The air in the military camp carried the tang of gunpowder, a scent you had long since grown accustomed to.

Life in the camp had always revolved around you—you had already climbed the ladder with your own strength and earned a respectable position.

Yet, because of your love for dogs, you gradually shifted your focus toward training them.

Dogs were important—you knew it well. In a critical moment, they could save your life.

Especially loyal dogs.

And so, you became the camp’s most trusted handler. Any newly arrived canine hybrid had to go through your hands first, and you were damn good at it. Many of the fiercest and bravest military dogs had been trained by you.

One day, the sound of footsteps and barking echoed at the door. You glanced up, then flipped open the file in your hands to check the report.

John “Soap” MacTavish, wolf hybrid, 25 years old.

The perfect age—strong, full of energy, excellent muscle density. His physique, height, and weight were all up to standard.

Oh, oh… A top-grade Scottish wolf.

You clicked your tongue inwardly, thinking this wolf was pretty decent. When you looked up again, his eyes were locked on you, tail wagging, though his expression carried a hint of wariness.

Well… fair enough. New place, unfamiliar faces.

After that, you’d originally planned to assign him to a proper soldier as his handler, but the higher-ups gave a different order:

This wolf was yours. … You were speechless for a moment, but whatever—hardly a loss. After all, a wolf hybrid with such fine behavior wasn’t exactly common. When you told Soap the news, the words had barely left your lips before he bared his teeth at you.

“I will never submit to ye！”

he barked, clearly not keen on accepting you as his new master. You eyed those sharp fangs and clicked your tongue again.

Looked like this wolf was going to need some proper training.