Military Calendar March 21, 2520, 0600 Hours
Epsilon Eridani system, Reach restricted military training zone
Before dawn, Reach’s wilderness was shrouded in a thin layer of mist.
In the distance, mountain ranges rose and fell like the spine of some colossal beast.
Black pine forests stretched from the mountainsides down to the valley floor, interspersed with silver streams and bottomless lakes.
The air was thick with the scent of pine resin and damp earth, broken occasionally by the brief calls of unknown birds.
This fifty-square-kilometer primeval forest had been designated a restricted military training zone by ONI, and no one had ever set foot here except for the Spartan-II Project.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez stood in the middle of a forest clearing, his silhouette in the morning mist standing like an iron pillar.
The candidates lined up in two rows before him, each face bearing the quiet hardness of those selected.
They were only twelve years old, but their eyes held nothing that belonged to twelve-year-olds.
“The second exercise,” Mendez said, his voice flat and unyielding, like a slab of stone.
“The rules are the same as the first. A seventy-two-hour team engagement. Eliminating all members of the opposing side constitutes victory. A hit on the torso with a paintball gun counts as killed in action. A hit on a limb counts as a wound, rendering that limb unusable. Each team is equipped with one training paintball gun, one tactical knife, and basic survival supplies.” He paused, sweeping his gaze across the children before him.
“No communications gear permitted. No leaving the training area. No…” The corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“…calling upon the instructors for help.”
He gave no explanation as to why.
He never explained.
“Blue Team: John-117, commanding. Kelly-087. Fred-104. Linda-058.” As he read the names, the four stepped forward.
John stood at the front, his jaw set tight, but his eyes calm and steady.
Beside him, Kelly flexed her fingers like a cheetah poised to sprint.
Fred checked his gear in silence, his movements clean and efficient.
Linda simply stood there, her eyes already scanning the surrounding terrain.
“Black Team: Ethan-007, commanding. Tak-047. Riley-111. Cohen-099.” The other four stepped forward.
Ethan was half a head shorter than John, but his shoulders were broad, and his stance possessed a low, solid groundedness.
Tak stood half a step behind him, his dark eyes darting constantly like an owl crouched in the dark.
Riley stared blankly at the ground, as if calculating something.
Cohen clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white—he looked more like a fighter about to step into the ring than a member of a tactical squad.
Mendez raised his wrist and checked his timer.
“Begins at 0600 hours. You have fifteen minutes to disperse.” He lowered his hand.
“Begin.”
Both teams turned simultaneously and vanished into the dense forest, surging like two tides in opposite directions.
The morning mist closed behind them, swallowing every trace.
John led Blue Team northeast.
He selected high ground roughly two hundred meters above sea level—a ridge capped with pine forest, flanked by steep slopes on three sides, with only a gentle slope to the southwest offering passage.
Standing at the peak provided a commanding view of most of the valley, wide and open, ideal for observation and sniping.
He crouched down, using a twig to draw a crude map in the dirt.
“Linda, that tallest pine tree to the east is your sniper position. Your line of sight covers the entire southeast. Anyone coming up from there, you’ll see them.” Linda nodded without a word.
“Kelly, defend the front on the southwest slope. If someone makes a direct assault, you need to hold them off for at least thirty seconds to give us time to relocate.” Kelly grinned.
“Thirty seconds?
That’s too conservative.” “Fred, the flank.
The north slope is steep, but climbing it isn’t impossible.
You’re responsible for that side.” John looked up at the three of them.
“I’ll be mobile, reinforcing wherever needed.”
Blue Team took two hours to complete their defensive fortifications.
On the gentle slope, Kelly laid out tripwires made of dead branches—not to trap anyone, but to create noise.
On the north slope, Fred dug a shallow pit in the bushes, burying himself until no trace remained from the outside.
Meanwhile, roughly three kilometers to the southwest, Ethan made a completely different choice.
He did not choose high ground.
He chose a natural cave—its entrance facing north, hidden behind a thick, impenetrable clump of brambles.
The interior was spacious enough for four to rest, and an underground river flowed from the cavern’s depths, merging into a small stream outside.
Though the cave mouth faced north, a natural stone ridge thirty meters ahead provided an elevated vantage point to observe any approaching path.
“We don’t need a castle,” Ethan told his teammates, his voice soft, almost as if talking to himself.
“What we need is mobility. If we can’t hold it, we can fall back along the underground river at any time. The important thing is never to get pinned down in one place.” He looked at Tak.
“Head out to recon. Find their base, but do not engage. I need to know where they are and how they’ve set up their defenses.” Then he looked at Riley.
“Analyze the terrain. I want to know every water source and passage in this sector.” Finally, he looked at Cohen.
“Guard the cave mouth. But don’t just stand there—set up three ambush positions within a fifty-meter range ahead and rotate between them. Don’t let anyone slip up to the door before you notice.” Cohen grinned and patted his fist.
Six hours later, Tak returned.
He was covered in mud and pine needles, looking like a walking tree stump.
He crouched next to Ethan and drew the position and defenses of Blue Team’s base in the dirt with his finger.
At the same time, Riley completed his terrain analysis, spreading out a crude sketch drawn on tree bark with charcoal against the cave wall—marking every water source, stream, and potential water-drawing point.
Riley’s finger stopped on a spot on the map.
“Blue Team has only one water-drawing point—the stream on the east side of the high ground. From their base to the stream, it’s roughly three hundred meters in a straight line, with an open stretch in between.” He looked up.
“Cut off this water source, and they’ll either go thirsty or come out looking for a new one.”
Ethan fell silent for a few seconds.
“Cut off the water,” he said.
“But don’t destroy it directly—that’s too crude. John would become alert immediately. Set traps by the stream. Let them know this water source is no longer safe, and let them abandon it on their own.” He looked at Tak.
“You take care of it.” Tak stood up and vanished silently into the cave mouth.
Night fell.
Night on Reach arrived swiftly and completely.
After sunset, the primeval forest turned into a massive black labyrinth.
Moonlight was filtered through layers of canopy into scattered specks of light, making it difficult to see even underfoot.
The temperature plunged, and a frigid mist drifted through the pine forest.
Tak moved through the dark like a cat.
He didn’t rely on his eyes—under such light, eyes were the least reliable sense.
He relied on his ears.
The sound of wind through pine needles, the distant rushing of stream water, the rustle of some small rodent moving through the underbrush…
He committed all these sounds to memory, filtering out the remaining noises to hunt for sounds that didn’t belong to the forest.
He found it.
A patrolling footstep, light but steady in rhythm—not an animal, a person.
It appeared roughly once every forty minutes, circling from the west side of the high ground to the north, then turning back.
Tak lay prone behind a fallen giant log, counting the intervals and directions of the steps.
He smiled in the dark.
It was Fred.
Tak recognized him from the rhythm and stride—Fred’s steps were steadier than Kelly’s and lighter than John’s, carrying a quiet caution.
Tak tracked him for two full cycles, confirming the patrol route and time interval, then silently slipped back into the darkness.
At the same time, Cohen was busy at the water source.
By the stream lay a smooth rock worn slick by footsteps—someone came here repeatedly to draw water.
Cohen set three paintball traps around the rock, connected with razor-thin fishing line, hiding the trigger mechanisms between rock crevices and grass roots.
He also intentionally left several fresh footprints near the water, pointing upstream in a nonexistent direction—if anyone noticed anything amiss near the water, those footprints would make them think the threat came from upstream, rather than the trap beneath their feet.
At 0300 hours, Fred went to draw water as planned.
He crouched by the rock and dipped his canteen into the stream.
Broken moonlight reflected on the water’s surface, and everything appeared completely normal.
He stood up, turned—and the fishing line at his feet snapped tight.
Three paintballs burst simultaneously.
Orange paint splashed across Fred’s torso, running from his chest down to his waist.
He froze in place for two seconds, looking down at the orange mark on himself, a flicker of pain crossing his face—not physical pain, but the frustration of a misjudgment.
Fred didn’t make a sound.
He set the canteen down calmly and walked toward the high ground.
According to the rules, he had been “killed”—he needed to withdraw from combat.
But the rules also dictated that he could not compromise his teammates’ position, so he simply walked in silence toward the edge of the training zone.
John knew almost immediately.
Not through comms—they had no communications gear.
It was instinct.
He noticed that Fred’s patrol signal had vanished.
Forty minutes, no footsteps.
Eighty minutes, still none.
Crouching behind the defensive cover of the position, John’s mind raced.
Fred wasn’t someone who ran late.
If he hadn’t returned, there was only one possibility: he had encountered the enemy.
And then he caught a faint scent of orange in the air.
John stood up, took a deep breath, and swept his gaze across the entire position.
Linda was still holding her sniper post, and Kelly was on the main defensive line.
He made his decision.
“Fall back,” he said, his voice soft, but leaving no room for hesitation.
“Abandon the high ground. We leave now.” Kelly and Linda looked at him at the same time.
Kelly frowned.
“Why?
There are still two of us—” “Something happened at the water source,” John interrupted.
“Fred went to draw water and hasn’t returned. The enemy set a trap at the water, which means they know where we get our water. If we keep holding this spot, they’ll pick us off one by one.” His eyes gleamed in the dark.
“We need to move.”
Three minutes later, Blue Team’s high ground position was empty.
High in a large tree in the distance, Tak watched three dark figures swiftly disappear into the dense forest.
He pressed a miniature signaller on his collar twice—the prearranged code meaning “target has relocated.”
When Ethan received the signal, he paused briefly.
He had originally expected John to hesitate for at least an hour—most people wouldn’t lightly abandon a position they had worked hard to build.
But John had taken less than five minutes to make his decision.
Ethan stared into the dark forest, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
“Faster than I thought,” he murmured.