Because I am a Soldier

Chapter 002

The city looked perfect from far away.

From the rooftop terrace of the Goth family’s private high-rise, the skyline of the Arclight Nation glittered like a promise—towers of glass and steel catching the last streaks of sunlight, streets threading between them like strands of gold. Helicopters cut across the sky. Billboards flashed with neon. Somewhere below, traffic hummed and nightlife prepared to wake.

From a distance, everything seemed sharp, bright, full of purpose.

Up close, it didn’t feel that way at all.

Aiden Goth sat slouched on a designer couch that probably cost more than an average family’s yearly salary. The city lights reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, painting faint colors over his pale skin. He was eighteen, thin in the unhealthy way, his shoulders narrow under the loose collar of an unbuttoned dress shirt. A half-empty bottle of expensive liquor rested on the glass table in front of him, next to a scattering of empty glasses and a long-forgotten pack of cigarettes.

The music from the previous night’s party had stopped hours ago. The guests were gone. The perfume, the laughter, the shallow compliments—all gone. Only stale alcohol and fatigue remained.

His fingers shook a little as he rubbed his temples. He hadn’t slept. His head throbbed with the familiar dull ache of too much drinking and too little rest.

He knew he looked bad.

He also knew he’d stopped caring a long time ago.

The door to the terrace clicked open.

Heavy footsteps. Controlled. Rhythmic. The sound of someone who had long ago decided that every movement, every breath, every second had to be efficient.

Goth Industry’s chairman, his father, stepped into the light.

He was a tall man in his fifties, with iron-gray hair and a body that still carried the outline of a soldier. His suit was immaculate. His jaw was set. His eyes—cold, sharp, exhausted—fell on Aiden with a complicated mix of anger and disappointment.

“Aiden.”

The single word cracked through the silence like a small, controlled explosion.

Aiden didn’t look up right away. He finished the last sip from his glass, letting the burn slide down his throat, then set the glass down carefully. His movements were slow, almost fragile. His hands trembled more than he wanted them to.

“Morning,” he muttered.

“It’s past noon,” his father said. “And you reek.”

“From the bottle or from my soul?” Aiden tried to joke, but his voice came out hoarse and thin.

His father didn’t smile.

He walked closer, his shadow falling over the couch. “Do you know what the shareholders asked me this morning?”

Aiden leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Let me guess. ‘Is your heir still alive?’”

“They asked,” his father said, every word clipped, “if I intend to replace you.”

The words sliced through what was left of Aiden’s haze.

Replace you.

He knew his father had thought about it. On some level, he’d expected it. But hearing it said aloud made something twist in his chest.

He swallowed. “Well. That’s… practical of them.”

“Practical?” His father’s voice rose for the first time. “Do you understand what you’ve become?”

He grabbed the bottle from the table and slammed it down again. Amber liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

“You are the heir to Goth Industry,” he said. “To everything your grandfather built from nothing. The name Goth used to mean something. It still does—to other people. But you—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Aiden stared at the reflection of the bottle’s glass, not trusting himself to meet his father’s eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Say it. It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”

His father’s gaze was sharp enough to cut. “Fine. You want it straight? You’re a mess. Your grades are trash. Your health is worse. You’ve been in and out of hospitals for ‘exhaustion’ and ‘arrhythmia’ more times than I care to count. You don’t last ten minutes in a boardroom before zoning out, and you can’t run one mile without collapsing.”

Aiden flinched inwardly at that last part.

His father went on. “You drink. You smoke. You party with people who care more about your money than your name. And the worst part? You don’t fight back. You just sink.”

He leaned forward. “Do you know what people call you behind your back?”

Aiden knew. He’d heard it whispered in hallways, muttered at parties, joked about in locker rooms. But he stayed silent.

His father didn’t.

“Prince Weakling,” he said, each syllable heavy. “That’s what they call you. The fragile prince of a steel empire. The boy who got everything and built nothing.”

The words hit like physical blows.

Aiden closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s… creative.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

“I didn’t raise you for this,” his father said, softer now. Tired. “Your grandfather survived war. I served in the military before I ever touched a corporate office. We bled for the Arclight Nation. And you—” He gestured at Aiden’s thin frame, the empty bottle, the dark circles under his eyes. “You’re burning out before your life has even started.”

For a brief, fragile second, something like pain flickered over Aiden’s features.

“I didn’t ask to be born into your war stories,” he said quietly. “I didn’t ask to inherit anything.”

“That doesn’t matter,” his father said. “You were born Goth. That’s enough.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Aiden finally sat up straighter, his back protesting. “So,” he said. “What now? You drag me to a clinic? Rehab? Another therapist?”

His father shook his head. “No. You’re past the point where a soft hand will change anything. You don’t need more comfort. You need steel.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded set of documents, tossing them onto the table. They slid across the glass and stopped in front of Aiden.

Aiden stared at the words stamped across the top:

Mandatory Training Assignment — Rookie Battalion.

He blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

His father’s expression said he wasn’t. “The program’s legitimate. It’s a cooperation between corporate elites and the army. Physical training. Discipline. Real structure. You’ll live on base with other recruits. No alcohol. No clubs. No parties. Just sweat, pain, orders—and the chance to build what you never had: a spine.”

Aiden laughed once, a bitter, hollow sound. “You want to ship me off to a boot camp to fix a lifetime of bad parenting?”

His father’s jaw clenched. “You want to blame me? Fine. Blame me all you want. But you’re still the one killing yourself slowly every night. And I won’t watch it anymore without doing something.”

He jabbed a finger at the papers. “You’re leaving tomorrow. Uniforms and gear are already arranged. Consider it your last shot.”

“What if I say no?” Aiden asked.

His father’s eyes went cold. “Then you are no longer my heir.”

For a long moment, the sounds of the distant city were the only thing between them.

Aiden looked down at his hands. The fingers that couldn’t hold a glass steady. The wrists too thin for a grown man. The pulse beating weakly under skin that had never known real work.

He hated this body.

He hated that he had done this to himself.

He hated that everyone was right about him.

He also hated that his father had just forced him into a corner where the only choices were humiliation or abandonment.

He grabbed the papers and stood up, his head spinning briefly from the sudden movement. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go. I’ll run your laps and do your push-ups and give everyone in that camp a good laugh. And when I collapse, at least you can say you tried.”

His father watched him for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze.

“Just don’t die,” he said.

Aiden almost smiled. “No promises.”

The training base of the Rookie Battalion didn’t look anything like the world Aiden knew.

Gone were the polished marble floors, the scent of cologne and money. In their place: packed dirt, concrete barracks, floodlights, and the sharp smell of sweat and disinfectant.

The first morning, he stood in formation in an oversized training uniform that hung loose on his frame. The other recruits around him were lean, sunburned, some still soft, some already hardened. They looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

Someone behind him leaned in and whispered just loud enough for others to hear, “Is that him? The Prince Weakling?”

“Yeah. The rich kid who passed out during the medical pre-check because the cuff was too tight,” another chuckled.

A ripple of laughter, quickly stifled.

Aiden stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

The squad leader, Grant Mason, paced in front of them with hands behind his back, eyes sharp. He called out names, numbers, instructions. His voice carried authority born from years of giving orders that mattered.

When he stopped in front of Aiden, his gaze lingered a fraction longer.

“Aiden Goth,” he said. “Heir to Goth Industry. Volunteered for training?”

“Assigned, sir,” Aiden answered honestly. His voice came out thinner than he intended.

Some snickers from the back.

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if your family owns half the city’s skyline. Out here, you’re just another recruit. If you can’t keep up, you’ll suffer. If you try to use your name, you’ll suffer more. Clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Good,” Grant said. “Let’s see what your name is worth when your lungs are burning.”

Training began.

The first day was a blur of shouted orders, strained muscles, and humiliation. Standing at attention made Aiden’s back ache and his legs shake. Marching turned his feet into blocks of pain. Running… running was a different kind of t*****e altogether.

He’d never been athletic. Years of drinking and late nights had hollowed him out. His heart had already been flagged by doctors for irregular rhythms, his lungs weakened by nicotine and laziness. He knew his numbers. He’d seen the charts.

But knowing and feeling were different things.

The five-kilometer run was where it all went wrong.

They lined up at the track as the sun climbed higher, heat pressing down on their shoulders. Grant stood at the starting line, stopwatch in hand.

“Five kilometers,” he said. “You complete it, or you crawl back. Either way, you finish.”

The recruits laughed, stretched, bounced on their heels. Aiden tried to mimic them, but his legs felt like they already had weights attached.

The whistle blew.

They took off.

At first, adrenaline carried him. He focused on his breathing, in and out, trying to remember the rhythm he’d seen in fitness videos he never followed through with. The others pulled ahead quickly, their footsteps steady, synchronized. Aiden fell behind within the first lap.

His chest began to hurt.

Just a little, at first. A mild tightness. A reminder of all the times doctors had warned him and he’d nodded and gone back to his habits.

He kept running.

Snatches of conversation drifted back to him with the wind.

“Told you he wouldn’t last.”

“Look at him. He’s already gasping.”

“Rich lungs, poor stamina.”

The pain in his chest grew sharper, spreading like a claw. His breath shortened, each inhale scraping his throat. Sweat blurred his vision. The track ahead stretched endlessly.

“Don’t stop,” he told himself. “You stop, they win. You stop, they’re right.”

His legs burned.

His head swam.

His heart hammered erratically, like it couldn’t find the right rhythm.

It felt wrong.

He stumbled a little, then forced himself upright. One step. Another. Another.

The world tilted.

Voices became distant.

The edges of his vision darkened.

He barely heard the shout from the sidelines. “Goth! You all right?”

He wanted to answer. To say, “I’m fine,” even if it was a lie.

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

The pain in his chest spiked—an electric jolt that stole his breath entirely. His legs gave out. He hit the ground hard, his cheek scraping against rough track. The sky spun overhead, colors smearing together.

He heard laughter cut off abruptly.

He heard someone swear.

He heard Grant bellow, “Medic! Move!”

His vision blurred.

Faces hovered above him—some worried, some annoyed, some blank.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” someone muttered. “He’s not even through half.”

His ears rang. His lungs screamed for air and got none. Every beat of his heart felt like it might be the last.

And in that moment, somewhere between agony and numbness, Aiden realized something:

He didn’t want to die like this.

Not on a track.

Not as a joke.

Not as Prince Weakling.

But the choice was slipping away from him.

Darkness poured in from the edges of his vision, devouring light.

He heard the medic shouting numbers. “Heart rate dropping! BP unstable! We’re losing him!”

Hands pressed on his chest.

A mask covered his face.

Voices blurred together, urgency twisting them into noise.

His thoughts scattered.

Maybe this is better, a quiet part of him whispered. No more pressure. No more expectations. No more being a disappointment.

Another part of him, small but stubborn, pushed back.

Is that it? You let everyone else write your story, and you end it here? On the ground, gasping like a fish?

But his body had already made its choice.

The sounds grew faint.

The track, the sky, the blurred faces—all faded into fog.

His last coherent sensation was of falling—not onto the ground, but through it. Through the track, through the earth, plunging into something vast and cold and empty.

His heart stuttered once.

Twice.

Stopped.

The world vanished.

Only darkness remained.

Cold.

Silent.

Endless.

And somewhere, far beyond the walls of his failing body, a different man in a different jungle also fell into blackness at that exact moment—a warrior of Dragon’s Fury, torn apart by fire, clinging to one last vow.

Two deaths.

Two failures.

Two souls drifting in a void that did not care who they had been.

Somewhere in that darkness, something twisted.

Paths crossed.

Weights shifted.

A thin, fragile line connected the falling heir of Goth Industry and the dying blade of Dragon’s Fury.

The body of Prince Weakling lay still on a military cot. Machines screamed. Medics yelled. Electricity surged.

His heart, once again, struggled to beat.

And in that instant—

A foreign will crashed into him.

Consciousness slammed into flesh.

The darkness shattered—

Into blinding white light, disinfectant stings, panicked shouts—

And a soul that had no intention of staying dead opened its eyes inside a body that had already given up.

This was where the old story ended.

And where the real one began.