Chapter 56: Testing

Chapter 56: Chapter 56: TestingThe morning sun crested over the compound, spilling orange light over the corrugated roofs of the warehouses and the clustered modular housing. Richard’s breath was steady and controlled as he rounded the last bend of his 3-kilometer sprint. His legs pumped like pistons, muscles burning slightly, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Constitution 100 had its perks.


He came to a stop, chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm. Sweat barely dotted his skin. Around him, workers loitered with cups of steaming coffee and cigarettes, some leaning against parked trucks, others sitting on crates. All eyes were on him.

They had watched Richard complete 100 push-ups, 100 pull-ups, 100 curl-ups, and a 3-kilometer sprint without a single break — and with barely a bead of sweat to show for it.

Whispers floated around him."That guy’s a machine.""No way he didn’t juice up.""Who the hell does that without even breathing heavy?"

Richard ignored them, grabbing a water bottle from a nearby crate and taking a long, slow drink. The cold liquid washed down his throat, refreshing. Just another day.

"Oi, Rich!"

A large hand clapped down on his shoulder. Richard turned to see Jonathan, a man in his early 30s with a barrel chest, a thick beard, and a grin as wide as the Lanao Lake. He was a truck driver under Estello’s employ — one of the more personable workers. Too personable, if Richard was being honest.

"Man, you’re a beast!" Jonathan laughed, stepping into Richard’s personal space like he owned it. Jonathan’s breath smelled of coffee and instant noodles. "You did all that without breaking a sweat. What’s your secret?"

Richard forced a tight-lipped smile. "Just been doing it every day for five years."Lie. It had barely been a year since the system awakened.

Jonathan’s eyes widened. "Five years? Damn. No wonder. I was about to say you might be juicing or something. Ha! But I guess you’re just built different."

Richard just nodded, taking another swig of water. Jonathan was the type who couldn’t take a hint even if you hit him with it.



As they walked back toward the barracks, Jonathan continued talking, his mouth running a mile a minute."I’ve been with Don Estello for three years now. Best gig of my life. Used to work for San Miguel, but man, that didn’t end well."

Richard half-listened, eyes drifting to a group of men laughing and drinking at a table under a makeshift awning. They were already cracking open beers despite the early hour. The smell of grilled pork and roasted coconut drifted through the air.

"Yeah, I was a truck driver for them," Jonathan said, hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke. "One day, I’m driving a full load of beer — and this dog just jumps out onto the road. Man, I swear, I had no choice. I swerved. Truck went down the ditch. Beer everywhere."

Richard’s brow lifted slightly. "You got fired for that?"

"Yup. They said it was my fault for swerving. But hey — that dog? Still alive. Worth it. I love dogs, man." Jonathan grinned, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "So, Estello took me in. Good guy. Said he likes drivers with ’good reflexes.’"

Richard couldn’t help but smirk. Good reflexes. Right.

Jonathan leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But seriously, Rich, how the hell do you do it? Hundred push-ups, pull-ups, all that without even sweating? You a robot or something?"

Richard shrugged, keeping his expression blank. "Just discipline. Do it every day and it gets easier."

Jonathan nodded, still eyeing Richard like he was some kind of alien. "Man, if I could do even half of that, I’d be invincible."

They reached the barracks, a long, low building with faded paint and windows half-covered with old newspapers. From inside, the sound of a karaoke machine blared a butchered rendition of a Michael Learns to Rock ballad. Jonathan spread his arms wide, grinning.

"Come on, man. Let’s hang out. You, me, the boys. Got some cold beers, some grilled frogs. Might even snag a chicken from the backyard."

Richard stared at the barracks door. Inside, he could see a few men huddled around a table, clinking glasses, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

For a moment, nostalgia hit him like a brick to the chest. Before the system. Before the Phoenix AI. Before ByteBull and Lina and World War II: Frontline. Before everything.

Just him, his buddies, and a lazy Saturday of drinking and stealing coconuts. Hunting water frogs. Grilling chicken they had no right to take. Back when life was simple.

Richard forced a smile. "I’ll hang out with you guys. But not today."

Jonathan looked disappointed, but he nodded. "Anytime, man. You’re always welcome."

As Richard turned away and headed back toward the executive apartments, he felt the tension coil in his chest again. The closer he got to the building, the further away he felt from the life he once had.

But that life was gone now.

--------

After breakfast, Jack’s eyes were practically sparkling. He leaned over the back of the couch, a wide grin plastered across his face. "Bro, the singleplayer is ready," he said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Let’s test it. And stream it while we’re at it."

Richard shook his head, one eyebrow raised. "Nah, let’s keep it raw for now. Just record the gameplay footage. We’ll worry about the hype later."

Jack groaned, but relented, plopping onto his chair. "Fine. But we’re gonna play through the whole thing."

Richard sat down, adjusting his headset. The computer hummed to life as the Vector Core Engine logo flashed on the screen.

A bold, hexagonal ’O’ emerged against a black backdrop.

The hexagon was interwoven with sleek, futuristic lines and dots, forming a network that pulsed with a subtle electric blue glow.

It was simple, minimalist, but undeniably high-tech — like a circuit board woven into a monogram.

The logo lingered for a second before dissolving into a war-torn landscape.

The screen faded to black, and the cinematic began.

Muddy boots stomped through thick sludge. The rain came down in sheets, darkening the sky to a murky gray. Explosions echoed in the distance. Soldiers shouted orders, their voices drowned by the staccato rattle of distant gunfire.

On the main menu, a lone soldier sat on a cot in the barracks, his helmet cradled in his hands. The walls behind him were lined with cots, most empty, some still occupied by men with hollow, thousand-yard stares.

Richard hovered over Campaign Mode, and the selection screen opened up, showcasing four factions: USA, Nazi Germany, Russia, and the United Kingdom.

Jack snickered. "Damn, you’re not gonna play as the Germans, are you?"



Richard rolled his eyes and selected USA.

The screen darkened, and the tutorial loaded almost instantly. A cinematic played — a drill sergeant, red-faced and screaming, barked commands at a line of young recruits in gray PT gear. They jogged in place, arms pumping, eyes forward.

Richard’s screen transitioned seamlessly into the gameplay. His character stood in the midst of the recruits, the sergeant pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.

"Welcome to bootcamp, maggots!" the AI sergeant bellowed, spit flying from his lips. "You think you’re ready for war? You’re not even ready for breakfast!"

A notification popped up: Stamina Preservation Training.

Richard moved the mouse, and his avatar started running in place. Text on the HUD outlined the mechanics:

Stamina decreases slower when carrying less gear.

Running without gear increases max stamina over time.

After a few minutes of running, the tutorial advanced to the next stage: Field Position Training.

A shovel was pressed into Richard’s hands, and the sergeant shouted, "You think bullets give a damn if you’re tired? Dig that trench!"

Richard clicked and held, and the player model began digging, the dirt flying as the foxhole deepened. Sweat streaked down the AI soldiers’ faces, their breaths coming hard and fast.

The tutorial flowed seamlessly from one exercise to the next.

Firing different weapons: the M1 Garand, the M1919 Browning machine gun, the M1 mortar, the M1903A4 sniper rifle.

Each weapon felt weighty, realistic. Recoil rattled the screen, bullets tore through paper targets, and the sound design was visceral — every shot rang in Richard’s ears, echoing in the vastness of the training grounds.

Next up was Tank Training.

Richard’s character was now inside a cramped Sherman tank, the metal walls vibrating as the engine roared to life.

Commands flashed on the HUD: Shoot, Load, Drive, Command.

Richard navigated through each role — from loading shells to gunning down moving targets to issuing orders to AI crew members.

"Man, this is way too long," Jack said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the desk. "We should add a short version of the tutorial. Maybe three to ten minutes instead of twenty."

"Good idea," Richard said, jotting it down in a notepad beside the keyboard. "Optional. Keep the long version for the diehards."

Jack nodded, and they continued.

Finally, the screen dimmed. The words First Mission: D-Day - Utah Beach appeared in bold, blocky letters.

The screen cut to the inside of a LCVP, the landing craft rocking on choppy waves. The roar of engines echoed through the steel hull, and a dozen soldiers sat around Richard’s avatar, faces pale, eyes wide. The sea spray mixed with cold sweat.

Richard moved his mouse, the camera panning around. He hovered the cursor over a soldier sitting nearby. A small prompt appeared: Converse / Command.

Since he was only a Private, the Command option was grayed out. So he selected Converse.

The soldier, a freckled kid who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, turned to face him. His eyes were huge, unblinking.

"Hey," Richard said into his headset. "You scared?"

The soldier swallowed, the animation uncannily lifelike. "Yeah. But... I don’t really have a choice, do I?"

Richard paused, then asked, "Got anything for seasickness?"

The kid dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of tablets. "Take it. I don’t need it anymore."

Richard accepted it, and the inventory system blinked: Item Acquired: Seasickness Pills.

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the front of the craft."Thirty minutes!"



Richard’s heart pounded as the screen shook. Explosions lit up the horizon, artillery shells tearing through the gray sky. In the distance, the bunkers loomed like hungry beasts, belching smoke and fire.

The young soldier beside him fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. His hands shook as he pressed it into Richard’s hand.

"If I don’t make it," he said, voice thick with fear, "give this to my wife. Please."

Richard’s cursor hovered over the Yes/No prompt. He selected No."Keep it," his character said, pushing the letter back. "You’re gonna make it."

The soldier’s lips twitched in a sad, hopeful smile, but the fear never left his eyes.

Jack whistled low, leaning forward in his seat. "Damn, dude. This is... intense."

Richard exhaled, eyes locked on the screen. "Yeah," he muttered. "And this is just the first mission."

The screen zoomed in on the metal ramp at the front of the LCVP as it started to lower.

The roar of machine guns grew louder.

Then —

The ramp slammed down.

All hell broke loose.