Curiosity about everything

The next day, I followed the old man to the training base. He handed me an application form and asked me to fill it out. I hesitated for a moment, then wrote down my details and signed it. That signature changed everything.

Soon after, I was officially enrolled in a three-month trainee program run by the Army. They gave me a place to stay, meals every day, and a small room of my own—something that felt like a luxury after being thrown out of my home. Before joining, I was warned: there would be five compulsory classes, the training would be intense, and discipline was non-negotiable. I accepted it all.

During one of the early classes, a fellow trainee struck up a conversation with me. Curious, he asked about my past. I told him bits of my story, about the incident that led me here. He asked the question everyone wanted to know: Who was behind it all?

I paused, then said, “It was his best friend.”

His eyes widened. “Then why didn’t he defend you? Why didn’t you clear your name to your parents?”

I looked away, trying to hide the pain. “They never believed me. Every time I went back home, they threw me out without listening. So I stopped trying. I kept quiet, not because I was weak, but because no one wanted to hear the truth.”

“Why didn’t you take action?” they asked again.

I gave a faint smile. “There’s still time. One day, he’ll face what he did to me.”

After that, I focused on the present. The first week of training was surprisingly smooth. I made a few friends, laughed a bit, and settled into the routine. The army, at first, felt like a game—tough but fun. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

But peace never lasts forever.

One afternoon, during a casual drill, a senior mocked me. “Came to the army without knowing what it really is, huh?” he sneered.

I snapped. “If you don’t know the truth, maybe don’t talk at all.”

He kept mocking me, crossing a line. I lost it. Words turned into yelling, then into fists. I hit him—hard. It escalated quickly. We were like two wild animals. His friend—another senior—joined in. Instead of stopping the fight, he took his junior’s side and attacked me.

It became brutal. Blood was spilled.

One of my batchmates, terrified, ran to the senior dorm base to call for help.

A strict instructor, known across the campus for his zero-tolerance policy, was in the middle of teaching a higher-grade class. His assistant—an upperclasswoman in a distinct blue-collared uniform—burst into the room, breathless.

“Sir! There’s a fight in the junior dorm. A girl and two boys. I couldn’t stop them.”

The teacher stood up immediately. “What dorm are they from?”

“Zero Group, Sir.”

The name alone shocked the room. Zero Group had a reputation for being the most unstable batch. In the military dorm hierarchy, H2 were upperclassmen, H1 their juniors. Batch A and C were general cadets, while Zero was… different.

The teacher rushed to the scene. When he arrived, the chaos had already reached its peak. I was bleeding from my lip, one boy had a black eye, and the other was holding his side in pain. The crowd scattered as soon as the instructor appeared.

His presence silenced everyone.

“Who started this?” he roared.

No one answered.

His eyes landed on me.

And that’s when everything truly began to change.

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