Chương 36: The Golden Mean

Two teenagers froze by my bed, shifting from foot to foot like timid petitioners awaiting an audience with a monarch. In their eyes was a volatile mix of hope, embarrassment, and that same puppy-like excitement I had sparked with my ten-minute victory on the pull-up bar. They were clearly expecting a long, heartfelt conversation or at least a dose of profound wisdom that would instantly transform them from scrawny gamers into universal soldiers. With a heavy sigh, I set the book aside.

In fact, I had originally planned to ignore Danny's advice and keep my distance from my fellow servicemen. No attachments, no brotherly bonds. After all, I was at least twice as old as any of these kids. What kind of friendship could there be? I was not their buddy, not their mentor, and I had never even aimed for the role of a cool older brother. However, during the three-month head start I had before arriving here, I had tried to prepare for everything, including communication with the younger generation.

I had studied several hefty volumes on developmental psychology, trying to understand how not to come across as a fossil while still maintaining authority. The main rule I had taken away was simple: stick to the golden mean. You could not act like an arrogant old man going, "listen here, kid, I've lived a whole life while you were still in diapers." That only provoked dull irritation and the urge to do everything the opposite way. But trying to act like one of the guys was an even bigger mistake.

All those attempts by adults to imitate youth slang, discuss the latest video games, or, heaven forbid, record cringeworthy dances for social media looked pathetic. Teenagers could sense fake behavior from a mile away. They liked it when an adult was open and honest, but they could not stand it when he barged into their territory, trying to pass as a peer.

"Maybe... you could, like, give us a couple tips?" Ted scratched the back of his head awkwardly, staring somewhere around my boots.

"We saw how you... you know, on that ladder thing. How do we train better so we don't drop dead after five hundred yards?" I looked over the two goofballs. Nick with his slipping glasses, and Ted with his perpetually messy hair. They were waiting for some kind of magic secret, a cheat code to reality that would instantly bulk up their muscles and give them infinite stamina. Well, I decided not to disappoint them, but to start with the basics.

"First of all, get a haircut," I said, deliberately running my palm over the back of my head, feeling the stiff bristle of my short, aerodynamic military cut.

"Trust me, training gets a lot easier without that extra weight." The boys glanced at each other and blinked in sync. That was clearly not the secret technique they had expected.

"Wait, is there even a barbershop here?" Nick tugged at his bangs doubtfully, which were already close to covering his eyebrows.

"They didn't say a word about that during briefing."

"It is unlikely they brought a professional stylist with a full set of hair products to a classified military facility," I allowed myself a faint smirk.

"Though who knows. Judging by the place, it's a five-star army. VIP conditions, personal lockers, hot water. Maybe there's a barber on staff whose job is to refresh elite hairstyles daily." Ted snorted quietly, catching the sarcasm, but Nick seemed to take it seriously and sank into deep thought.

"Just tell the sergeant your hair's getting in the way," I continued.

"They might not find you a stylist, but they'll definitely give you clippers or at least scissors. Stand in front of a mirror and cut off everything unnecessary. It'll look uneven, crooked, and ugly, but it'll work for training. No one's inviting us to a runway yet."

"Hey, Tom..." Nick hesitated, adjusting the arm of his glasses.

"Maybe you could ask him yourself? The sergeant, I mean. He kind of treats you... differently. Like he respects you or something. He'll just grind us into dust if we start whining about hairstyles."

"In a regular training camp, I would understand your fear of drawing attention from command," I said, gesturing around our barracks, which looked more like a decent hostel than a soldier's dorm.

"But here the rules are a bit different. If your request is logical and aimed at improving your performance, no one is going to eat you alive. Show some initiative. That is part of the training too."

"Well, if you say so..." Nick muttered, but a spark suddenly lit up in his eyes. Some kind of brilliant plan had clearly formed in his head.

"Hey, what if we go together? Like, you as the senior..."

"What am I, your babysitter?" I made sure my voice sounded firm, though irritation stirred inside.

"I promise you, no one's going to shoot you for asking for a haircut. Go and do it." Nick visibly deflated, realizing no one was going to hold his hand. He still did not understand that the sergeant, for all his harshness, would probably be glad to see at least some signs of common sense and seriousness.

"Alright, forget the hair," Ted leaned forward impatiently, almost looming over my bed.

"Tom, just give us your training program. Step by step, what to do, how many sets. Please!"

"Why do you need another program?" I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.

"Is what the sergeant puts you through not enough? Your schedule is already packed."

"Ah, screw that!" Ted waved his hand dismissively, grimacing.

"The sergeant's teaching us some kind of nonsense. Run, hang, stand... boring! That's for regular grunts, not for us." I froze, stunned by such unfiltered logic.

"That's an interesting statement," I said slowly, savoring each word.

"So you seriously believe I, an ordinary civilian accountant, can teach you combat skills better than a professional army instructor?"

"Man, what kind of accountant are you, seriously?" Ted grinned smugly, as if he had just cornered me with undeniable evidence.

"Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Your biceps are bigger than the sergeant's! You don't move like some office guy who spent his whole life at a computer. You didn't get like that sitting in a cubicle, come on! So where are you really from? Texas Rangers? Green Berets? CIA undercover?" Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. A strange sense of déjà vu pierced me. Ted reminded me painfully of Alex.

He used to spin the same wild theories, looking for traces of elite training in my every move and making the exact same arguments. It was a clear signal. My story about being a simple accountant was starting to fall apart and needed urgent revision.

"My secret's extremely mundane: daily gym sessions and nothing more," I replied in the flattest, most boring tone possible. The grin slowly slid off Ted's face. He had probably already imagined a story about secret training in underground labs or special operations in the Amazon jungle. My truth was far too bland for him.

"Well... uh..." he hesitated for a second, trying to process it, but quickly recovered.

"The gym! Okay! So you lifted weights! Barbells, dumbbells, machines! Not all this push-up, pull-up, bodyweight stuff the sergeant's making us do! That's ancient history!" In a way, he was right. Any reasonably competent coach would confirm that working with weights produced faster results. But I had no intention of undermining the sergeant's authority or, worse, becoming a catalyst for a teenage rebellion against the system.

"I started with bodyweight too," I lied, looking them straight in the eyes and enjoying their surprise.

"Before you grab heavy dumbbells, you've gotta learn to control your own body and build at least a basic muscle core. If you can't do five pull-ups, a barbell's just gonna wreck your back. So listen to the sergeant, he knows where to start. When your bones stop rattling with every step, we'll get back to talking about a program."

"Man, that sucks," Ted exhaled loudly, and the sound carried such sincere despair as if I had just sentenced him to life in hard labor.

"So how long are we stuck on those stupid bars before they let us into a real gym with weights?"

"That depends entirely on your build and how quickly your ligaments adapt to the load," I replied. On this point, I was not bending the truth at all. It was pure, dry physiology. The teenagers, shoulders slumped, drifted back to their bunks in gloom. I could practically feel their disappointment on my skin, thick and sticky. They had hoped I would press some magical button, hand them a secret cheat, and they would wake up the next morning with steel abs and broad shoulders.

Reality, however, was ruthless, and there were no shortcuts here. I did possess the ability [Trainer], but for now my only [Familiar] was myself, and all the bonuses went to my own body. Or could I help them after all? The thought caught at the edge of my mind and began to unwind. Yes, my superpower could not directly modify their metabolism or magically grow their biceps. But I could do something else. I could design a perfect program for them, precise down to the last detail.

With all due respect to our sergeant, his training was a common boiler for everyone. An average load for an average soldier. I, on the other hand, having once spent hundreds of hours studying professional material on biomechanics and fitness, understood that Nick and Ted were two completely different biological mechanisms. They required different levers. I took out a notebook and a pen. In my mind, like on a display, data began to surface from today's run and exercises: breathing rhythm, range of motion.

There was more than enough information. [Special command: generate optimal training plans for Ted and Nick] The entire world around me suddenly faded and collapsed into a single point, the tip of my pen. I felt that familiar rhythm of hyperfocus, both frightening and exhilarating. My fingers flew across the paper so fast that I could barely register the numbers and terms I was writing. Exercise schemes, recovery calculations, optimal caloric intake based on their weight.

I snapped back to reality in just five minutes. It was my shortest immersion, but incredibly productive. In my hands were two sheets filled edge to edge, one for each of them. Ted and Nick were sitting on their beds with cards in their hands, but the game had been forgotten. They were frozen, staring at me with expressions of profound shock.

"Something wrong?" I asked, keeping my voice as casual and accountant-like as possible.

"Tom, are you for real right now?" Ted swallowed.

"You were writing so fast... I seriously thought the paper was gonna catch fire or the pen would melt."

"You looked like a damn machine," Nick added, nervously adjusting his glasses.

"You didn't even blink. Just... whoosh, and it was done."

"Just a burst of inspiration," I shrugged carelessly and closed the notebook.

"Happens sometimes when you work with numbers for too long, your brain kicks into overdrive." Fortunately, they were too stunned to ask questions or try to peek at my notes. Meanwhile, I was frantically figuring out what to do with this treasure. Give it to the guys? Absolutely not. The moment the sergeant found those sheets on them, and he would, it was only a matter of time, I would be in serious trouble. Discrediting the training program was a serious offense.

Spitting in the face of the military system by claiming you were smarter than an entire staff of instructors was a bad move for a newcomer. Give it to the sergeant? A better option. He was a professional and could appreciate the quality. But there was a risk he would simply toss them in the trash out of professional jealousy. Pass it to Selina? Now that was better. Professor Langstrom herself had asked me to come to her with anything related to my abilities. This program was a direct result of my power.

She would definitely be interested. Decision made. Tomorrow after the lecture, I would find a way to pass her the papers. I was dying to see how she would react to this kind of analytical output. Dinner passed uneventfully. I rested while the guys scrubbed the barracks for their morning slip-up. Sleep was deep and dreamless. I woke up at four in the morning, my internal clock working more precisely than any Swiss watch.

A quick shower, a clean uniform, and a light snack of cookies I had prudently secured from the mess hall. Around five thirty, I approached the guys' beds.

"Hey, soldiers, wake up," I nudged Ted lightly on the shoulder.

"Sergeant'll be here in half an hour."

"Go away..." Ted muttered lazily, pulling the blanket over his head.

"Half an hour more... I wanna sleep..."

"Your call," I said calmly, stepping back to my bunk.

"If you liked yesterday's show with putting your pants on while running and the bonus latrine duty for being late, keep sleeping. I won't stop you." Nick shot up as if blown by the wind. He immediately grabbed his glasses from the shelf and, stumbling, headed toward the sinks. Seeing him, Ted could not hold out either, with a groan and a string of curses he sat up, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Why was I doing this? Probably because it required no effort from me.

I was already up anyway, and nothing would improve if those two got into trouble again. In the end, there was no personal ranking system here forcing us to sabotage each other. And that was a good thing. At exactly 06: 00, the lock on the door clicked. The sergeant burst into the barracks, ready to deliver his dose of morning adrenaline.

"Company, up!" his voice filled the room.

"Ten minutes to get ready! Time's up!" He cut himself off. The three of us stood in the center of the room, fully dressed, squared away, in a perfectly aligned line. The sergeant froze, his gaze sweeping over us, lingering for a moment. Genuine surprise flashed across his face, which he immediately suppressed. He gave a barely noticeable, approving nod, and that nod was meant specifically for me for my contribution to discipline.

The morning unfolded along a familiar script: an exhausting run that once again left the guys pale green, a series of pull-ups where I once again served as an example, and a dense, high-calorie breakfast. They fed us heavily here, the army clearly had no intention of saving on fuel for its future heroes. After breakfast came the long-awaited cool of Professor Langstrom's lecture hall, and the topic of S-Power.