Because I am a Soldier

Chapter 004

Rainforest… the explosion… Razor’s scream… the mission… the sacrifice… darkness…

And then—this frail, infuriatingly weak young body, and the life that haunted the name Aiden Goth like a mocking shadow.

I—Aiden Goth of Dragon’s Fury… didn’t die?

No. I did die. But here… I’ve been reborn?

This body… eighteen years old… heir to Goth Industry… a complete disgrace?

Collapsed during training… labeled as the infamous Prince Weakling?

Absurdity and cold reality wrapped around his thoughts like two venomous serpents, coiling tighter and tighter.

The steel-forged memories of the war-tier operative—the real Aiden Goth—surged within him. Battle instincts, blood-soaked resolve, unyielding loyalty, and a long ledger of grudges carved into the core of his soul.

And beside them, like rancid sludge rotting on steel beams, were the memories of this rich wastrel—debauchery, indulgence, aimless pleasure, and the hollow weakness left behind by alcohol, women, and self-destruction.

He tested a tiny movement—lifting the fingers of his right hand. Even that sent a wave of deep, unfamiliar weakness flooding through his muscles, followed by an unsettling disconnection, as if his body’s responses came from a machine with broken wiring.

The sensation made irritation—and a faint nausea—coil in his chest.

In his former life, his body had been a masterpiece of lethal precision. Every tendon, every strand of muscle obeyed with perfect synchronicity, capable of delivering killing force in fractions of a second.

Now?

It was like being forced to pilot a rusted tractor one pothole away from falling apart.

Grinding down the rising violence in his chest, he began evaluating his “new equipment” with the cold, brutal logic of a veteran operative.

Lungs:

Every deeper breath tugged with a sharp, tearing pain, accompanied by a faint wheeze—shadow of the malignant arrhythmia that killed this boy, worsened by years of smoking and zero conditioning. Lung capacity? Maybe a third of his former strength.

Heart:

He felt its exhausted, fragile thumping—far below a healthy baseline and disturbingly inconsistent, as if it might give up if pushed too hard. This heart could not support any explosive movement.

Muscles:

Soft. Loose. Lacking density and spring.

Especially the core and lower body—empty, weak, unstable. Maintaining proper posture would be t*****e for this vessel, let alone combat or endurance drills.

Bones & Joints:

A sluggish, grinding stiffness spread through the spine and hips. Poor posture and years of inactivity had caused deep, chronic strain. Flexibility and explosive power? Almost nonexistent.

Neural Response:

His thoughts slogged through sticky molasses, and his body lagged behind his mental commands like a broken marionette. The result of long-term alcohol a***e and late nights destroying his nervous system.

Ruined. Completely ruined.

The conclusion struck cold and merciless.

This body’s condition was ten times worse than he had expected. Forget regaining his previous peak—even reaching the minimum standard of a recruit would be a delusion.

It was a sandcastle riddled with cracks, collapsing under its own weight. A slight push could shatter it entirely.

Humiliation surged like molten steel.

He—who once made enemies tremble at the name Dragon’s Fury—was trapped inside this rotting shell? And this shell carried the degrading title of Prince Weakling?

Rage flared in his chest, threatening to rip through the medical bay.

But in the next second, the fury was crushed beneath something far greater—

The icy calm and iron will forged through countless near-death missions.

Anger solves nothing, he told himself, voice echoing in the chamber of his mind—cold as steel.

Complaints are the dying whimpers of the weak.

I’m alive. My soul remains. That means this body—no matter how broken—is my weapon now.

And a weapon—no matter how shabby—can still be reforged.

I will rebuild it. Reshape it. Tear out every last drop of potential it has.

This frail shell will carry the soul of Dragon’s Fury again.

A harsh, almost cruel determination replaced humiliation and rage.

The goal was crystal clear:

Survive.

Then forge this worthless body into a blade sharper than before.

This wasn’t about passing some rookie training.

This was a war between him and his own decayed flesh.

Just then, the door creaked open. Footsteps approached.

Instantly, Aiden smothered the sharpness in his eyes. His expression softened into the dazed weakness of someone barely returned from the brink of death. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.

The man who entered was Grant Mason, squad leader of the Rookie Battalion, carrying a metal military meal container. His expression remained stern, but a faint hint of relief flickered when he saw Aiden awake.

“You’re up? How’re you feeling?” Grant set the container on the bedside table. His voice was steady, hard-edged as always.

“Reporting, sir… much better.”

Aiden forced raspiness into his voice, adding a touch of weakness and disorientation—the perfect image of a boy recovering from a near-fatal episode. He even made a small, struggling attempt to sit up.

“Stay down.”

Grant’s palm pressed firmly onto his shoulder—solid, controlled strength. “The medic said you need twenty-four hours of observation. You’re lucky. You almost didn’t come back this time.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Aiden’s pale but noticeably steadier face.

“You know what happened to you?”

“I… know a little.” Aiden lowered his eyes, letting fear tint his tone. “I couldn’t… keep running. My chest… it felt like someone crushed it.”

“Hmph.”

Grant snorted, seemingly satisfied with the fear he saw. “Good. Remember it. This isn’t your private mansion—this is a military unit. Training is real here. With that flimsy frame of yours, those spoiled, drunken habits won’t get you anywhere. You got lucky this time. Next time? On a battlefield, no one’s calling a medic for you.”

He opened the meal container—inside was thin millet porridge and a small serving of salty pickles.

“Eat. You need strength. Commander Isaac Powell said this counts as a sudden medical emergency—no punishment. But once you recover, you’ll make up every minute of training. Don’t even think about slipping by. Understood?”