Traditional units like the Royal Fighter Corps hold a unique place in the hearts of these young men.

Most rookies, at the recruitment office, would thump their chests and confidently declare their strengths to the recruiters,

with the ultimate goal of wearing the Fighter Corps' gleaming silver badge on their chest.

"Good on you, young man," the affable recruiters would typically respond, "The military appreciates those with ambition.

Go to the training camp and best your peers, the Fighter Corps has no room for the subpar."

Thus, the training ground was filled with the fervent shouts of recruits.

Blazing Paradise and Wanderer blended in with a group of rookies as they entered,

and over thirty of them stood in a line at the corner of the drill field,

described as "so curved it's about to be discarded," waiting for the arrival of their officer.

"Act tough," Blazing Paradise whispered to Wanderer beside him, "The Fighter Corps doesn't take losers."

Under the watchful eyes of the rookies, the officer, clad in armor, strode over with two subordinates, exuding an imposing gait.

The trio approached with an imposing air, the force of their six legs stirring up the dust on the ground,

creating a whirlwind of sand and stones.

The officer, helmeted, concealed his features from the rookies, but they still looked at him with eager eyes.

However, as the officer stood at the head of the line and let out a gloomy "hmm,"

the hopeful rookies were immediately disheartened, for everyone knew this was not a good sign.

The two subordinates immediately sprang into action, like well-trained hounds dashing to the front and back of the formation,

pushing and shoving with the force of an over-eager bull... The excessively curved line finally straightened out.

"Drop whatever you're holding," one of the hounds barked at them, "And take off anything hanging from your bodies!"

Before the pain could subside, the rookies hurriedly complied.

Only then did the officer place his hands on his hips and slowly approach, making eye contact with each rookie.

In the small triangle of his eyes visible outside the visor, there was something that the rookies couldn't comprehend, but no one dared to inquire curiously.

When those flickering, triangular eyes focused on a particular rookie,

the unfortunate one would either gaze at the sky or glance at the ground; no one dared to lock eyes with the officer.

After scrutinizing the group of over thirty rookies, the officer walked back to the front of the line and whispered something to one of his subordinates.

The subordinate immediately barked orders for the rookies to form two columns.

The other subordinate paced behind the rookies, tugging at one's ear and prodding another's side.

Blazing Paradise restrained his anger at having his ear pulled, but Wanderer could not tolerate being poked in the ribs by the subordinate.

His body instinctively dodged a few arm lengths away — only to immediately receive a punch to the cheek, sending him back into line.

The officer slowly approached, cupping Wanderer's chin with his gloved hand, and a question that was hard to answer came through the visor,

reaching Wanderer's ears, "What's that look on your face?"