MATCH MATCH MATCH
The soldiers marched in sync. A day had passed since the incident at the unfinished building. Today's formation was full, as many who had been hospitalized were now discharged—thanks to the healing powers bestowed upon them.
In Cinarom City, becoming a soldier began at a tender age, right after discovering one possessed healing abilities. It was the only kind of power allowed. Legend had it that the gods had blessed their ancestors, so anyone born with such a gift was automatically marked for military service. It wasn't a choice. It meant only one thing:
"Meant for the military." As the stupid rule of Cinarom also believed: "If you're blessed, why not share?"
That was how Diablo ended up in the military too.
"All MATCH!" one of the soldiers roared, and the entire field echoed with the rhythm of synchronized boots against the burnt field as they marched forward in perfect unison.
"All STOP!"
They froze mid-step, moved slightly backward, then forward, and gave a crisp salute.
"AYYA!"
Silence fell. No one dared move.
"Where is Sage?" Lucas, the second-in-command, asked, scanning the line of men sharply. It was said that as you ranked higher, the gods granted you two extra gifts—unique to each person—beyond the general healing ability.
"I… I'm here!" Diablo huffed, running in from the side. He skidded to a halt in front of Lucas, panting heavily, sweat rolling down his face. A slice of bread hung from his lips, his bag flung open, and his uniform looked like a crumpled piece of paper a child had played with… or that high school boys had used for passing notes in class.
In contrast, the rest of the men stood upright—black-blue styled uniforms perfectly ironed, hair neatly slicked back. Even a beggar would look more presentable than Diablo right now.
He wasn't called Mr. Failure for nothing—he failed in all aspects of life, even in his looks.
If only they knew…
"Why are you late, Sage?" Lucas asked in a surprisingly calm tone. Diablo scratched his head and pushed the last of the bread into his mouth.
"Uh… NOM…I had to help my mum with chores… NOM," he muttered while chewing.
The soldiers around him couldn't help it—they laughed.
Lucas's gaze darkened as he turned to them.
"Who laughed?"
Silence slammed into the field like thunder striking a city. Eyes widened.
That voice… it wasn't Lucas's.
It was Commander James.
When had he arrived?
In one swift motion, all hands shot up.
Oh no… they were all in big trouble now.
All because of Mr. Failure.
A figure moved.
The commander.
His uniform looked freshly pressed, sleekly ironed—every fold precise, every button gleaming like silver. Diablo looked at him.
"Here you say if you're blessed, why not share? Why not share that nice uniform with us, James?" Diablo said to himself.
The commander's bald head shimmered under the blazing sun. Ironically, that very head had been the reason many soldiers learned how to inner laugh—laughing without notice, internally. There was just something about the way it gleamed that looked… off.
Like spoiled gold.
You see how that sounded off?
But laughter was strictly forbidden during training.
Then, to everyone's surprise, the commander strode past the rows of soldiers and headed straight for Lucas—who had his head deeply bowed.
Oh no…
They had dragged Lucas into trouble too.
And after the commander's punishment, there was no denying that Lucas would punish them afterward.
"Wow, what a wonderful day to start after recovery," Diablo chimed in his head.
Diablo was Sage's real name, but he had used Sage—for reasons known only to him.
The commander's voice rang out like a hammer hitting a broken nail.
"Is this a comedy show or a training session?"
"Oh James, your voice is more of the comedy here…" Diablo thought to himself.
Lucas immediately raised his head. "Training session, Commander James."
"Then tell me," the man said in a sharp tone, "what made you all laugh? Make me laugh too."
'Your head,' immediately echoed in Diablo's mind.
The commander's gaze landed on him.
Oh no—
Then the man shifted his gaze back to the soldiers.
"Oh phew… I thought he heard me," Diablo muttered inwardly.
Silence fell, heavier than before.
"Punishment number 45."
Eyes widened.
No one had expected that. Still, not a soul made a sound.
Then, in unison:
"Yes, Commander James."
He nodded.
"And as for you, Lucas… Commander 55. Punishment 65."
"Oh goodness… Who made the commander angry? He not only gave Lucas a punishment, but also lowered his rank!"
"Ouu… Diabs, seems like you're gonna have some little nemeses, huh?" he chuckled inwardly.
This time, even though their hearts raced, the soldiers fought to keep their faces blank. Any reaction could earn more punishment. Lucas only nodded.
"Yes, Commander James."
The punishment book. A feared thing. A record of every soldier's slip-up, rule-break, or sometimes just the mood of Mr. Commander. The commander's mood determined the severity. Today, clearly, his mood was foul. These were higher punishments than usual.
And to make it worse—they were scheduled for the afternoon. Under the scorching sun.
All because they laughed… because of Mr. Failure.
The commander turned, scanning the group slowly.
Then his eyes landed fully on Diablo.
Diablo was drenched in sweat. His uniform was damp and wrinkled, his hair stuck to his forehead, and he looked like he'd rolled out of a fight with a man selling ice cream.
"Did you laugh or not?" the commander asked, voice flat, as he noticed Diablo's hand had not been raised.
The soldiers' eyes moved to him, even though they all stood straight. The only thing that moved was their eyeballs.
Diablo quickly shook his head. "I didn't, Commander James."
"Good. Then you'll be in charge of the punishment. Clear or Clear?"
The silence became deafening.
'Wait…WHAT..Just HOW'
Diablo scratched the back of his neck. "Clear, Commander James."
The commander gave him a sharp look.
"No slacking."
"Yes, Commander James."
Diablo exhaled in relief. Finally, it seemed like the worst had passed.
Until—
"You still haven't told me what made you all laugh."
He turned back to Diablo.
"I arrived late, Commander James," he spoke, head bowed, back straightened.
"So you broke the rules?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Punishment One."
This time, a few soldiers couldn't help the twitch of a smirk. Even though that was the simplest—being the first—Diablo's punishments were always especially difficult for him. He had the lowest healing rank among them. Even now, some faded bruises remained on his skin—reminders that his body took longer to recover than the rest.
And then came the final blow.
"All of you. Out now. For the punishment."
Their eyes widened.
Now?
Wasn't it meant for the afternoon?
What had gotten into Commander James today?
Still, they all responded, voices loud and steady:
"Yes, Commander."
And together, in perfect sync, they marched off to the punishment center.
It wasn't just the punishment.
It was what the punishment meant.
Because of one harmless laugh—one moment of weakness sparked by that idiotic Mr. Failure—they were now facing the kind of sentence that blurred the line between survival and death.
Many wouldn't come out the same.
Some… might not come out at all.
Punishment 45 wasn't a joke.
But this was caused because of a joke.
But that wasn't even the worst part.
The worst part was knowing it could have been avoided—if he hadn't dared to show up late, sweating and chewing on bread while talking to Lucas.
Now their lives were on the line.
Because of him.
And everyone knew it.
They walked in sync, but their hearts were uneven—racing, bitter.
This wasn't discipline anymore.
This was war.
The weak one was going to be the main cause of some soldiers' deaths today.