at 0500. You’ll be at formation by 0530. Your uniform better be crisp, your shoes better reflect light, and your face better not show anything but focus.”

That’s what General Jiang told me the night before I was shipped off to National Defense Preparatory Academy. No hug. No smile. Just orders.

The SUV dropped me at the front gates at sunrise. Two other cadets—both male, both silent—were already standing at attention. The gates opened without fanfare. Just the sound of boots on concrete.

This wasn’t a normal school.

This was a pipeline to military command.

You either followed the system, or you got crushed under it.

Orientation and Observation

The academy looked like a fortress: stone walls, four-story dormitories, training fields stretching out into mist, and buildings numbered instead of named. Blocky, cold, functional.

A woman in a tailored black uniform met us at the entrance. Major Li. No expression, no wasted words.

“You are not here to be comfortable,” she said. “You are here to become useful.”

She handed us our schedules—color-coded, brutal. Weapons theory. Strategic logic. Field movement. National protocol. Leadership labs.

And a block of something called Psychological Discipline Training.

I frowned. What did that mean?

“You will each be assigned a counselor,” Major Li said. “You will report weekly. Emotional control is just as vital as physical stamina.”

Or just another way to keep us quiet, I thought.

Inside the Dorm

My dorm was shared. Two bunks. A sink. A steel locker. No mirrors. No privacy.

My roommate was already inside—boots off, flipping through a notebook. She looked up as I entered and her eyes widened for a split second. Then narrowed.

“You’re Jiang Lanying,” she said.

I kept my expression neutral. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “You cut your hair.”

I hadn’t.

The girl—Tan Wei—smirked and got up. She was shorter than me, sharper around the eyes. Confident.

“We had classes together last semester,” she said. “You never talked. Always sat in the back. Scared of everything. Fainted during live fire practice.”

I didn’t respond.

Now she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “What happened to you, Jiang?”

“What do you mean?”

“You walk different. Your eyes don’t look like they want to disappear anymore.”

She studied me for another beat. “I liked the old one. She was easy to beat.”

The First Test

The next morning, we had our first assessment: endurance run, combat drills, and shooting test.

I made it through the run middle of the pack. Not impressive—but not weak. I was still adjusting to this body, still learning its limits.

In hand-to-hand drills, I slipped once. Not because I couldn’t fight, but because I hesitated. I wasn’t used to sparring with teenagers. They weren’t playing.

“Again,” the instructor barked.

This time, I didn’t hold back. I dropped my opponent in two moves. Quick. Efficient.

People stared.

At the shooting range, I picked up the Glock 19, exhaled, and fired five rounds.

Center mass. Tight cluster. Muscle memory I didn’t expect to have in this body.

Someone behind me muttered, “That’s not the same Jiang.”

Counseling Room 3B

I was summoned to “psych discipline” that afternoon.

Room 3B was empty except for a table, two chairs, and a man in civilian clothes with a laptop and unreadable face. Dr. Yan.

He didn’t stand when I entered. Just nodded. “Sit down, Lanying.”

He clicked open my file. Scanned it. Spoke without looking up.

“You fell down a flight of stairs. Hospitalized with head trauma. Coma for two days. Memory loss reported.”