Reborn as a Succubus: Time To Live My Best Life!-Chapter 401: Discipline

{Armia}

Dawn broke over the training grounds.

Armia stood in formation with her squad, her breath misting in the cold morning air. Her muscles ached from yesterday’s drills. The scales on her wrists and thighs itched where sweat had dried during the night.

Captain Narim emerged from the barracks, her grey hair catching the early light.

"Morning run. Full gear. Fifteen laps. Move."

No preamble. No warmup. Just orders.

The squad grabbed their packs and started running.

Garrett pushed to the front immediately, his competitive streak showing. Elena maintained steady pace beside him. Kyle wheezed but kept going. Dara ran like a machine, her breathing controlled. Finn struggled in the back.

Armia settled into the middle, her long legs eating up distance.

[Don’t show off. Don’t fall behind. Just run.]

On lap three, Garrett slowed deliberately as Armia approached, forcing her to either break pace or navigate around him. She went wide, maintaining rhythm.

"Plenty of room, barbarian," he called. "Or do darians not understand formations?"

[Ignore him.]

Lap seven. Kyle vomited near the equipment shed but kept running. Finn had fallen a full lap behind. Elena’s breathing had turned ragged.

Armia felt fine. Better than fine. Her darian physiology was built for this—endurance, strength, sustained effort. She could run twice this distance without serious strain.

Lap twelve. Garrett’s smugness had faded, replaced by genuine exhaustion. He stumbled, caught himself, pushed forward.

Lyssa, a lean woman with dark skin and suspicious eyes, ran beside Armia.

"Must be nice," she panted. "Being a freak of nature."

Armia’s jaw clenched but she said nothing.

"Bet that’s the only reason you’re here. Or maybe the Queen’s nim pet vouched for you, didn’t she?"

Armia didn’t respond.

"Probably fucked your way into the program. That’s what your kind does, right? Seduce and conquer?"

Armia’s fist tightened but her pace didn’t change.

Lap fifteen finished. The squad collapsed near the water barrels, gulping down liquid and gasping for air. Armia stood straight, her breathing elevated but controlled.

Captain Narim observed from across the yard. Combat drills started immediately after the run.

Hand-to-hand first. Then weapons. Then mixed engagement scenarios.

Armia moved through each exercise easily. Block, strike, counter. Her training at the Academy had been thorough, her natural strength augmented by proper technique.

She pinned Kyle in twelve seconds. Disarmed Dara in twenty. Forced Elena into submission in under a minute.

Each victory earned harder stares from her squadmates.

During weapon drills, Garrett "accidentally" swung his practice sword too wide, nearly clipping Armia’s head. She ducked, reset her stance, and continued the exercise.

[He wants a reaction. Don’t give him one.]

Lunch was tense. The squad ate in silence, exhaustion heavy in the air. Armia sat at the end of the table, isolated by invisible walls.

Finn, the youngest recruit, glanced at her several times like he wanted to say something. He never did.

Afternoon brought tactical lessons. Captain Narim outlined formation strategies, protection protocols, threat assessment procedures.

Armia took notes. So did Elena. The others stared at the ceiling or dozed off.

"Duskscale," Narim called. "Scenario: assassination attempt on a diplomat during public address. What’s your primary concern?"

[The gala was something similar. Actually, something way worse. This is easy.]

"Crowd control. Panic creates chaos. Chaos creates opportunities for the assassin to escape or strike again."

"Correct. Secondary concern?"

"Escort route. Need a clear path to safety that hasn’t been compromised."

"Good." Narim’s eyes swept the room. "The rest of you should be taking notes."

Garrett muttered something under his breath. Armia caught the word "teacher’s pet" but let it slide.

Evening sparring sessions were voluntary but attendance was "strongly encouraged."

The entire squad showed up.

Narim paired them off based on performance metrics. She saved Armia and Garrett for last.

"Full contact. No lethal strikes. Fight until yield or incapacitation." Narim’s voice cut through the yard. "Begin when ready."

They moved to the sparring circle. Other recruits gathered to watch, joined by guards from other squads. Word had spread about the darian recruit and the human who hated her.

[Great. An audience. Just what I need.]

Garrett cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, barbarian. No Academy coddling to protect you now."

Armia took her stance, weight balanced, hands raised.

"Whenever you’re ready."

Garrett lunged.

His first strike was a feint, testing her reactions. Armia didn’t take the bait. His second was genuine—a solid right hook aimed at her jaw.

She blocked, redirected his momentum, and stepped back.

He pressed forward with a combination. Jab, cross, low kick. Each movement telegraphed his intentions, predictable patterns born from drilling the same techniques without adaptation.

Armia deflected, dodged, maintained distance.

"Fight back!" Garrett snarled. "Or are you too scared?"

[He’s trying to provoke me. Wants me to lose control, fight like a ’savage darian.’ Prove everyone’s prejudices right.]

Garrett threw a wild haymaker. Armia ducked under it, swept his legs, and had him on the ground in two seconds.

He rolled away, jumping to his feet. His face flushed red with anger and embarrassment.

"Lucky shot."

They reset.

This time Garrett fought dirty. Thumb toward her eyes, knee toward her groin, elbow toward her throat. Techniques designed to maim rather than defeat.

Armia blocked each strike, her discipline holding firm against the urge to retaliate with equal brutality.

[I could end this in seconds. Could use my full strength, break his arm, shatter his ribs. Prove exactly what a darian warrior can do. But that’s what he wants. That’s what they all want. Evidence that I’m dangerous, uncontrolled, not fit to protect anyone.]

Garrett grabbed her hair, yanking hard. Armia twisted with the pull, using his momentum against him. She locked his arm, applied pressure to the shoulder joint, and forced him to the ground.

He tried to roll out. She adjusted her grip, maintaining control.

"Yield," she said quietly.

"Fuck you."

She increased pressure. Not enough to dislocate, but enough to hurt.

"Yield."

Garrett’s face twisted with rage and pain. For a moment, Armia thought he might pass out rather than admit defeat.

Then, through gritted teeth:

"I yield."

She released him immediately, stepping back.

The watching crowd was silent.

Captain Narim stepped forward.

"Winner: Duskscale. Clean technique, appropriate force, maintained control throughout." She turned to Garrett, who was clutching his shoulder. "Garrett. Fighting dirty is acceptable when lives are at stake. Fighting dirty during training exercises because you’re angry is not. Five hundred pushups before dinner."

"But she—"

"Make it a thousand."

---

Later, alone in her barracks bunk, Armia stared at the ceiling.

Her body ached in new places. Bruises bloomed across her ribs where Garrett’s elbow had connected. Her shoulder throbbed where she’d blocked one of his strikes.

But it was the mental exhaustion that weighed heaviest.

One week down. Many more to go.

[Was this a mistake? Coming here, trying to prove myself to people who don’t want me here?]

Darien’s face flashed through her mind.

[No. This is exactly where I need to be. Someone has to prove that darians can be more than raiders and warriors. That we can serve and protect just like anyone else. Someone has to do it.]

Armia rolled onto her side, her white hair spilling across the pillow.

Tomorrow would bring more drills. More hostility. More tests of her resolve.

She’d face them the same way she’d faced today.

With discipline.

With control.

With quiet, unyielding determination.