Chapter 14: Three Battles, Two Victories

Chapter 14: Three Battles, Two Victories

West Point Military Academy’s training is rigorous, yet it retains a humane touch.

Today was Saturday, and the instructors finished classes early, each returning to their own private lives.

Saturday was the cadets’ favorite day, akin to Friday afternoons for students back home.

After a hearty lunch, most of the academy’s leadership and instructors with families went home; those without or living far away found ways to enjoy themselves. The academy’s proximity to New York’s bustling streets meant bars, dance halls, and hotels were their favorite haunts.

The cadets’ extracurricular lives were no less vibrant than those of the leaders.

Young, energetic, and promising, entering West Point marked them as rising stars. Their military stipends were generous, allowing them to indulge on weekends—whether alone, in pairs, or in groups.

Young women held a special fondness for these promising West Point cadets.

The West Point name was a golden badge for both the academy and the cadets themselves.

Moreover, in America, there were no children from poor families here; their monthly stipends were reliably paid, supporting their weekend indulgences.

Everyone knew that West Point graduates entered the military at least as sergeants or warrant officers, with limitless prospects ahead.

The young women knew this too, so no cadet at West Point, unless truly unsightly, lacked a girlfriend.

As he entered the school gate, the place was nearly deserted compared to before noon, exuding a chill emptiness.

“Hey, buddy, did you know you’re the first cadet back after going out? Is your number two too fast? You came back so soon,” two guards on duty teased Zhou Zhihan with smiles.

Zhou Zhihan raised both middle fingers at them. “If it weren’t for you two rotten bastards, I would have left this damn place long ago! Fuck!”

The guards burst out laughing. “Fuck, don’t make excuses for your number two, damn it. You go out partying every day and still haven’t mastered any real skills, and you come back so fast…”

Zhou Zhihan continued flipping them off as he walked backward, cursing in Chinese words they couldn’t understand, which only made them laugh harder.

On the way to the dorm, Zhou Zhihan sensed some cadets from other grades watching him oddly, trailing him at a distance.

What the hell’s going on now? he wondered.

As he reached the dorm entrance, he spotted Ryunosuke Sakamoto sitting on his bed.

Seeing Zhou Zhihan return, Sakamoto immediately stood, donning an arrogant, disdainful expression, shedding the gloom and resentment from his earlier defeat.

A few other cadets in the room whistled or shrugged, putting on airs.

“Chinese Zhou, I’m here to challenge you!” Sakamoto declared bluntly.

“Why should I accept a challenge from a defeated opponent? What benefit would winning again bring me?” Zhou Zhihan tossed his shoes aside without looking at Sakamoto, feeling completely relaxed. He lazily half-lied on the bed, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the headboard, lit one, crossed his legs, and tapped his foot as he asked.

“Fuck!”

Several cadets couldn’t help but swear. “You haven’t even fought yet, and you’re already certain you’ll win.”

Swearing was a daily form of communication and stress relief among the cadets—words like “damn,” “shit,” “fuck,” and “number two” flew casually.

Sakamoto was caught off guard by Zhou Zhihan’s bluntness, momentarily speechless, unable to find a retort.

Indeed, why should he fight a vanquished foe? What advantage was there in beating him again?

“Although you beat me this morning, I heard it was because you used banned substances!” After a brief stunned silence, Sakamoto went straight to the point.

That morning, Sakamoto had lost all three tests to Zhou Zhihan, plunging into frustration. At lunch, rumors swirled through the school that the Chinese cadet Zhou Zhihan had taken banned drugs before the physical test and was now detained at West Point, unable to return to the Air Force Academy for the time being.

This rumor revived Sakamoto’s confidence.

Seeing Sakamoto’s arrogant face, Zhou Zhihan twitched his mouth but did not get angry.

Anger is the devil.

The truly powerful do not lose their temper easily.

Zhou Zhihan knew that the accusation of doping was deliberately leaked by someone at the academy.

Since they doubted me, I must slap their faces! Many doubt me, so I’ll slap all of them.

It’s your right to doubt me; it’s my right to slap your face.

He knew that if he refused, the stubborn Sakamoto would definitely get up in his face.

Japanese have always been arrogant before Chinese, disdainfully calling them the “Sick Man of East Asia.” After being slapped down three times in a row today, Sakamoto would never let it go.

So, I’ll keep slapping your face—the face of you Japanese devils—the more people who know, the better.

“All right! Since you’re standing there unable to save face, I’ll give you a chance. Winning those three tests this morning wasn’t all that meaningful. As long as it’s a physical test, pick whatever you want to compete in.”

“Fuck!” Several American cadets exclaimed excitedly.

Do you call that human speech? At the academy, winning three in a row and saying it’s meaningless?

What kind of win would satisfy you?

Sakamoto asked, “You mean you’re willing to accept any challenge involving physical tests?”

Zhou Zhihan nodded.

Though still disrespected, Sakamoto was secretly delighted to have finally found a chance to regain face. He extended his palm to Zhou Zhihan.

“Let’s seal it with a high five—deal?”

“Clap!”

Zhou Zhihan eagerly met his hand.

The moment their palms touched, Zhou Zhihan’s system recorded all of Sakamoto’s data.

Staring at the information flashing on the interface, Zhou Zhihan was stunned. His tactile perception selectively recorded the most confidential files of others:

Ryunosuke Sakamoto, Lieutenant of the 9th Squad, 3rd Battalion, 27th Mixed Brigade, Japanese Itagaki Division; two years in China; involved in assassination missions; hands stained with Chinese blood. Now studying in the U.S. under student status to learn more advanced tactical concepts.

Before his transmigration, Zhou Zhihan hated Japanese invaders above all else. Ending up in the War of Resistance era was both his misfortune and fortune.

Unfortunate because he must face war; fortunate because he could kill Japanese soldiers.

Knowing Sakamoto’s background, Zhou Zhihan remained outwardly indifferent.

Sakamoto boasted, “We’ll compete in three events: running, strength, and hand-to-hand combat. Best two out of three wins.”

Zhou Zhihan spread his hands, signaling Sakamoto to be specific.

Sakamoto explained: “One, 60-meter shuttle run, three laps, testing speed and sprint ability; two, deadlift, testing strength; three, free combat—Japanese karate versus your Chinese kung fu, to see who is the ultimate champion.”

Zhou Zhihan stretched out on the bed, legs crossed, completely relaxed.

“Time, place, and rules—you choose. I agree! But I feel that’s not exciting enough. I want to add a more thrilling challenge within those three events. If you don’t agree, then forget the match.”

Those words were infuriating: you want to compete with me, Sakamoto, but it depends on my mood. And my conditions must be accepted, or there’s no contest.

Deal sealed.

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(End of chapter)