The last week of training was quieter.
Not easier.
Not less brutal. Just… quieter.
We'd made it through the worst of the physical drills. The endless trench-digging, the suffocating gas mask runs, the riot control formations, and the glorious experience of burning gob corpses down to fertilizer. Now, we were being trained in other ways.
The first step into becoming a fine Counter?
Talking like one.
No one's immune to indoctrination.
The instructors had their own way of rewiring us. Not through fear, not even through brainwashing. Just constant repetition — ideas drilled into our heads until the only choices were to think their way or not at all.
We were soldiers, sure. But more importantly, we were being turned into something else.
Human-supremacists.
The idea was simple. Humanity is superior. Humanity is the only race that matters. Humanity owns this world, and it is ours to use as we see fit.
Honestly?
It was kind of touching.
For the first time in history, humanity was actually united. Not because of some great moral enlightenment, not because we'd suddenly learned to stop hating each other.
No.
We just found something we all hate more.
One of the guys in my unit, Foster, put it best.
"Man, I used to be a racist," he admitted one night over rations. "Hated plenty of folks for stupid reasons. But now?" He grinned. "I don't hate people anymore. I save all that hatred for the monsters."
And he wasn't kidding.
Foster had a whole list of new slurs.
For Goblins, it was Mucus Monkeys, Shit Gnomes, Gobbers.
Hell, even the Sergeant had his own name for them — Rat Farmers.
And it turned out, that one was accurate.
Sarge told us a story during a smoke break, shaking his head like he still couldn't believe what he'd seen.
They had been clearing out a Goblin nest, flushing the little bastards out with fire and gas. Standard procedure. But in one of the deeper tunnels, they found something… weird.
The Goblins were raising rats.
Not just eating them off the ground, not just grabbing whatever vermin they could find. They were actually farming them. Keeping them in little wooden cages, feeding them scraps, fattening them up.
"They treat 'em like snack food," Sarge muttered. "Some of 'em were just sittin' around, nibbling on live rats like candies."
Which was disgusting.
But it also meant something else.
They weren't as mindless as we liked to think.
And that?
That was a problem.
During our final briefing, one of the instructors reminded us of the rules.
And by rules, I mean the only rule that actually mattered.
"We kill them fast and dead. No survivors."
Simple. Effective.
Because human rights do not extend to monsters.
The instructor paced the room, his boots heavy against the floor.
"I implore you," he said, looking each of us in the eyes, "to always shoot these abominations before they become a taint on humanity."
I didn't need convincing.
Hell, none of us did.
Because as much as they wanted to act like it was a philosophy, like it was some grand cause, the truth was simple:
We barely tolerate each other.
Expecting us to tolerate slimy, wart-covered, rat-eating freaks?
Not happening.
Of course, there were always exceptions.
We all knew the golden rule: If it's hot and fuckable, we'll consider negotiations.
A humanoid with the right curves, the right face, the kind of thing that didn't immediately trigger our fight-or-flight instinct to shoot them dead?
Well, let's just say… certain compromises could be made.
But that was rare. Real rare.
For everything else?
Shoot to kill.
Killing was our job.
But studying the bodies? That was someone else's department.
There was a special Counter division for that — the guys who handled monster autopsies, weapons testing, and biological research.
We were jealous of them.
Not because they got to do science.
Because they got to shoot corpses for a living.
Not out of sadism, this wasn't about pleasure. It was about data.
How many bullets it takes to drop a Mutate.
How Goblin flesh reacts to firearms.
How different monster species handle blunt force trauma.
And the best way to test all that?
Shoot the bodies. Again and again.
Because as much as humanity was winning, we were still learning.
And the more we learned?
The faster we could kill.
They drilled all this into us relentlessly.
Which, honestly, made me question some things.
Not the whole "kill all monsters" thing — that part made sense.
But the sheer amount of information.
We were just city troops. Glorified riot police with better weapons. So why were we being trained like we'd be fighting in a war?
Because let's be real — half the guys in my unit were morons.
They flunked a basic written test.
And yet, here they were, sitting through lectures about monster flesh durability and bullet penetration stats.
If this was just for city patrol…
Then what the hell were we really being prepared for?
***
Something wasn't adding up.
I wasn't the smartest guy in the room—not by a long shot. But I knew when I was being fed more information than I needed.
We were city patrol.
Garrison troops.
Glorified riot police with better weapons.
So why were we being trained like front-line soldiers?
It wasn't just the combat drills.
It was the survival training.
It was the lectures on enemy physiology.
It was the way they drilled battlefield tactics into our heads, even though our job was supposed to be keeping city streets safe.
At first, I thought it was just overkill. Maybe they were just preparing us in case something went wrong.
But the way they hammered it into us—again and again, as if they were expecting us to need it soon—it made me wonder.
What the hell were they not telling us?
By the last week, it was obvious.
They weren't just training us to patrol the city.
They were training us to fight outside the walls.
And nobody said it outright, but we all felt it.
The instructors started talking less about city patrols and more about combat in open environments.
How to fight in ruins.
How to secure forward outposts.
How to deal with ambushes in hostile terrain.
None of that was urban warfare. That was front-line tactics.
Gino picked up on it too.
"They're getting us ready for something," he muttered during a break.
Dan, sitting next to him, nodded. "Yeah. The real question is, when do they tell us?"
None of us had an answer.
The answer came on the last day of training.
We were assembled in the main hall, standing at attention, waiting for our final debriefing.
Then a high-ranking officer stepped onto the platform.
Not a Sergeant.
Not an Instructor.
A Commander.
That's when I knew—shit was about to change.
He stood there for a moment, letting the silence stretch, scanning the room like he was looking through us.
Then he spoke.
"Congratulations, recruits."
His voice was calm, steady.
"You have completed your training as Counters. You are now part of the force that keeps this city safe. But let me make one thing clear—you are not just city troops."
Silence.
Nobody moved.
"You have been trained to handle patrols, riots, law enforcement. But that is not the only reason you were recruited."
A pause.
Then he said it.
"The war for humanity's survival is not just inside these walls."
Dan inhaled sharply.
Gino's jaw clenched.
Even the dumbasses in our unit were starting to realize what this meant.
"We are expanding," the Commander continued. "The City is growing. And you will be the ones securing it."
There it was.
The truth.
We weren't just here to be riot control.
We were being sent out.
"This world still belongs to us," the Commander said, his tone shifting to something stronger. "And we will reclaim it—one step at a time."
He gestured to the map behind him.
"The lands outside the City are wild, lawless, infested with monsters. But that will not always be the case. United Humanity is expanding its reach, and to do that, we need boots on the ground."
He looked at us again.
"That means you."
No one spoke.
The room felt… heavier.
"We will push beyond these walls," the Commander continued. "We will clear towns, secure supply routes, and establish outposts. Some of you will remain in the city. Some of you will be deployed to the frontlines of humanity's expansion."
Frontlines.
The word hung in the air like a weight pressing down on our chests.
We weren't just garrison troops anymore.
We were becoming the first wave.
After the speech, we were dismissed.
Nobody spoke as we left the hall.
I could feel it… the shift in atmosphere.
It was one thing to train for war. It was another thing to realize you were about to fight in one. Shit, everyone wanted to join because they could stay in the city, turned out that was a fucking lie.
Dan finally broke the silence.
"Well," he muttered. "Guess we're in this shit for real now."
Gino just exhaled, shaking his head. "Fuck."
Me?
I didn't say anything.
Because I already knew the truth.
The war wasn't coming.
It had already started. And we were about to be thrown into it.
***
The day after the speech, we were split up.
Assignments were handed out in the barracks. Printed documents, crisp and official, each one stamped with the emblem of United Humanity. Some of the guys were kept in the city. They'd do what we were originally trained for, riot control, patrol duty, law enforcement. The kind of work that still lets you sleep inside safe walls.
The rest of us?
We were being sent out.
I sat on my bunk, staring at my assignment papers. Reclamation Operations.
Dan got the same. So did Gino.
Prokop got sent to HQ security, the lucky bastard. He might be retarded, but he was lucky. Peter was getting assigned to the industrial sector, guarding supply convoys.
But for us?
We were about to get thrown into the wild.
"This is bullshit," Gino muttered, flopping onto his bed.
Dan just snorted. "Come on. You knew they were gonna do this."
"Yeah," Gino admitted, "but I was hoping to at least get a month of easy work before they started throwing us into the wasteland."
I leaned back, exhaling. "Well, guess we know now why they were shoving all that frontline training down our throats."
Dan nodded. "They didn't train us for patrols. They trained us to be exterminators."
Reclamation Operations was exactly what it sounded like.
We were being sent to secure and reclaim land outside the walls.
Not as scouts.
Not as engineers.
As kill teams.
We weren't building the new world. We were clearing the old one to reclaim it.
Purge first. Build later.
The next morning, we were geared up and prepped for deployment.
Standard Counter uniforms weren't enough anymore. We were handed combat armor—thicker plating, reinforced helmets, stronger material. Chainmail for protection against claws, teeth, and blades.
Our weapons were upgraded too. The standard electric batons were still there, but now we had assault rifles, sidearms, and close-combat blades.
This wasn't for riot control.
This was war gear.
We loaded onto the transports in silence. No jokes, no bullshit. Just the sound of boots on metal and the low hum of engines as the vehicles powered up.
Dan adjusted his helmet. "So, bets on how bad this is gonna be?"
Gino sighed. "Bro, at this point, I'm just hoping I make it to the end of the week without some Gobber stabbing me in the gut."
I didn't say anything. Because I wasn't sure any of us would. Being superhuman doesn't mean shit when some of your enemies are too.
The convoy left the city at dawn.
The walls loomed behind us, massive and imposing, the last barrier between civilization and the wasteland beyond.
We weren't the only ones leaving. Other units were rolling out too, more trucks, more heavily armed squads.
This wasn't just a small operation.
This was a full-scale expansion.
United Humanity wasn't just talking about reclaiming land.
They were doing it.
And we were their first wave.
Talk about bad fucking luck
***
Hours later, we arrived at what was supposed to be a forward outpost.
Instead, it was just a half-built base, barbed wire fencing, and a few prefab structures surrounded by watchtowers.
Soldiers were already stationed here—guys from Reclamation Command, not Counters. They'd been setting up defenses, running patrols, and holding the perimeter while waiting for us.
We stepped off the trucks, taking in the scene.
The officer in charge was a grizzled-looking bastard with a scar running down his jaw who walked up and gave us a once-over.
"Alright, fresh meat," he said. "Welcome to Sector 12. Hope you're ready, 'cause the fun starts tonight."
Dan exhaled. "Fuck me."
I had a feeling he wasn't joking.
That night, we got our first mission.
Scouts had spotted movement in the ruins about three kilometers east. Small, fast-moving figures — likely Goblins.
A test run. A warm-up mission.
We weren't fortifying.
We weren't negotiating.
We were hunting.
And tomorrow, we'd be spilling our first blood as Counters.