Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

In the afternoon, the three instructors reappeared.

The entire second half of the day was spent on an unrelenting series of drills—running, jump rope, rope climbs, obstacle courses, push-ups, and stretching routines. It was also when the instructors revealed their true colors, showing just how sadistic they could be.

Owen and the others would often be in the middle of a run when they were suddenly ordered into the ocean to swim 200 meters, only to return immediately and keep running. Sometimes, it seemed the only reason was that two instructors cracked a joke between themselves.

Their torment came in all forms, and it wasn't personal—it was directed at everyone.

Gasping and soaked with sweat, 138 trainees finally reached the finish line. Not a single person fell behind. Those with weaker endurance were literally dragged by their teammates if necessary. The instructors had successfully used a brutal 5,000-meter run to teach them the meaning of teamwork.

Someone vomited loudly—he had been in a technical unit in his former post, with far less physical training. He only made it thanks to help from others, and once they stopped moving, his body gave up. No instructor even looked his way, and the medical staff standing by didn't flinch. This didn't even count as an injury here.

"Five minutes. Obstacle course. Be there."

The three instructors delivered the command coldly, then sped off on their beach ATVs. Meanwhile, the trainees had to run another two kilometers just to reach the obstacle zone.

Five minutes later, they arrived, heaving for breath. They were allowed a single minute to rest before the obstacle training began.

Trench jumps, scaling high walls, 100-meter sprints, balancing on beams, rope swings over water pits, crawling under barbed wire nets.

The barbed wire hovered just slightly above a prone body. There were no spikes, but no one dared deviate from proper form—not with live machine gun fire buzzing overhead.

"Watch your asses, rookies! I swear I'm dying to see one of you get your butt torn open by gunfire. If you don't wanna end up on our annual training fatality list, you better stay sharp! You wanna see your mom again or be just another letter in a folded flag?!"

The gunfire didn't stop. The rattling of bullets tore through the air above them while they writhed and slithered through mud and muck.

Owen crawled through the wet dirt with focused precision, ensuring every movement was within the narrow margin of safety. The machine guns on the edge of the course never ceased their roaring, bullets slicing the air just inches from his back.

Finally through the gauntlet, Owen picked up speed, sprinted forward, grabbed the end of a rope, and vaulted over a water pit—but lost his grip mid-air and crashed face-first into the water.

"FUCK! What are you, a goddamn ballerina? What the hell are you doing?! MOVE YOUR ASS!"

Before he even got his bearings, the instructor's wrath descended on him. Owen clawed his way out, making sure to stay clear of the person behind him. He stumbled back to his feet, water dripping off him in sheets.

He wasn't the only one to screw up—while he might have been the only civilian in the group, plenty of the other recruits came from technical or logistics units with limited combat experience. His performance wasn't exceptional, but he wasn't alone.

Thankfully, Owen's strength lay elsewhere. Obstacle climbing, for instance—he used to be a free runner. His agility gave him an edge when scaling structures.

After vaulting a wooden wall, he sprinted ahead. The final obstacle was a three-story building—the so-called "enemy stronghold," according to the instructors.

They had to storm the building, climb up via a soft rope ladder or some other method, cross the rooftop, and zipline down the other side.

Owen reached the structure and grabbed a drainage pipe, scaling the outer wall. Others chose to go through windows or find footholds on the building's rough exterior.

He ascended rapidly, only to hear a sudden thud beside him. When he finally reached the roof and looked down, he saw that the recruit who had been climbing through a window had slipped and fallen.

Medics rushed over immediately, and training was halted. Even the instructors looked grim as they gathered around the scene.

Some trainees instinctively tried to get a closer look, but the instructors barked them back with deadly serious expressions. It was obvious—they were not happy.

A few tense minutes later, the medics quietly shook their heads and covered the fallen trainee's face with a white sheet.

Everyone was stunned. Just moments ago, the guy was right there training beside them. Now he was gone.

Owen felt the weight of mortality for the first time since arriving. That trainee had been agile, clearly skilled, but one slip was all it took to end his life.

The instructors stood solemnly before the silent formation.

"You see that? The cost of this selection isn't just sweat. It could be your fucking life," one shouted, voice echoing off the walls.

"If any of you are thinking twice, good. You should. If you want to leave, no one will judge you. Go over there, ring the bell three times, and you're free. Go home. Go hug your family. Just don't waste our fucking time if you're not ready to pay the price."

He pointed to the fog bell in the corner of the course—a familiar sight by now. Every training zone had one. It was the most "humane" part of SEAL training: a way out.

Silence reigned. No one moved. Then one figure stepped out.

He walked over to the bell, rang it three times, and laid his cap beside it.

Then another.

Then a third.

One by one, they rang the bell and left, their backs straight, never once looking back.

The training ground was frozen in time. The man who died had changed everything. No one mocked those who rang the bell—some were even envious.

The tragedy shattered the illusion. This wasn't just a hard training camp. This was deadly.

Many were now questioning whether it was all worth it. Maybe they weren't ready to die for a trident pin.

"If no one else is leaving, then MOVE YOUR GODDAMN ASSES!"

Instructor Lamb's thunderous curse snapped everyone back into motion. Training resumed.

Owen climbed the soft rope ladder to the opposite platform, gloved hands gripping the zipline.

Next to him, another trainee stood frozen. He trembled uncontrollably, staring at the zipline with wide eyes.

Owen glanced at him with a bit of sympathy—clearly, the guy was terrified of heights.

Without hesitation, Owen leapt into the air, sliding effortlessly down the line. He'd done this dozens of times as a SWAT operator.

Landing smoothly, he turned and saw that the other recruit was still frozen in place, too paralyzed to even take a step. He was likely next in line for elimination.

Before today, maybe that guy could've pushed through his fear. Adrenaline, pride, sheer willpower might've carried him over the edge.

But now? After watching someone fall to their death?

Not a chance.

Six meters off the ground was more than enough to kill. The trainee's terror had consumed him.

As Owen walked back, he heard another eruption of instructor profanity. Sure enough, that poor guy was probably getting cut.

And rightly so. Anyone that afraid of a three-story descent would never survive parachute training.

In the world of SEALs, fear could cost you your life—and worse, your teammates'.

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