Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1003 The Importance of Basic Training

Dawn in North Darfur.

The sky was a cold, pale white, the thin dawn light unable to pierce the stagnant chill of the Gobi Desert.

The training base of "Musician" Defense Company, which lay like a steel behemoth on the wasteland, had long been awakened by a primitive and frenzied roar.

More than five thousand hearts pounded to the rapid drumbeats, converging into a low, suppressed hum.

At the base entrance, chaos reigned like a boiling sandstorm vortex.

The pickup truck engine roared at the top of its lungs, kicking up clouds of yellow dust.

Soldiers dressed in faded camouflage, tribal robes, or even tattered civilian clothes surged in from all directions like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

Their faces were etched with the deep lines of a long journey, their eyes sunken, but deep in their pupils burned the ecstasy of finding a home and the undying flames of revenge—these were remnants of Haftar's forces who had been scattered and fled from the devastating betrayal in the desert city, following the faint call from the radio, crossing the Sahara Desert, and traversing the border to gather at the "Musician" defense training base in North Darfur.

The temporary tent area, like rapidly spreading moss, was bustling with noise, and the air was thick with the smells of sweat, dust, cheap tobacco, and a primal restlessness for the impending storm.

Five thousand people!
This is Haftar's last trump card for a comeback.

In stark contrast to the hustle and bustle outside, the core training area of ​​the base was filled with a deathly silence, as solid as steel.

This place is guarded by 127 veterans who survived the Battle of Razorback.

They arrived earlier than these remnants, received basic training earlier, and were uniformly dressed in brand-new desert digital camouflage training uniforms, which were starched and washed to perfection, with meticulous attention to detail in their personal belongings.

At this moment, their role is that of discipline inspectors.

These veterans, like silent boundary markers, stood solemnly at the edge of the training ground, ten meters apart, in the most standard armed guard posture.

The training ground is enormous, large enough to accommodate thousands of people training at the same time.

The leveled sandy ground was marked with clear white lime lines, dividing it into several huge squares.

In the distance, there are the nascent ruins of a simulated town and a crisscrossing network of tactical trenches.

At this moment, on the high platform at the very front of the venue, two figures stood like pillars of strength.

Song Heping, dressed in an unmarked olive-green training uniform, stood with his hands behind his back, calmly looking down at the crowd below, which was gradually gathering and surging like a giant sardine can.

Half a step to his side stood Jiang Feng—a former instructor of a training brigade of an elite PLA group army.

"Quiet--!"

Jiang Feng spoke.

The voice wasn't loud, and was even a little hoarse, but it was like an ice spike carrying the cold air of Siberia, instantly piercing through the buzzing sound of thousands of people and clearly penetrating everyone's eardrums!

Without an amplifier, it's purely the chest resonance and breath control honed through years of rigorous training.

This sound caused the pupils of many veterans who had once prided themselves on their bravery to suddenly contract.

"stand at attention--!"

The commands were short, cold, and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.

The reactions from the audience instantly revealed the true nature of this "army".

The veterans of Razorback, who had already undergone a week of training, were suddenly lifted up as if by invisible threads. Heels together, knees straight, chests out, chins slightly tucked in. The 127 men moved in perfect unison, instantly freezing into a silent steel forest.

The thousands of newly arrived soldiers were like a disturbed swarm of sand lizards—some looked around blankly, some subconsciously straightened their already hunched backs, and most continued to whisper and murmur among themselves. Their ranks were crooked and undulating, like a patch of lifeless withered grass ravaged by a storm.

Jiang Feng's brows remained unmoved, but the temperature of his eyes plummeted by ten degrees, becoming so cold it could freeze the air.

"It seems..."

His voice was filled with undisguised, metallic mockery: "You guys haven't even had the ability to stand up straight, you've all wasted your time feeding the dogs in Desert City!"

He took a step forward, and the invisible pressure spread like a tangible force: "From this day forward, you are no longer bandits with guns, deserters, or tribal thugs! You are warriors under General Haftar, about to return to Leviathan and wash away your shame with blood and fire! Warriors must have the backbone of warriors! The bones of warriors!"

“Everyone has——!”

His voice suddenly rose, booming like thunder, "Military posture training! One hour! The goal—to stand like the veterans on the sidelines! Stand like a rock in the Gobi Desert, unyielding to the wind and sun! Anyone who moves—extra training! Anyone who falls—eliminated! Get out of this base!"

The command, like a cold iron hammer, struck down relentlessly, leaving no room for doubt or compromise. There was no explanation, no mobilization, only the most primal, tedious, and yet most demanding crucible for forging will and obedience—the queue.

The two infantry regiments, which had been pre-assigned by Song Heping, quickly mobilized more than 5,000 men.

The veterans who received the earliest training are like the most precise gears, and have long been assigned to key positions at all levels as core backbones.

The elite mercenaries of the "Musician" defense were appointed as regimental commanders, battalion commanders, and company commanders of the training regiments.

At this moment, under the stern reprimands and rough shoving of officers at all levels and veterans, the huge and chaotic crowd began to be forcibly stuffed into the designated square formations.

The blazing sun climbed into the sky, and the temperature began to rise relentlessly.

The surface temperature of the Gobi Desert is soaring at a visible rate, and the scorching heat waves distort the air.

More than 5,000 people were like ants forced onto a red-hot iron plate.

Sweat poured from every pore almost instantly, soaking through the thin training uniform, flowing down the cheeks, neck, and back into murky streams, dripping onto the scorching sand with a barely audible hissing sound.

My muscles started trembling and aching uncontrollably, my knees felt like they were filled with lead, and my vision blurred.

In less than ten minutes, visible ripples began to appear on the huge square formation.

Some people's shoulders slumped, some secretly wiggled their numb toes, some swayed their bodies slightly in an attempt to relieve the pain, and some had unfocused eyes, trying to fight against their body's instinctive reactions with willpower.

Jiang Feng stood on the high platform, like a cold god overlooking a swarm of ants. He didn't need binoculars; his eagle eyes were like a high-precision scanner.

"First Regiment! Third Battalion, Second Company! Third Platoon! Seventh and Ninth Rows! Is your back collapsed or are your bones broken?! Ten more minutes of extra training!"

His voice was like a precise scalpel, instantly cutting through the noisy air and pinpointing the target.

More than a hundred veterans from Razorback, who had been waiting in the wings and wore bright red "military inspector" armbands, rushed into the formation with expressionless faces, like a pack of wolves that had smelled blood.

Their movements were swift, precise, and irresistible. They roughly dragged those unlucky guys, whose faces turned ashen in an instant, out of the line and threw them into the "punishment zone" specially marked at the edge of the field.

"Report! It's too hot! We can't stand it! We're here to learn how to kill, not to learn how to be used as wooden stakes!"

A burly man with a face full of scars and arms tattooed with ferocious tribal totems finally erupted. His name was Musa, and he had once been the top henchman of a large tribal armed force. After the civil war, he joined Haftar's forces and had long been accustomed to the previous life of a scattered soldier in the military camp.

His roar was particularly jarring in the deathly silent training ground, instantly attracting thousands of eyes.

Jiang Feng's gaze, like two cold laser beams, instantly focused on Musa's distorted face, and the air seemed to freeze.

"Name?" The voice was eerily calm.

“Musa!” the burly man said defiantly, his neck stiff.

"Musa! Step forward!" The command was concise and unwavering.

Musa, panting heavily, pushed away the people trying to pull him away, strode out of the formation, stood in the open space in front of the square, and stared at the high platform.

"Too hot?"

Jiang Feng's lips seemed to twitch slightly, but it was definitely not a smile. "Very good. You have backbone."

He raised his hand and pointed to the dusty cross-country track that surrounded the entire core training ground in the distance, a track that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

"See that road? Fully armed! Carry 20 kilograms of gear! 10 kilometers! Now! Immediately! Run!"

He paused, his voice like poisoned ice: "If you can't finish the run, or stop halfway, then take your 'stubbornness' and get out of the base! Go wherever you want! This place has no place for 'warriors' who can't even stand properly!"

Musa's face flushed red instantly, and he still wanted to argue.

Two razorback veterans with red armbands appeared like ghosts beside him, their cold AK barrels pressed against his lower back, seemingly intentionally or unintentionally.

A flicker of fear and humiliation crossed Musa's eyes. Finally, under the gaze of thousands of eyes, he let out a furious growl, slung the sand-filled tactical backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and staggered toward the seemingly endless runway.

The heavy footsteps and labored breathing became the most jarring background noise on the training field at that moment.

Making an example of someone to deter others has an immediate and effective result.

The entire formation seemed to be pressed down hard by an invisible giant hand, instantly tensing up.

The swaying soldier struggled to straighten his back, his eyes darting around as he stared intently at the back of his comrade's head in front of him.

No one dared to utter a sound; only heavy breathing and the sound of sweat dripping mingled under the scorching sun.

However, Jiang Feng's hell was only just beginning to heat up.

His eagle eyes never stopped scanning. As time went on, more and more subtle violations were caught: slightly slumped shoulders, slightly bent knees, unfocused eyes, slightly twitching fingers...

Every target caught could not escape his cold and precise roll call and the subsequent sentence of "ten minutes of extra training".

The number of people being pulled out of the queue and thrown into the punishment zone increased rapidly, like a snowball rolling downhill.

An hour of standing at attention on the scorching Gobi Desert, under Jiang Feng's tireless "eagle eye" and the ruthless "arrest" by the Razorback Military Police, felt like an incredibly long four hours.

When the piercing whistle finally signaled the end of the first phase, nearly two hundred people were already standing in the punishment zone!

They all looked as if they had been pulled out of the water, their faces were either deathly pale or flushed, their legs were trembling like leaves, and their eyes were filled with fear, exhaustion, and bewilderment.

"Discipline zone! Everyone, please!"

Jiang Feng's voice was devoid of warmth or even the slightest fluctuation: "You are lucky to still have a chance to prove that you are not trash!"

He pointed to Musa's tiny figure still struggling to run in the distance, and to the dusty track:

"Fully armed! Carry 20 kilograms of weight! Target—keep up with him! Run! Run until you fall, or until the sun is high in the sky! Begin!"

The two hundred people instantly erupted in chaos! Cries of agony, protests, and pleas for mercy filled the air. But the disciplinary officers of Razorback, like cold machines, mercilessly began distributing heavy sandbag backpacks, roughly shoving them into their arms, and using rifle butts and tactical batons to drive them toward the track.

Anyone who tried to resist was immediately tackled to the ground by several disciplinary officers, who punched and kicked them, then dragged them to the starting point like dead dogs before kicking them away.

A brutal "death run" has begun.

Two hundred soldiers, carrying weights far exceeding their current physical limits, staggered and ran across the scorching sand.

Heavy footsteps, labored breathing like a broken bellows, suppressed sobs, and painful groans replaced the previous deathly silence.

The scorching sun relentlessly baked them, each grain of sand feeling like red-hot iron filings, burning the soles of their feet.

Sweat stung my eyes, blurring my vision. My lungs ached as if they were being torn apart, and every breath tasted of blood.

Time ticked by. The disciplinary team, which had started as a chaotic run, quickly became longer and more scattered.

People kept falling down, struggling to get up, running a few steps, and then falling down again.

Some people began to vomit, and yellowish-green bile mixed with undigested food residue splattered onto the scalding sand.

Someone clutched their cramped leg, curled up in pain and wailed, and was immediately dragged to the side of the track by the discipline team, declared "eliminated," stripped of their equipment, left with only a bottle of water, and left to die in despair.

The spots in the disciplinary zone are being ruthlessly emptied.

On the high platform, General Haftar appeared beside Song Heping at some point.

His brows furrowed as he looked down at the hellish scene below, especially the soldiers struggling, vomiting, and even fainting on the runway. His eyes were filled with complex confusion and a hint of barely perceptible heartache.

These were, after all, his only remaining seeds.

"Mr. Song..."

Haftar hesitated before speaking, his voice tinged with confusion, “I understand the necessity of basic training. But… we’re pressed for time, only three months. Learning shooting, tactics, and hand-to-hand combat—these skills for killing the enemy—is the top priority. What’s the point of this… this standing at attention, and making soldiers run until they’re exhausted under the scorching sun? It seems… a waste of precious time?”

He pointed to a soldier who had just fainted and was being dragged away at the edge of the punishment zone.

Song Heping's gaze remained fixed on the training ground, watching the veterans with razor-sharp backs standing like javelins under the scorching sun, watching the figures struggling on the disciplinary track, and watching the new recruits in the formation who, although tired, were clearly much more tense.

He slowly began, “General, you have hit the nail on the head.”

He turned his head to look at Haftar, his eyes deep.

"In the PLA, the army I once served in, there are three main regulations: the Internal Service Regulations, the Discipline Regulations, and the Drill Regulations. These are the cornerstones of all combat effectiveness, even more important than shooting and tactics. Why?"

He pointed downwards.

"Look at them now, how are they different from before?"

Haftar looked in that direction.

Although some people were still swaying, the tilt of the entire formation was significantly reduced. The soldiers subconsciously straightened their backs, and their eyes became more focused. At least they were all trying to look ahead instead of looking around.

An invisible, faint but real "qi" seems to be gathering.

"Drill training may seem tedious and useless, but it is the first step in forging the soul of an army!"

Song Heping said in a resolute tone: "This kind of basic training forges discipline! Obedience! The instinct to obey orders! It's a furnace that forcibly twists scattered individual will into a single rope!"

Do you know what African armies lack most?

Song Heping sighed, then looked up at the sky and answered his own question.

"It's not the weapons, nor the soldiers' bravery. It's discipline!"

He paused, his gaze sharp as a knife: "And the rigorous, almost cruel, drill training and housekeeping requirements start from the smallest details, from the most basic movements like standing, walking, and lying down, to hammer discipline, obedience, and perseverance into their very bones, like hammering nails with a hammer! Grinding away their banditry, laziness, and undiscipline!"

He suddenly changed the subject, his tone laced with a chilling dark humor: "General, do you think we're the only ones like this? Look at the US military at its peak. Soldiers' shoes had to be polished so clean they could be used as mirrors! Even a little dust on the boots could get an officer dismissed on the spot! You think they cared about the shine? No! What they cared about was constantly reminding their soldiers through these almost obsessive details: Discipline! Discipline! And more discipline! Any oversight in the details is a fatal flaw on the battlefield! An army that can't even clean its own boots, expecting them to remain calm and orderly in the midst of gunfire? That's wishful thinking!"

As Haftar listened, the confusion on his face gradually gave way to a solemn and thoughtful expression.

He looked down at the soldiers gritting their teeth and persevering in the ranks, at the people falling and being dragged away on the track, and at the razor-sharp veterans who stood as still as rocks. He seemed to understand something.

This seemingly useless "standing at attention" and this brutal "running until dizzy" are actually forging the most core and most difficult-to-obtain backbone and soul of an army!

"Understood, Mr. Song."

Haftar took a deep breath, his eyes hardening. "I was naive... From today onwards, I will no longer concern myself with training. My men... are all in your hands."

Song Heping nodded slightly, his gaze returning to the training ground.

On the penalty track, Musa's figure had disappeared into the heatwave on the horizon; it was unclear whether he had finished the race or collapsed somewhere.

Meanwhile, in the arena, the flames of the first tempering were just reaching their peak.

This is only the first day, just the first step in honing our skills—using the fire of discipline to burn away all impurities and forge the most basic shape of the army.

The real "hell" was yet to come, and there were only three months left—just the time it takes for a new recruit to get to his unit. It was far too tight.

　Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)