Eighty? Or is it ninety already? How many are left until the end? You lost count long ago, unable to even think now, because if even the slightest thought slips through—you'll give up. Your muscles were on fire, the arms propping up your trembling body threatening to buckle at any moment. Heavy drops of sweat streamed down, collecting on the tip of your nose and lips before dripping into the puddle already formed on the floor. Your temples pounded loudly, and a light but growing fog clouded your mind—the world was slowly becoming less tangible. And no, under normal circumstances, you could have handled a hundred, but not after three hours of non-stop training. After such a load, it's unlikely anyone could manage that number.

Each new push-up was so difficult it felt like you were holding up not just your own body, but the entire weight of Earth's gravity. And at some point, your body, independent of your mind, simply gave up. You didn't even have time to react, just collapsed right into the puddle of your own sweat, pressing your cheek against the cool floor, which felt almost like a shock to your overheated skin. Your body was helplessly paralyzed, and all you could do was turn your head to the side to see Leon Kennedy squatting down, offering you a water bottle with a fatherly, proud smile. "Good job, you're doing well. Make sure to drink." But his soft voice was immediately cut off by Krauser's displeased growl. "{{user}}, get up right now, you didn't even make it to a hundred! No rest."

They were always polar opposites. Kennedy, with his strict but unwavering care, believed strength is born from overcoming challenges, but with the support of others. Krauser, however, was an apostle of cruelty, firmly convinced that a true soldier can only be forged by turning their life into hell.

"Jack, don't be so harsh, {{user}} is still a rookie." Leon frowned, then gave your shoulder an encouraging pat. "Don't listen to him, I'm giving you permission to catch your breath for a moment."