One Month Later...
Since that intense first day—the day Rivet and Keshav took their first steps into a world that demanded everything. Since then, the landscape of their lives had changed completely.
The sun was rising over the snow-covered mountains of Kashmir, casting a golden hue across the valley. The morning was unusually bright, but the cold still bit into the skin. A sharp wind rustled the flags at the edge of the army camp, and the faint sound of distant bugles blended with the rhythmic beat of running boots.
The training ground was alive. Dozens of cadets ran in formation, sweat mixing with steam as their breath hit the freezing air. It was a daily ritual now.
This wasn't just any army training program. This was Project Surya Astra — the Special Combat Development Program, an elite initiative created by the Indian Government under the direct supervision of top military officials. The goal: to build the next generation of special forces. Not ordinary soldiers, but specialists. Fighters who could adapt, survive, and dominate in any terrain, any situation.
Selection into this program wasn't easy. Some were handpicked by senior Colonels after nationwide school or academy tournaments. Others made it in through one of the toughest entrance examinations in the country. The training spanned one year of combat and knowledge mastery, followed by six months of live-scenario mission training. Only the best survived. Only the extraordinary advanced.
Rivet was no longer the same boy who once struggled to wake up. The past month had carved discipline into his bones. His body had adapted, and though soreness still lingered, it no longer held him back. Keshav, too, had grown—his precision and control now even more refined.
That morning, the routine had subtly changed. The training had escalated, just as Colonel Vikrant had promised. Instead of 50 pushups, it was now a mandatory 100. The 10 km runs were now stretched to 12. Obstacle courses had been restructured with heavier weights and harsher penalties. Mistakes were no longer corrected softly—they were punished and learned from.
After the warm-up and drills, the cadets moved to the shooting range.
Rivet adjusted his grip on the rifle as he stepped up to the line. His breathing was steady, but his shots were scattered. A few hit the target's edges, but most missed the mark. Frustration showed on his face.
A few stalls over, Keshav's shots were nearly flawless—tight, precise groupings that made even the instructors nod with approval.
As they took a short pause between rounds, Rivet sighed and stepped aside, clearly disappointed.
Keshav walked over, towel draped around his neck. "You're getting better," he said, offering a bottle of water.
Rivet took it, shook his head. "Better doesn't cut it here. How the hell do you do it so perfectly?"
Keshav sat down beside him, quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, low and calm. "When I aim, I don't see a target board."
Rivet looked at him, curious. "Then what do you see?"
"I imagine an enemy," Keshav said, eyes fixed ahead. "Not just standing there, but aiming right at me. In my head, it's kill or be killed. That pressure—it sharpens my focus. I tell myself, if I miss, I die. And that's enough to keep my aim steady."
Rivet was silent for a moment, then gave a small nod. He walked back to the line, raised his rifle again. This time, he didn't just aim. He saw it—an enemy with a gun, staring him down.
He pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The shot pierced straight through the center of the circle. One perfect hit.
Keshav smiled faintly and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Told you. It's all in the mind."
Just then, a sharp voice echoed from behind. "Not bad."
They turned to see Major Abhay Singh, walking toward them. He was the lead shooting instructor—once a field legend, known across multiple regiments for his lethal precision in black ops. His kill-count was classified, but the respect he commanded wasn't.
Major Abhay stopped beside them, eyes sharp. "Both of you—decent performance. But remember, precision is built through repetition. Don't relax just because you hit the bullseye once. Keep practicing. Every shot must be instinct."
Rivet stood straight, respectful. "Yes, sir."
Abhay looked at Keshav. "You have a steady hand and a focused mind. Keep working on your speed now. And you,"—he turned to Rivet—"you're improving fast. That's good. Keep it that way."
With that, he walked off to check on other cadets.
Lunch call echoed through the field. The cadets began dispersing, sweaty and tired but disciplined. Rivet and Keshav walked toward the mess tent, not saying much—just sharing the quiet understanding that they were one step closer to becoming something more than just soldiers.
Something the world would one day depend on.