The Final Candidate for Super Soldier

The next morning.

Luke, officially selected by the military, packed some simple belongings and, with an excited Rogers in tow, boarded a special vehicle headed for the New Jersey Lehigh Training Camp.

Before they left, they met several key figures from the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

For instance, the stern-faced Colonel Phillips.

Dr. Abraham Erskine, the developer of the Super Soldier Serum.

Howard Stark, famous throughout New York.

And Agent Carter, who maintained her usual cold, elegant expression.

And so on.

The Strategic Scientific Reserve was a temporary agency specially established by the Allied Nations to win the war.

It was personally approved by President Roosevelt and the heads of state from various European countries.

It gathered elites from multiple fields, with its primary goal being to counter the Third Reich's Hydra—an evil organization marked by the monster Hydra.

Its secondary goal was to implement the "Super Soldier" program and end the war sweeping the world.

The current leader of Hydra was named John Schmidt, codenamed the "Red Skull."

He was said to be a trusted subordinate of Hitler.

His power rivaled, if not exceeded, that of Heinrich Himmler, who helped establish the Schutzstaffel and served as the head of the secret police, the Gestapo.

"Actually, the Red Skull might not even be the founder of Hydra..."

Luke thought, swaying back and forth in the back of the transport truck.

He remembered reading in the comics that the true origins of Hydra went back much further, to a more ancient era.

The Red Skull had merely taken the name, twisted its ideology, and turned it into a convenient tool.

In that regard, he shared some similarities with Adolf Hitler, once idolized by the Third Reich.

"Luke, do you think we'll run into Bucky?"

Rogers asked, clutching his bag.

Imagining Bucky's shocked expression when he learned that Rogers had enlisted and was heading to the battlefield, he couldn't help but look forward to their next meeting.

"Bucky's probably already set foot on English soil by now, fighting for freedom."

Luke smiled. He understood why Rogers was so determined to enlist.

A small guy who had long been mocked and bullied for his frail build.

There were usually only two paths ahead for someone like that.

Either stay optimistic and positive, like Rogers did;

Or become cynical and withdrawn, walling yourself off.

The former was rare; the latter, common.

And that, perhaps, was exactly why Steve Rogers would become Captain America.

He was someone who always walked the right path.

Rogers' eagerness to enlist wasn't driven by intense patriotism—he wasn't the type desperate to trade honor for medals or dream of making a name for himself.

More likely, this frail little guy just wanted to prove he was no different from those strong, burly men.

"Luke, why do you think Howard Stark is going to the Lehigh Training Camp? Is he a conscripted soldier too?"

Rogers asked curiously.

He knew nothing about the "Super Soldier" program or the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

He just assumed he was heading to the Lehigh Training Camp for basic training.

"Stark's nothing like us! He's a scientific advisor! A full-fledged senior officer!"

Luke shook his head.

How could two fresh recruits like them compare to Howard Stark?

Their treatment wasn't even the same!

Howard Stark could ride in a smooth, comfortable private car, chatting and laughing with a bunch of high-ranking officers along the way.

He'd probably go out carousing and having a good time at night.

Meanwhile, he and Rogers were stuck in the back of a transport truck that shook like a boat on rough seas.

"Get ready for life as a recruit, Rogers!"

Luke said with a meaningful smile.

For Rogers, who was far from strong, basic training was no easy task.

A week later.

"You alright, Rogers?"

Luke, having finished the weighted cross-country run, handed a towel to the frail, scrawny man.

He looked like he'd been pulled out of the water, his camouflage uniform soaked through with sweat.

His chest heaved violently, like a bellows being pumped, letting out ragged gasps.

Even a routine five-kilometer cross-country run was a grueling challenge for Rogers, whose physique was far from adequate.

"I'm... I'm fine! I just need a minute to catch my breath... and I'll be good!"

Luke watched Rogers speak in broken sentences, half-expecting him to collapse at any moment.

The fact that he'd made it this far—this bent-over, scrawny little man—showed real grit.

Sure, Rogers was always the last to finish every training task, and his scores were the worst.

But when it came to effort, he didn't fall short of anyone; if anything, he surpassed them.

"I feel a lot better! Thanks, Luke!"

After catching his breath, Rogers looked up at his friend and offered a grateful smile.

Without Luke's help, his situation might have been far worse.

In Rogers' eyes, the Caspian Training Camp wasn't much different from the streets of Brooklyn.

Bullies who used their strong muscles to pick on the weak—those bastards were everywhere.

Thankfully, Luke had stepped up, or Rogers would've ended up as another victim cornered and beaten by thugs.

"Fall in! Fall in!"

A sharp whistle blew, and the recruits, already conditioned by habit, jogged over and lined up in neat rows.

Some of them had already learned the hard way what happened when you disobeyed orders or acted like a troublemaker.

That cold, sharp-featured female officer with the British accent wasn't as fragile as she looked.

Gilmore Hodge, the recruit who'd taken a punch from her, could attest to that—his nose was still covered with a band-aid.

Besides, the daily high-intensity physical training was enough to drain everyone's excess energy.

"After your observations these past few days, which recruit has the best performance and stands out the most?"

Standing nearby, watching the recruits being addressed, Colonel Phillips asked.

"It's Luke Cahill."

Carter raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the score sheet.

She hadn't expected that young man from Brooklyn.

Not only was his marksmanship impressive, but he also excelled in other test areas.

In physical drills like target shooting, weighted marches, and crawling under barbed wire, Luke easily took first place, leaving the runner-up far behind.

"I knew it! Erskine, I told you—Cahill is the right choice!"

Colonel Phillips clapped his hands.

He looked at Luke, standing tall and strong in the ranks, his eyes full of admiration.

The man perfectly matched the colonel's definition and image of an outstanding soldier.

"Let's wait a little longer. We still have time."

Dr. Erskine replied from beside him.

His gaze wasn't fixed on Luke, but on Rogers, who stood out conspicuously in the formation.

If the Super Soldier program was just about picking a big, strong brute, then Erskine wouldn't have needed to run this secret selection at all.

He could've just picked someone straight from the army.

The world was never short of excellent soldiers who obeyed orders and had strong muscles.

But finding a truly good man—a "Super Soldier" with power who didn't bully the weak—that was far harder.

Erskine knew he didn't have more time to patiently search and carefully uncover.

So he had to pin his hopes on Rogers.

That scrawny, short little man carried a rare quality that touched the heart.

"You had me look into Rogers' background. Yes, he's a... good man. But so what? If the committee's bureaucrats find out the Super Soldier candidate is a scrawny twig who can't even run without gasping for air, what do you think they'll say?"

Colonel Phillips said with dissatisfaction.

In his view, war was about comparing strength, not a soldier's character.

"The selection isn't over yet. The time hasn't come. Colonel, let's be patient a little longer."

Dr. Erskine gave the same answer.

But this time, his gaze shifted to Luke.