To our greatest disappointment, the next phase of training wasn't some adrenaline-pumping field exercise or grueling endurance test.
Nope.
They crammed us into a stuffy classroom with rows of battered desks and told us to answer questions based on the training manual – the same one most of us had used as a makeshift pillow rather than actual reading material.
I wasn't too worried. I'd skimmed through it, memorized a few key sentences, and managed to absorb enough to bullshit my way through. But the rest of my intellectually lazy brothers-in-arms?
They were dead men walking.
The instructor, whose face could curdle milk, looked like he'd been waiting for this moment. He grinned like a hyena spotting a wounded gazelle, pacing the room with that smug, "I-told-you-so" swagger.
The test itself wasn't complicated. Basic questions about protocol, rules of engagement, monster classifications, emergency procedures. Things that should've been common sense, especially for people training to keep the city from falling into chaos.
When it was over, they didn't bother sugar-coating the results.
I was led into a separate room, where Instructor Deimos Diaz was waiting. The man sat behind a metal desk, shaking his head slowly, like the weight of our collective stupidity was physically painful for him.
Diaz wasn't the type to hide his disappointment. His face said it all, a cocktail of frustration, disbelief, and that bitter satisfaction you get when you're proven right about something terrible.
"We're really going to shit," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Hiring low-IQ brutes who can't even be bothered to read a goddamn training manual."
I didn't flinch. I'd seen enough of Diaz to know this was his version of a warm greeting.
"To be fair," I said cautiously, "they probably would've read it if it had been a mandatory order, sir."
Diaz snorted, leaning back in his chair. "It was obvious." He slammed a hand on the desk for emphasis. "If you need someone to spoon-feed you every basic instruction, maybe you're not cut out to hold a weapon."
Fair point. But still, if reading manuals was the difference between life and death, maybe they should've made that clearer.
"It shows their lack of initiative," Diaz continued, warming up now. "Sure, they follow orders like dogs, but no gut instinct? No internal alarm bells ringing, telling them, 'Hey, maybe this information could save my dumbass one day'? That's what worries me."
He paused, staring at me like I was supposed to have the answers.
"I swear," he grumbled, "at this rate, we'll be back to warring tribes, hitting each other with sticks and stones."
I kept my mouth shut. Diaz didn't want solutions—he just needed to vent.
Eventually, realizing I wasn't going to argue, he sighed and pulled up a shitty PowerPoint presentation on an old, flickering projector.
"Alright," he muttered, clicking through slides, "let's see if you're capable of learning something today."
The screen displayed grainy images of creatures of some humanoid, others not even close. Mutates, Augmen gone wrong, and things that didn't seem to belong to any known category.
"Monster Physiognomy," Diaz announced dramatically, like we were about to uncover the secrets of the universe. "The art of not getting your face ripped off because you're too dumb to recognize a threat."
He clicked to the next slide of a grotesque close-up of an Orc, its tusks jagged, drool leaking from its cracked lips.
"Looks can save your life." Diaz pointed at the image with the intensity of a man discovering fire. "Facial features, body language, behavioral patterns. That's what keeps you breathing. You see a brain-dead looking Orc, drooling like a toddler? That's not a friendly face. That thing's about to grab you, crack your skull open, and suck the marrow out of your bones like it's slurping soup."
He clicked again. This time, images of different Mutates flashed on the screen. Some had distorted limbs, others glowing eyes or twisted spines.
"Pattern recognition, my boy! It fucking works."
Diaz launched into a rant about phenotypes, genotypes, and the behavioral tendencies of various creatures. His voice grew louder with each slide, fueled by a mix of caffeine, frustration, and a deep, burning hatred for stupidity.
But amidst the chaos, one thing stood out: The exceptions.
Diaz paused on a slide that showed a creature unlike the others. It looked almost human—too human. No tusks, no glowing eyes, no obvious deformities.
"These," he said quietly, "are the ones that'll get you killed."
I leaned forward.
"The exceptional ones don't fit any pattern. They don't drool, they don't snarl, they don't look like they're about to eat your face off. That's what makes them dangerous. They blend in."
He clicked to the next slide: surveillance footage of a man calmly walking through a crowded street—until he snapped. In seconds, he tore through people like they were paper, moving with an unnatural speed and strength that defied logic.
"If you spot something or someone that doesn't fit any known classification, you call HQ immediately. Especially if you're outside the city. Do not engage unless you've got no other choice."
The footage ended with a blur of violence and blood.
After the slideshow, Diaz sat back, his expression serious.
"Let me spell it out for you," he said. "This job isn't about being a hero. It's not about playing nice. Your job is simple my boy, protect humanity. If something isn't part of humanity—" he snapped his fingers, "—you shoot it or you capture it. No debates. No moral dilemmas. If it's hostile, we kill it."
It was blunt. Brutal. But that was the reality of the world we lived in.
Diaz wasn't teaching us how to be soldiers. He was teaching us how to be survivors too.
"Call it racist if you want," he added with a shrug. "I don't give a shit. Pattern recognition saves lives. Your morals won't stop a monster from tearing out your spine."
There was no room for compromise.
The world had already lost too much to the things that lived beyond the city walls.
Humanity couldn't afford kindness anymore.
***
Humanity had entered a dark age.
But despite that, it wasn't all doom and gloom one you'd expect after the world ended.. You'd be surprised how quickly people go back to their routines once the screaming stops. Parts of the city looked almost like the world didn't end — office workers, salarymen, street vendors flipping greasy food on cracked sidewalks like it was just another Tuesday. Sure, there were automated turrets perched on rooftops, and patrol drones humming overhead, but people still lined up for coffee like nothing was wrong.
Humanity wasn't that weak.
As our instructors liked to remind us usually while yelling in our faces the defining trait of humanity wasn't just hope. It was stubbornness. Dogged, teeth-gritted, middle-finger-to-the-apocalypse stubbornness. It's what made us survive even after the old world went up in flames.
We live normal lives in an abnormal world.
And, against all odds, we're on our way to recovery.
After everything fell apart, the survivors needed more than just walls and guns — they needed purpose. That's where United Humanity stepped in. The UH was humanity's shiny new overlord, declaring that the first step to stabilizing the world was to resettle the lands. Re-conquest. Reclamation. Call it what you want, but the message was clear:
"The world isn't dead. Go take it back."
And to do that, humanity needed an army.
Not just soldiers, but heroes. People willing to volunteer.
Of course, no one's immune to propaganda. That's the whole point. It's designed to make you feel something. To light a fire under your ass. They blast it through speakers in the city squares, plaster it on walls with bold red letters:
"FUCK YEAH, HUMANITY!"
"FUCK MONSTERS!"
It works, too. Nothing unites people faster than a common enemy. All that bottled-up fear and frustration? Just point it at the nearest Goblin or Mutate, and suddenly you've got yourself a patriot.
But here's the thing about propaganda:
It makes you feel like a badass, like you're about to join some epic crusade. Then you get to training, and reality kicks you square in the nuts. You realize you've been played. But by then, it's too late — you're already in uniform, already part of the machine.
The weird part?
It still feels kinda cool.
Like, yeah, you're basically being beaten into becoming a well-trained wardog, but there's this sense of belonging. You're angry all the time — at the system, at the instructors, at the guy snoring next to you—but that anger? It fuels you. You vent it on the training grounds, on the equipment, on whatever they put in front of you.
It's a rollercoaster. And we're all strapped in.
Most of my brothers-in-arms failed the written test. Miserably.
But me? I passed.
Which earned me a brand-new nickname: "Manual."
Because apparently, reading the goddamn manual makes you a genius.
Our task for the day was simple: dig ditches.
They handed us military-grade shovels—the kind you could probably kill a man with if you swung hard enough. The instructors gathered us around like we were about to receive sacred wisdom.
"There are three things you're going to love for the rest of your miserable lives here," Sarge barked.
"Your baton. Your rifle. And your goddamn shovel."
We laughed. Big mistake.
Sarge didn't miss a beat.
"These three things won't betray you," he growled, pacing back and forth. "Unlike your girlfriends. Unlike your wives. They're reliable. They're handy. They don't complain. And if you break 'em, it's your own damn fault."
The laughter died down pretty quick after that.
After the pep talk, they loaded us into transport trucks and drove us 20 kilometers west of the city. No towering walls out there, just open fields, patchy forests, and the distant hum of artillery.
We spent hours digging trenches under the blazing sun, sweat soaking through our uniforms. It wasn't glamorous, but at least it kept our minds off the fact that we were basically digging graves for future battles.
While we worked, army units set up wires, parked armored vehicles, and deployed 155mm howitzers like they were arranging furniture. Watching them operate was hypnotic — precise, efficient, no wasted movements.
After we finished digging, the instructors gathered us around four of the howitzers.
"Congratulations, maggots," one of the artillery guys said, grinning like it was Christmas morning. "Time to blow some shit up."
They pointed out a Goblin warband moving near the city's edge — dozens of the little bastards, clustered together like ants.
The artillery crew was giddy as they showed us the ropes.
Measure the distance.
Check the barrel.
Load the 155mm shell.
Pull the cord.
KABOOM.
It was brain-dead easy with the tools they had. After an hour, we were raining hell on that warband, turning the landscape into a smoking crater.
The explosions felt… Satisfying.
Like every shell we fired was a middle finger to the monsters that ruined our world.
But the fun didn't last.
"Well," Sarge said once the smoke cleared, "now that you've seen the show, it's time for Field Cremation 101."
They handed us flamethrowers — no ceremony, no detailed instructions. Just a quick rundown on how not to set yourself on fire, and off we went.
Our job was to sweep 100 meters ahead, burning whatever was left of the Goblins into ash. Even with gas masks on, the stench seeped through from charred flesh, burning hair, and something uniquely foul that I can't even describe.
I thought I'd feel sick.
Instead, I felt… numb.
As we watched the smoke rise, Sarge lit a cigarette, completely unfazed by the carnage.
"You know," he said, exhaling a plume of gray, "this is how we fertilize the land out here. Ashes of the dead. Makes the ground bloom."
No one said anything.
Because what was there to say?
If Sarge says that's the purpose of cremating these gobs, then that's that. We don't feel bad for the monsters, none give a shit about them and maybe it was that brilliant propaganda doing its work.
They aren't human.
So there was no problem.