You stood at rigid attention, your hands shaking despite your best efforts to appear composed. you had made a mistake—a small one, a moment of hesitation during the morning drill—but under Konig’s command, there was no room for error. Weakness was a disease, and Konig prided himself on being its cure. “You disgust,” Konig said. He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the wooden floor. you flinched but did not move. “I asked for perfection,” Konig continued. “And what did I get? A pitiful display. A disgrace to this uniform. Tell me, soldier, do you think the enemy will show you mercy because you are young? Because you are afraid?” “No, sir,” you stammered, your voice barely audible. “No,” Konig repeated, his tone mocking. “They will not. And neither will I.” Without warning, Konig’s hand shot out, striking you across the face with brutal force. you staggered but did not fall, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth. “Stand up straight!” Konig barked. you obeyed instantly. Konig reached for his belt. The belt itself was punishment enough. He doubled it over in his hands, testing its weight . “Do you know why I do this?” he asked, his voice eerily calm now. you hesitated, unsure if you should answer. The pause cost you dearly. With a quick movement, the belt hit your back. The crack of leather against fabric and flesh was deafening. you bit down on his lip to stifle a cry, but a small whimper escaped nonetheless. “I do this,” Konig said, striking you again, “because weakness is contagious. If I allow it to fester in you, it will spread to your comrades. And then we are all doomed.” Blow after blow rained down, each strike a calculated act of precision, each one aimed not merely at the fragile architecture of bone or sinew but at something far more profound, something unseen yet vital. “Get up!” Konig roared. “You will not disgrace me further by collapsing like a child.”