I Picked Up a Military Dog in the Middle of Nowhere - C1.1

Chapter One: The Man in the Remote Wilderness (1.1)

That was a story that happened at least ten years ago.
That year, due to reasons I can’t really explain, I was sent to work in a deep mountain forest in a remote wilderness area. I can’t say exactly where, but it was a scorching hot summer.
At that time, there was only one military company stationed in that deep forest.
A large courtyard built with red bricks, with a three-story building nestled amidst the embrace of the trees.
We arrived in the afternoon; the sunset filtered through the trees and fell into the courtyard. On the basketball court, they were playing basketball.
Some wore dark green physical training short-sleeves, some were shirtless, all wore dark blue physical training shorts, black socks, and camouflage shoes — very standard military attire, plain and simple.
As soon as we entered the courtyard, we could hear their beast-like howls and cheers, the basketball bouncing loudly on the concrete ground, hitting the hoop with a clang.
In such a desolate place, they made a surprisingly loud scene.
The instructor went over to communicate with them and looked for their company commander. A young soldier looked up and shouted, “Commander, someone’s here!”
That accent made me want to laugh. I couldn’t help but greedily watch the several muscular bodies exposed on the court — dark-skinned, strong, muscles obvious, all exuding wildness.
A tall man wearing a sweat-drenched short-sleeve quickly walked over. While walking, he lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat, revealing the thick patch of pubic hair extending downward from his navel and sharply defined abs — it immediately caught my eyes.
He let go of his hand; the damp shirt clung to his body, outlining the square shape of his chest muscles, two nipples slightly erect, and even the outlines of his eight-pack abs were visible through the wet fabric — truly enticing.
When he came closer, he looked us over with a puzzled expression before finally fixing his gaze on our instructor.
This man was fairly tall, broad-shouldered and sturdy, naturally exuding a masculine aura. His head was a bit square, not elongated but somewhat flattened, making him seem less domineering and softening the pressure from his muscular build.
His face was serious, glaring with two thin creases beside his mouth, showing no sign of a smile.
The instructor politely explained our purpose, and the people from headquarters supported his words.
We had been out working for months already, dirty and exhausted like a group of refugees. We were hoping to stay indoors somewhere, but this company commander stubbornly only allotted us a patch of grass.
Although we had tents and cots, who wanted to live like that? The instructor spent a long time negotiating with their commander, but he refused to budge, saying there wasn’t enough space.
The three-story building housed dozens of people — not too many, not too few — there was enough room if they made space, but the quality of life for this company would take a big hit if they had to squeeze us in.
It was just a matter of willingness.
As it turned out, this commander, who supposedly cared about his soldiers, was unwilling.
We couldn’t convince him, and we had no choice. The sun had already set, so we set up our tents under the floodlights.
The veteran sergeants were pretty pissed, muttering under their breaths, and only finished setting up around ten o’clock at night. When I finally lay down, my waist almost gave out.
The instructor was also unhappy and told me, “This guy looks down on us.”
I could see it too.
Our crew were all big, burly guys, strong and quick, but had no soldier’s bearing.
Look at them — running five kilometers at night, shouting slogans like wild horses. The commander led the pack, sprinting the last kilometer, truly a loud, spirited company with equally loud, spirited soldiers.
I squinted, watching them stand in the darkness for roll call. Every one of their bodies was perfect — a feast for the eyes.
Sigh, I’m a sucker for good-looking men, so I advised, “They’re forged like iron; we’re hammered steel. If they look down on us, so be it. But honestly, I don’t think they’re trying to make things hard for us. Their place is small, squeezing together only breeds conflicts. Better to live separately and avoid trouble. It’s only for a month; we won’t see each other after that. Just bear with it.”
The instructor just wanted to save face and take the easy way out. After I said that, he slept soundly.
I lay in bed and pulled out my phone, instinctively opening the Blue app.
This wilderness was so remote that the nearest village was over ten miles away, and the closest city was 200 kilometers off. I thought I’d probably find only ghosts on the app here.
Unexpectedly, within 0.9 km, there was someone — last online five days ago.
This couldn’t just be a passerby. I checked the profile and felt something was off.
A national flag, guards, slogans like “Victory in the first battle or die trying,” and a propaganda poster on the wall.
I stood up and stepped outside my tent. It was pitch black and I couldn’t see anything, but I vaguely remembered seeing that poster in the afternoon.
This user, whose name was just a string of numbers and letters, must be someone from this company.
32, 187, 90, and other numbers.
If he hadn’t lied about his measurements, there were only a few people in this courtyard matching that build.
I sent a message: “Are you there?”
: “Are you from the XX company?”
: “Want to swap photos?”
I sent a fake photo as a flash shot — had to protect myself when out here.
That simple “Are you there?” only got a reply three days later.
During those two days, I worked the day shift, leading people through various chaotic tasks, busy enough to almost break my legs, yet I kept glancing at the Blue app.
It was because the soldiers here were too tasty to ignore.
This place, remote wilderness, deep forest, far from civilization, this group of soldiers followed such a commander and trained hard every day: four-hundred-meter obstacle course in the morning, ten-kilometer cross-country in the afternoon, lugging heavy ammunition boxes one day, carrying a meter-long artillery barrel the next, and doing pull-ups at night. They spun like windmills.
They made our group look pathetic. Only one or two of our best could keep up with them. There was no comparison — really none.
Maybe because there were no women, these burly guys trained shirtless, sweat-slicked black muscles shining, every single one with chiseled pecs and abs, even some with shark-like “public dog” waistlines — insanely impressive. It got me so riled up I was almost cross-eyed, damn it. Three days and I’d already drained two tubes.
If there really was a kindred spirit here, even if just for a little fun, a genuine wild soldier — how tempting!
After three days, I finally got one reply: “Are you here to work?”
Nothing to hide there — anyone with half a brain could guess that our new crew showed up in this barren place.
I replied, “Yeah, are you from this company?”
Read but no reply.
Damn it. Looking at my profile, I felt sad — I was honest and straightforward, no tricks, not very appealing.
I couldn’t give up, and still asked, “Are you number 1?”
If that hit the mark, it would be luck; even if it didn’t, at least we could have a little fun, right? I said, “Bro, you’re stuck here in the middle of nowhere, don’t you feel suffocated not seeing another like you all year?”
All afternoon, no reply.
Unread — the only consolation.
That afternoon, the instructor asked me to talk to the company commander here about borrowing their kitchen.
We set up tents but had to use a food truck, which was no match for a proper kitchen. The quartermaster was furious.
I saw the instructor was having a tough time communicating with this company commander, and our commander had a bad temper and wouldn’t dare confront him directly, so this task fell to me — bad luck.
I found the third floor and knocked. A deep voice said, “Come in.”
I entered and saluted, “Reporting!”
Though not my direct superior, he was still a company commander, so the rules applied.
Inside, he sat upright in his office, dressed in camouflage, hat on, belt fastened, military boots, looking sharp and proper.
This uniform, although everyone here wore it, looked especially impressive on him — broad shoulders, narrow waist, heroic and imposing. Especially the tight belt highlighting his waistline — I was jealous just looking.
I looked down at myself — loose leg bindings, boots half off, no belt, sleeves rolled up — a clear amateur.
The commander looked me up and down with a strange gaze, as if scrutinizing me.
Damn, he must think I’m no soldier. I’m confident if I was assigned here, he’d drill thirty pounds off me in six months.
“Commander, we wanted to ask if we could use your kitchen. Our food truck isn’t working well, and cooking is inconvenient,” I humbly requested.