Chapter 64

Mutual checks and balances, layered screening.

The instructor who came today had never trained them and was unfamiliar with everyone.

Horne was at the nearby shooting range. He had just finished two rounds of training and began practicing his marksmanship on his own. He did not pay attention to when the test on the other side would start. He only heard the shouts from there, turned his head, and happened to see the rankings on the screen. More than twenty people had done a weighted long-distance run, and Hels ranked sixth.

Everyone was almost exhausted, half-squatting and panting heavily. Hels recovered quickly and began stretching his shoulders and neck.

“Pair up in twos!” the instructor shouted.

They randomly picked opponents, and the winners would then face another pair of winners.

Horne kept his head down cleaning his gun. His hair fell slightly over his forehead as he casually took out sixty practice rounds and loaded them into the magazine one by one. The noise around his ears was louder than usual.

He increased the target’s movement speed to 150 and half-squinted, aiming.

“Bang!” It was just shy of the bullseye.

“Hels! Stand down!” the instructor on the other side roared.

Horne bent his arm and turned to look.

Hels unleashed a visibly massive force. With just one swift strike, he cleanly swept his opponent to the ground. The other could not get up, and Hels stepped on him.

The instructor stopped him, and only then did he release his hold. He disdainfully stepped back and immediately sought his next sparring target.

Occasionally, others came over to watch, but most gazes focused on Hels. Even the testing instructor frequently glanced at him.

“Look, isn’t this brat a monster?” Han Ya walked over and casually draped his arm over Horne’s shoulder. He was also watching the scene. The advancement of recruits always excited people—perhaps a genius would emerge.

Like Hels. He was too eye-catching, and his matters had long spread through the recruit area of the Military District training grounds.

Unfortunately, Hels refused to befriend anyone, and no one dared approach him.

Horne put away his gun, turned around completely, and watched the test seriously alongside Han Ya.

Hels’s strikes were almost always fast, ruthless, and accurate. He would one-hit kill if possible and never drag it out to two moves. He subdued opponents directly without prolonged fights. Although Horne still saw many flaws—even obvious misjudgments and weaknesses—in comparison to these people several years older than him, Hels could crush most of them outright.

Horne had been the same during his childhood training. He was once considered a heaven-sent prodigy. Back then, the most notable figures on the training grounds were Horne, Han Ya, and Wen Yu. The strong admired each other; the three of them were close, mutually advancing, checking each other, and over time, they became the best of friends, supporting and complementing one another from childhood to now.

But the current Hels clearly wanted to fight alone.

Another person was flipped onto the ground by him. Each time, he aimed to kill, but after being stopped by the instructor several times, he simply turned and left, casting a look that said “should’ve known.”

“I told you he could join the adult group,” Han Ya said, stroking his chin with half admiration and half disgust in his eyes. “If I didn’t think he might become very strong in the future, with that personality, I would’ve beaten him to death long ago.”

Horne smiled faintly, then quickly grew serious again. He said indifferently, “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think what?”

As Han Ya asked, half the participants were eliminated over there. Hels faced one of the top-ranked adults.

The man was muscular and half a head taller. With one move, he slammed Hels hard to the ground, mimicking how Hels had treated others by stepping on him.

Gasps of surprise and cheers erupted around them. Someone excitedly shouted, “Teach him a lesson!” but was immediately sternly stopped by the instructor.

Horne crossed his arms over his chest and said coldly, “If he keeps acting like this, I don’t think he’ll become very strong.” As he spoke, he nodded toward the situation.

A needle-like anger flashed in Hels’s eyes. He maintained the subdued position, but in the next second, he erupted like a beast hunting prey. He seized the opponent’s joint, instantly shattered his balance, and wrenched hard with a “crack”—a merciless fracture.

The scream was clearly audible even at the shooting range.

Horne could not understand where this kid got such strength.

Hels laughed. “Can you still stand? Not good enough.” With that, he released his hand, stepped back a few paces, and his disdain and mockery made others unwilling to face him.

“Anyone else? Or all together?” Hels said, scanning the surroundings. Everyone he looked at instinctively stepped back.

If not for the rules, the people around would have been itching to gang up on his arrogance.

Horne thought for a moment and said, “These past couple of days, I’ve been wondering what kind of person such talent, experience, and personality will turn him into?”

A childhood of abuse nearly leading to death, followed by salvation—would it make him go all out to protect himself and become an absolute powerhouse?

Hero or devil. No in-between.

From the looks of it now, he leaned toward the latter.

Han Ya watched very intently too. After hearing Horne, he was silent for a few seconds before saying, “This brat won’t listen to anyone unless force is used to subdue him—oh, except you.”

The youngest, with the most ferocious style—even many techniques were not taught by Han Ya. Han Ya explained that during personal combat training with Hels, the kid figured them out on his own mid-fight. At first, he was shocked, but after a few times, he got used to it. At the same time, he raised his expectations for Hels even higher.

After several bouts, the final ten entered the finals circle, but no one wanted to fight Hels. One guy whom he had beaten badly roared angrily at him, “Don’t get too cocky!”

Hels was completely indifferent. His response darkened faces even more: “Ah, are you okay? Need a break?”

It was a purely insulting reply.

Horne sighed.

It did not really violate the rules, because the battlefield was like that. Against the Aliens, be as ruthless as possible.

The remaining few would face the instructor directly for personal evaluation.

“No suspense,” Han Ya shrugged. “This brat will definitely pass. I knew it when I trained him—these aren’t issues.”

The instructor stood in the center, with a row of recruits before him. He said sternly, “Who wants to go first? Or should I call names?”

Hels stepped forward almost without thinking, tilting his head up to meet the instructor’s eyes directly.

“Very good.” The instructor gestured for Hels to step out to the adjacent open space.

The instructor asked, “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The final test was about to begin. The two faced each other in fighting stances. Not far away, a figure strode straight over, military boots striking the ground with perfectly even spacing and force.

“Wait.” The voice was faintly cold.

The tense atmosphere eased. The instructor paused, then stood at attention. “Major.”

Horne walked to the instructor’s side, said a few words, and the instructor nodded slightly. He turned and announced sternly, “Today’s final test will be personally conducted by the Major.”

The recruits before him visibly tensed, their expressions strained as they stood even straighter.

Everyone knew Horne was usually very approachable, but during training, he showed no mercy—unlike Han Ya, who had a fiery temper but would crack jokes.

Amid the group of nervous people, only Hels looked up at Horne, clenching his fists, his face flushing uncontrollably. His heart raced, and the boredom he had felt moments ago was instantly replaced by excitement.

This kind of test had meaning.

The instructor stepped back, and Horne took his position, expressionless as he looked at Hels. “Move when you’re ready.”

Horne’s arrival drew more attention. Han Ya stood not far away, watching with delight.

Sweat densely soaked his palms, and soon Hels’s entire body bristled with excitement.

Horne was his goal, his target.

Horne stood there, hands clasped behind his back, utterly calm.

A frenzy of rapid attacks exploded forth. Hels used his favored method: quick battle to quick decision. He threw a punch, but Horne maintained his stance and lightly sidestepped, dodging. The next punch came, and Horne raised his hand to grab Hels’s wrist, using his momentum against him to push him away.

Hels lost balance and pitched forward. Horne unhesitatingly drove his knee into Hels’s lower abdomen. The two opposing forces collided in an instant.

A muffled grunt, intense pain. After the first blow, Hels’s expression changed.

Gasps of cold air sounded around them. That strike was visibly ruthless.

Hels gritted his teeth in pain, his whole body tensing like a beast as he lunged straight at Horne in an explosive offensive.

Everyone else had failed against his terrifying focused assaults—it was almost beastly instinct. A beast on the brink of death, fighting to survive, unleashing power akin to burning its life force.

Horne remained expressionless, always casually resolving with skillful deflections, never actively taking hits but dodging or countering with borrowed force.

All attacks landed on cotton—no response at all. Hels grew anxious, and the more anxious he became, the slower Horne moved.

Amid the dense, explosive barrages that gradually devolved into disorder, Horne seized a split-second relaxation in his muscles, yanked his upper arm, twisted it back, pulled him two steps rearward, and kicked him out. Before Hels fully hit the ground, Horne dragged him up, pinned both arms behind his back.

Hels felt a sharp pain in the back of his knee and knelt down entirely. His arms and legs ached so badly he could barely feel them. He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead bead by bead, yet he grew even more excited.

He had always compared himself to recruits and did not think it was that hard—only when Han Ya disciplined him did he feel room for improvement.

Moreover, Horne was usually so gentle that he forgot who he was.

Horne’s voice came from behind, emotionless. “The Aliens will kill you not because you’re weak, but because you’re too reckless.”

Hels roared in defiance, refusing to lose. He surged to his feet and attacked Horne like a madman. Horne no longer indulged him and began striking proactively.

No one around dared speak. In that section of the training ground, aside from Hels’s snarls, there was no other sound. Everyone held their breath watching the scene.

Han Ya drew closer too, clapping lightly as he watched.

Fist met flesh, targeting pain points, every flaw met with a forceful counter. Hels was thrown over Horne’s shoulder again, blood seeping from his mouth. He crawled up immediately to continue attacking, only for Horne to subdue him once more, pressing him into the dirt.

Horne still acknowledged Hels’s tenacity.

“Thud.” His back hit the ground with a muffled bang. Hels was flipped down again, grimacing in pain. The surrounding recruits flinched.

The military boot pressed hard on him—right where he had stepped on others.

Hels clenched his teeth to keep the pain from escaping through them. He used every trick but could not resist, fully subdued and immobile, blood and sweat dripping down as his body began to tremble.

Horne leaned down and asked, “Give up?”

Hels felt the intense pain radiating through him and spat fiercely, “No!”

The pressure underfoot increased, targeting the spot Hels had frequently attacked.

His ten fingers dug fully into the ground, fingertips bleeding as dirt forced under his nails from clenching too hard.

He would not yield, so Horne pressed harder. The pain exceeded his limits; no method could break the binding force. Finally, Hels whimpered, trembling as he softly called out, “Brother! It hurts, it hurts.”

Horne lowered his gaze at him without releasing, leaning down slightly to say lowly, “This is a training ground, not a slaughterhouse. Leave some leeway for comrades; know your place against yourself.”

He then looked up, his gaze sharp as blades, sweeping over the pale-faced recruits nearby. They now feared the same would happen to them.

Horne’s voice was chilling. “Who was it that fractured a leg bone earlier?”

Murmurs lasted two seconds before a recruit in the back row silently raised his hand and said softly, “Me.” It was not a complete fracture; he had already gone to the medical office for emergency treatment, but he could not do high-intensity leg exercises for a while.

Horne nodded slightly. “Which leg?”

The other jumped in fright and stammered, “Left, left leg.”

“Mm.” Horne shifted his boot and drove force through his thigh.

A piercing scream echoed across the training ground.

Everyone’s hearts raced in terror. Fortunately, Horne’s subsequent evaluations were not so brutal—just passing with restraint.

By the end of the afternoon, what terrified them was not the test, but facing Horne.

As they left, the instructor sorted the test list and called after Horne, “Major, what about Hels’s result?”

Horne headed toward the Command Room without looking back, his voice icy. “Passed.”