Reborn in America’s Anti-Terror Unit

Soon, the three-week indoctrination period came to an end. During that time, real SEALs occasionally stopped by to teach them about mission objectives and operational methods. Once the trainees had adapted to the rhythm of life on base, the once-unbearable training began to feel merely grueling. Just as everyone started thinking this was the worst it could get, the nightmare truly began.

From the fourth week onward, the training intensity doubled.

The training still consisted of push-ups, running, calisthenics, swimming, and obstacle courses, but the volume was much higher and the time limits were tighter.

Training became non-stop. Sometimes, they would go for days without sleep. Day and night ceased to have meaning—just abstract concepts for the sun and stars. SEAL trainees lived on another plane of existence.

There were a few tricks within the physical training routines that allowed trainees to conserve energy while still passing. This wasn't just about brute strength—it was about learning how to survive.

Day after day.

Because of failed assessments or injuries, the number of trainees steadily dwindled. Every day, someone would drop out—sometimes due to injury, sometimes because they simply couldn't go on.

One of the instructors had told them: "No one will ask why. No one will write anything judgmental in your file. You're free to return to whatever you did before you came here. All it takes is three taps. It's easy. Leaving this place isn't shameful."

And it really wasn't. The things they did here pushed human endurance past its limit. Even those who quit would still be considered elite when they returned to their original units.

On average, they ran between 12 and 24 kilometers per day—up to 32 kilometers on the worst days. Their bodies were constantly wet, covered in sand, and rubbed raw. Medics didn't care—unless it was life-threatening, you got a tube of ointment and were sent on your way.

Owen and his team had just finished running two kilometers while carrying an inflatable raft—through knee-deep seawater.

They were practically submerged in ocean water all day. Their uniforms were never dry.

Being immersed in saltwater for hours on end was no joke. After a few hours, the body began to go numb. Muscle cramps and cold-induced hallucinations were common. It was misery on a primal level.

Every day, they were asked to do something beyond the limits of human endurance. The instructors demanded they run faster, swim farther, and dive deeper.

You couldn't fall behind, because you were part of a team. You couldn't fail, because you were part of a team.

Any individual's failure meant punishment for the whole unit. This forged an unprecedented level of unity. When you were exhausted, someone pushed you. When someone else was faltering, you lent a hand.

There were times when all they wanted to do was collapse. Yelling, punishment—they didn't care. They just wanted to rest. But if they gave in, the entire team would suffer.

After a few group punishments, no one dared to slack off again.

There was only one thing they could do: endure.

If you were hungry, there was no extra food—just endure. If you were cold, no one would help you. You had to tell yourself over and over: I'm not cold, I'm not cold.

Eventually, they stopped remembering why they were even enduring. It had simply become habit. As long as they weren't dead, they kept going.

You'd often see squads of ten carrying massive logs across the beach. The hard wood left their shoulders swollen and bruised—but that didn't even qualify as an injury here.

At the instructors' command, they would suddenly drop the log, dash into the ocean, and after fighting the waves, return and hoist the log again. And keep running.

One morning, Owen noticed the bed next to his was empty—David was gone.

He had joined the SEAL program because both his brothers had tried and failed. He wanted to be the one who made it. He had strong willpower and self-belief. Every night, Owen could hear him muttering: "You've got this, David. You can do it, David. Show them what you're made of."

But luck wasn't on his side. The day before, while running with the log, he was crushed and broke his leg. He was forcibly removed from the program.

He cried as he left—a big man, six feet tall, bawling like a child.

The numbers kept shrinking. But Owen remained.

He didn't know what drove him anymore. Even if he finished, he wouldn't be able to join the SEALs. But he wanted to keep going. He wanted to see how far he could make it.

A few days later, Albert also dropped out. He rang the bell himself. He had joined for a bizarre reason—his girlfriend had cheated on him with a Green Beret, so he decided to join the Navy's elite to one-up him.

But vengeance didn't provide enough motivation to get through this. Honestly, Owen thought he lasted far longer than expected.

Time flew—five weeks had passed. Only two weeks remained in the physical training phase. It had been brutal. They were allowed only a few hours of sleep each day, with no time to recover. Everyone had reached their physical and psychological limit.

Throughout it all, the instructors stood by, verbally assaulting them, trying to break their will. They insulted their families, questioned their abilities, trying every trick in the book to crush them mentally.

Everyone understood why. No one wanted to give in. But willpower alone wasn't enough. The instructors observed everyone, silently scoring them.

Even if you lost your chance to pass on the very first day, they wouldn't tell you. You wouldn't know until the entire training phase was over.

That constant uncertainty added unbearable pressure—and caused many to quit.

At this point, the remaining trainees were numb. Every so often, the bell rang out again—a clear, sharp sound.

Another dream ended.

But no one knew anymore if leaving was good or bad.

Several times a week, they were lined up for military appearance inspections.

The standards were rigorous. Beds had to be perfect. Hats had to be firm and crisp. Uniforms had to be wrinkle-free. Belt buckles had to gleam without a speck of dust.

If you failed, the whole team would be punished with the dreaded "sugar cookie."

Fully dressed, they'd be ordered to the surf zone, doused until soaked, then roll in the sand until every crevice was filled with grit. They'd spend the rest of the day in that uniform—cold, damp, and itchy.

Every day brought new physical trials: long-distance running, extended swims, obstacle courses, hours of calisthenics.

It wasn't just about strength or stamina—it tested their spirit.

If you failed a challenge, your name was posted publicly. That night, you'd be "invited" to perform the infamous "circus."

The circus meant two extra hours of training. Sometimes more calisthenics, sometimes treading water. The point was to exhaust you. To break you.

No one wanted to be part of the circus.

The circus meant you hadn't measured up. It meant you'd be more tired the next day. Which meant you'd fall behind again. Which meant another circus. A brutal spiral. A death loop.

And many rang the bell because of it.

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