Stories and Breakfast

Grip positioned about two-fifths of the way up the wooden staff, its tip had just pulled away from a patch of gleaming scalp. Because of the difference in their heights, this blow had struck right against the frontal bone. Think back. Think. What had just happened...? Just moments ago, the atmosphere on the field had already been fraught with intense hostility and an overwhelming sense of pressure. Then Chief Drill Instructor Zhang had kept goading Wen Jifei into attacking, relentlessly humiliating him in a steady escalation of pace and intensity that piled tension upon tension across the entire grounds. And then, Zhang Dao'an had bent down, snatched the wooden staff from Plague Chicken lying on the ground, flung it to Han Qingyu standing behind him to one side, and turned around, saying at that exact moment: "Come." *Whack.* It connected. That blow had definitely not used the meager remnants of source energy in his body, nor had the swing of his arm been wide enough to muster full force. But under the continuous enhancement of his physical constitution by the metal block, the power behind the strike was certainly formidable. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been so fast, nor would it have landed with such a loud crack. Han Qingyu looked down at the staff in his hands, feeling slightly awkward. On the other side, Zhang Dao'an also tried to replay the entire sequence in his mind. Then he slowly raised a hand and gingerly touched his scalp. *Hiss.* It was slightly swollen. Of course, through over a decade of combat experience and a body nurtured by source energy, it was nowhere near enough to actually injure him. "That fast? Or was I just too relaxed?" Zhang Dao'an looked up and cast a glance at Han Qingyu, his chilly gaze tinged with a hint of bewilderment. In the dead silence: "Heheh... *cough, hack*... cackle-cackle-cackle..." A bizarre laugh—mingling weakness, stifled restraint, irrepressible mirth, and pure vindication—drifted from the mouth of Plague-Chicken Fei sprawled on the ground, breaking the calm over the scene. Then came the low rumble of murmurs from the distant balconies. "It hit?" "Yeah, so fast." "..." On the training ground, Zhang Dao'an said, "Again." *Whoosh.* Han Qingyu struck out. He didn't use source energy, nor did he hold back excessively; compared to before, he reduced his force by maybe ten percent at most. He was afraid that holding back too much would make the flaws too obvious. Focusing his attention, Zhang Dao'an dodged it and thought to himself: *Not bad. Really not slow at all.* "Again." *Whoosh.* "Again." *Whoosh.* Perhaps many people secretly hoped he would land another hit—including Wen Jifei and the others, the veterans up on the building balconies, and even the two Azure Coalition soldiers standing not far behind Zhang Dao'an. Because if so, today would be even more absurd, even more entertaining. Yet it didn't happen... *Smack.* With another swing, the staff that missed its mark was seized firmly in Zhang Dao'an's hand. Immediately after, a sudden explosive yank surged through the staff. Han Qingyu let go decisively. Yet almost at the same moment, Zhang Dao'an's left hand was already clawing toward his collar. Han Qingyu dodged aside with everything he had. It was useless. Rather than dressing it up like something out of a wuxia novel or TV drama—saying Zhang Dao'an's hand shifted trajectory midair or left afterimages—the truth was far simpler: it was fast. An astonishing speed that left no room for evasion. Sweeping across horizontally, the blur of an arm accurately clamped onto Han Qingyu's collar. Then a yank, a release, while his left fist snapped forward like an elastic whip... *Tham.* Having momentarily lost his balance from the jerk, Han Qingyu took a punch straight to his left shoulder. Instructor Zhang had definitely pulled his punch, but Han Qingyu still staggered. Immediately after, giving virtually no time to react—*whoosh*—Chief Drill Instructor Zhang Dao'an, standing well over one meter ninety, actually unleashed a direct horizontal roundhouse kick with his right leg against a raw recruit. In hurried dismay, Han Qingyu barely managed to cross his arms in defense. *Thud.* The kick landed squarely. He was swept completely off his feet, tumbling several times across the dirt before coming to a stop. In the dead silence that descended over the field once more, Han Qingyu struggled to his feet, brushed off the dirt, and looked up, his gaze filled with disbelief at the chief drill instructor who had just struck so ruthlessly. Reacting the same way were the others from Dormitory 11. They were equally incredulous: *Is the chief drill instructor really this petty? Retaliating right on the spot?* "What are you looking at?!" Zhang Dao'an barked suddenly, roaring, "I said if you hit me today's business would be settled! Did I ever say I wouldn't fight back?!" "...Get the hell back to sleep." With that, Zhang Dao'an turned, his face dark, and walked off the training grounds first. The two soldiers hurried to follow. On the field, Han Qingyu shook out his sore arms. *If Zhang Dao'an had been an actual enemy today out to kill me, and I used source energy, would I have had any chance of resisting or escaping?* He carefully replayed the exchange in his mind. The answer was: none. ... At the same time. Outside the training field walls, walking along the dim path, Zhang Dao'an suddenly halted and asked, "What's that recruit's name?" "Han Qingyu... conscript." "Mm. And the other one?" "Wen Jifei. Then there's Yang Qingbai and Liu Shiheng. Everyone in Dormitory 11 is an involuntary recruit." Looking at the roster with one-inch photos in his hands, the soldier read off the names of everyone who had just stepped up. "Mm... Do you two think I went a bit too far just now?" Zhang Dao'an asked. Then he paused and added, "Too far is exactly right." "You two head back and get some rest as well. No need to follow me." With that, he bowed his head, lit a cigarette, and walked alone down the long path. The two soldiers stood in place, glancing at each other. One of them pulled out a pack of cigarettes, handed one to his companion, lit it for him, and then dipped his head to light one for himself. Then, taking a few steps to lean against a corner, they began to smoke slowly. "This your first year assigned to Captain Zhang? Think he's pretty weird?" one of them spoke up. "I've been with him for years... I'm a child of the Ninth Army, grew up right here." The other took the cigarette from his mouth. "Yeah, he..." "He's a drill instructor because his squad kicked him out. Seven years ago." "Huh?" "Surprised? There's something even more shocking. You've definitely heard of the squad Instructor Zhang used to be in. In all of the Ninth Army's history, there are only a handful of squads that didn't go by numbers. His was called Red Eraser." At those words, the other soldier's eyes widened dramatically; the cigarette dangling from his lips trembled, shedding ash. Because in the nearly fifty-year history of the Ninth Army, any squad that didn't go by a number and was instead designated by a "color plus Eraser" was recognized as the strongest squad of its era in both combat achievements and sheer power. Counting every last one, there had only ever been four to this day. "Then why did Instructor Zhang get kicked out?" he asked in a low voice. "My dad told me back when he was still around." The Ninth Army son hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Have you ever noticed what Instructor Zhang's favorite line is when he chews people out?" "...'Trash.'" "Yeah. And what else?" "'You'll get your teammates killed.'" "Right. Word is, Instructor Zhang got his teammates killed in the past—and his squad leader, too. My dad didn't know the exact details, but that was the outcome anyway. Instructor Zhang was kicked out, came back to base, and started training recruits. He became a completely changed man." "..." "With members dead and the old squad leader gone, after kicking him out, the squad disbanded not long after... From then on, the Ninth Army never had another Red Eraser." The veteran's son wore a look of melancholy. "There probably aren't many of Instructor Zhang's comrades left alive today, but the ones who survived still haven't forgiven him to this day." ... The next day, Han Qingyu woke up sore all over. His arms were somewhat swollen and tender, but it wasn't too bad, certainly not enough to interfere with training. That strike of his last night, though hindsight suggested a stroke of luck was involved, still spread rapidly among the veterans and earned him high praise. Not just anyone could pull off that kind of lucky break. Under these circumstances, would the veterans look after this recruit who seemed to have considerable room for growth and a promising future? The answer was no. Maybe out in normal society they would, but here in the Azure Coalition, absolutely not. Rather than living to brag in the future about how close they were to some newly famous big shot, the veterans would much rather silently light a cigarette while waiting in an ambush and nonchalantly mention to the rookie next to them, "That guy? Used to run errands buying smokes for me every single day." So Han Qingyu had no idea yet that he was in big trouble. The other recruits didn't know either. As for what happened last night, so long as Dormitory 11 kept quiet, they wouldn't find out anytime soon—and even if they did, they wouldn't dare spread it around. Fall in, breakfast. The recruits filed into the mess hall. White porcelain bowls were already laid out on the tables before them, but inside were neither noodles nor porridge or buns. Instead, each person had a slab of raw beef, dripping with bloody water.