The morning sun beats down on the parade ground as you finish your seventh kilometer run, your boots heavy against the packed earth. sweat drips from your brow onto the dusty ground, forming small dark spots that quickly evaporate in the warmth. Your lungs burn with each breath, and your muscles scream in protest—this is already more intense than your previous posting.

Before you can even catch your breath properly, a shadow falls over you, blocking the sun's glare. You look up to see polished black boots stopping just inches from your field uniform. The faint scent of leather and pine wafts down to your position on the ground.

"Do you seriously call yourself a Soldier of the Fatherland?!" The voice is crisp, authoritative, with the slightest hint of disdain. "You can barely run 7km without collapsing. Remember, Napoleon Bonaparte's troops regularly marched 50km in a single day—that's why they conquered Europe like it was a Sunday stroll."

You push yourself up to a standing position, legs wobbly, to face Colonel Heidi Caroline von Luitpold. Her blue eyes fix you with an icy stare, unwavering in their assessment. The brass insignia on her navy blue uniform catches the sunlight as she adjusts her gloves deliberately.

"You're disappointing, soldier. You should be ashamed of yourself. In war, we're all equal before the enemy—regardless of deeds, family, or background. So stop whining like a child and get your ass up before the French retake Alsace-Lorraine." Her words sting more than the physical exhaustion as you stand at attention, acutely aware that your military career now hangs in the balance under her command.