This towering fortress, which has stood proudly through countless bloody battles, is flanked on both sides by an iron wall forged from cast iron, soaring a hundred meters high and stretching for two hundred kilometers. Every five kilometers, there is a small fort, each garrisoned by three thousand soldiers, firmly safeguarding the peace of the Great De Dynasty.

In Fort Twenty-Eight, more than a dozen soldiers had taken off their armor and gathered together, seizing a rare moment of leisure to play drinking games and gamble.

“George Foster, you lost again!”

“Damn it, if I drink any more, I’m going to puke…” The one called George Foster was a bald, burly man, bare-chested, groaning in a dizzy haze.

“A bet’s a bet. Finish this bowl of baijiu, and you can get lost right after.” The man beside George Foster picked up a large bowl and tried to pour it down George Foster’s throat.

“Mason Carter, you coward, you dare try to force me…”

Maybe he’d had too much to drink, or maybe Mason Carter was never to George Foster’s liking in the first place. Not only did George Foster refuse the drink, he slapped the bowl to pieces, and with the force of the blow, sent the bamboo-pole-thin Mason Carter tumbling to the ground.

“Damn it, cheating? Screw you, I’ll beat your ass!” To serve in Zhenman Fort and survive this long, every man had some real skills. Enraged, Mason Carter sprang up and threw a punch, the force of it stirring the air—a single glance told you he was at least at the fourth stage of martial cultivation.

“Son of a bitch, you itching for a beating, coward?” George Foster slapped his shiny bald head, cursing with boozy breath. Without even raising a fist, he simply puffed out his chest and took Mason Carter’s punch head-on.

“Bang!”

Mason Carter felt as if his fist had struck an iron plate. If he hadn’t pulled back in time, the rebound alone might have fractured his knuckles.

Clearly, Mason Carter was no match for George Foster.

Just as Mason Carter was withdrawing his fist, George Foster ducked low and grabbed him around the waist, looking crazed enough to smash him into the ground.

“George Foster, put Mason Carter down right now! You’re both from the Twenty-Eighth Battalion. If you hurt him, you’ll face military discipline!” The other soldiers, well aware of George Foster’s strength, didn’t dare intervene physically. Instead, they shouted, hoping he’d sober up a bit.

“I don’t care! He tried to force me to drink, so I’ll teach him a lesson!” Slurring his words, George Foster, who had already reached the peak of the fifth stage of martial cultivation, roared.

“Put him down…”

At that moment, a slightly deep yet magnetic voice rang out, making the drunken and frenzied George Foster shudder involuntarily.

“Boss… what are you doing here…”

The previously unmanageable George Foster now behaved like a meek little lamb. Not only did he gently set Mason Carter down, he even forced a sheepish grin, rubbing his bald head. “Boss, I was just messing around with him, it’s not what you think.”

The soldiers in the tent, seeing who had arrived, all showed respect in their eyes and greeted in unison, “Boss!”

The newcomer stood nearly three meters tall, as sturdy as an iron tower. Though his face was quite young, even a bit handsome, he exuded a natural authority—a fierce aura honed from piles of corpses. Especially striking was a jagged scar running from his left brow to the corner of his mouth, making his presence all the more intimidating.

“Had enough? If so, come with me. There are new recruits reporting in today, and as squad leaders, you all need to put in some effort and drill them well.”

The young man’s lips curled slightly, and he didn’t mention the earlier brawl. He was used to such drunken scuffles—anyone who could serve in Zhenman Fort and rise to squad leader was a hot-blooded, battle-loving man. As long as no one died, he, Henry Benson, always turned a blind eye.

“Our boss really knows how to look after his men, heh heh. Mason Carter, brother, I, George Foster, apologize to you.” George Foster grinned foolishly. Moments ago, he’d been ready to kill or die, but now he was getting along with Mason Carter as if nothing had happened.

“Hmph, you damn baldy. Next time we’re on the battlefield, if I take a blade for you again, I’m not surnamed Ma.”

Mason Carter was just mouthing off; he’d long since let go of the earlier incident. That’s how it was with hot-blooded men—no need for grudges.

Having served with these brothers ever since his promotion to centurion two years ago, Henry Benson knew them well. He just smiled and waved, signaling everyone to follow.

On the training ground, two hundred new recruits stood in a line. They hailed from the great clans of the eighteen prefectures of the Great De Dynasty, each a renowned talent in their own right.

As the deputy commander of Fort Twenty-Eight, Henry Benson led the squad leaders to stand before the new recruits, his sharp gaze sweeping swiftly across their faces.

Youthful, arrogant, wild, unruly, even disdainful—Henry Benson read all this in their expressions, and the smile at the corner of his mouth grew even wider.

“The next three months will be worse than death for you. If you can’t survive this three-month recruit training, you won’t even make it to the battlefield—Fort Twenty-Eight will be your burial ground.”

Henry Benson’s voice wasn’t loud, but it rang in every recruit’s ears like a great bell.

“Now, I’ll give you a chance to skip the three months of recruit training. If you pass, you can become a squad leader in one leap. If not, then grit your teeth and endure.”