Chapter 3: Does the Underdog Still Dream of Rising?

Chapter 3: Does a Salted Fish Still Want to Flip Over?

It was the break after breakfast when news spread that the salted fish from China requested a physical fitness test. Several cadets from Class 17 gave up their rest time, carrying coffee cups and smoking cigarettes, rushing over to watch the spectacle.

The system at West Point was remarkably humane. Soldiers had weekends off, each cadet was granted leave, the food was good, and campus life was rich and varied.

West Point was filled with outstanding students—many formidable talents, each a standout from their respective grassroots units. To rapidly enhance combat skills, they often engaged in near-real combat competitions between classes or individuals.

Where the strong gathered, they naturally drew more attention.

The strong faced frequent challenges, inevitably sparking confrontations with challengers, which only attracted further focus and spectators.

The West Point administration was long accustomed to sparring matches among students.

After all, a military academy was a place where only the fittest survived. Only the strong could secure more chances of survival on future battlefields, lead soldiers to victory, and unleash extraordinary power in adversity to turn defeat into triumph.

West Point aimed to cultivate excellent soldiers—not only teaching tactics but also fostering leadership and team cohesion. Above all, cadets were trained to possess fierce spirit tempered by calm intellect, ensuring a clear strategic vision and sound judgment on the battlefield.

Competition inevitably involved bloodshed. Each year, the academy experienced a reasonable attrition rate. In the grueling devilish training at West Point, some cadets succumbed to sudden death or injury during exercises.

Cadets were long accustomed to competing fiercely in various military drills; everyone aspired to be the strongest, with no pretense about it.

They came to West Point to become stronger.

And West Point naturally eliminated those unwilling to become strong.

Thus, when Zhou Zhihan proposed a physical fitness test, the entire Class 17 soon knew. The classmates were abuzz—there was a show coming.

On the stands of the schoolyard track, several mid-level administrators sat, quietly conversing. A few instructors stood beside them holding data sheets.

West Point’s various fields and training grounds were undoubtedly the finest among all military academies worldwide, equipped with comprehensive training facilities and a wide array of apparatus.

When Zhou Zhihan appeared before the seated leaders in his training uniform and rendered a formal salute, whistles and mocking laughter erupted immediately.

The lazy Zhou Zhihan had seriously dragged down Class 17 of the 35th cohort, causing repeated defeats in class competitions. Everyone eagerly wished for his swift departure.

Above, a P-26 fighter jet skimmed low, casting a broad shadow.

“I bet that’s just a P-26 toy gun! Who wants to bet with me?” shouted a brown-haired cadet.

“Fuck! That’s exactly what it is—a goddamn toy gun. Maybe you should bet with our future ace pilot, Zhou Zhihan. I bet he doesn’t even know what a fuckin’ toy gun is, only handguns… hahaha…” laughed a blond soldier holding a cigarette, drawing whistles from many others.

Zhou Zhihan scoffed indifferently. He had fought many birds, just never brown or yellow-feathered fledglings.

The administration had no intention of wasting time on Zhou Zhihan’s fitness test. They hadn’t prepared anything and sent him to the lower-intensity training grounds.

A lazy cadet like Zhou Zhihan, who rarely trained, simply wasn’t worthy of the high-quality, high-intensity facilities.

They only needed him to finish a few shuttle runs or a several-kilometer loop, then immediately do dozens of push-ups, and that salted fish would be fried into a crispy, unsalvageable dried fish—no chance of flipping over.

Lieutenant Jonas Hansen, one of today’s examiners, looked at Zhou Zhihan with a hint of pity. After all, Zhou was still his cadet. He had tried to help the Chinese cadet, but the truth was—the best fate for a salted fish was to be cooked into a delicious snack and then vanish.

Squad leader Steven Good felt deep sympathy for this Chinese exchange student, derided as the “Sick Man of East Asia” and a salted fish.

If black cadets in the M army faced covert racial prejudice, then the labels “Sick Man of East Asia” and “salted fish” were blatant, outright, and complete discrimination against Zhou Zhihan.

“God!” Steven Good traced a cross over his forehead and chest. “Bless this poor guy!”

Whether out of sympathy or to save face, Lieutenant Jonas Hansen didn’t want Zhou Zhihan to be too humiliated.

So he didn’t prepare any difficult tests—just a couple of simple fitness items enough to make Zhou give up. He knew the limits of his cadets.

West Point’s basic physical fitness tests included many events.

Today’s for Zhou Zhihan weren’t many and were relatively simple, only three groups:

First, run 2 kilometers back and forth in 10 minutes carrying 5 kilograms, then finish 50 push-ups within one minute.

Second, after a 3-minute rest following the first test, perform a lung capacity test: hold breath underwater for 45 seconds, then pull a 50-kilogram weight for 15 meters.

Third, after a 2-minute rest following the first two tests, conduct a core strength test: hanging leg raises on a pull-up bar for one minute, 20 reps as the standard.

Fail any one of these, and Zhou Zhihan was out—no questions asked.

Lieutenant Jonas Hansen took the starter pistol.

Two other instructors held timers, and another held a record sheet, all waiting for the pistol’s crack to begin Zhou’s first shuttle run.

Zhou Zhihan, having crossed over, had once woken up in the middle of the night to secretly practice everything the instructors taught—knowing the enemy and oneself is the key to victory. These three tests were easy now that he had a golden finger.

His predecessor had trained for two months but made no progress; every blade of grass and tree at West Point was etched in his memory.

Yet Zhou never understood why the predecessor failed to improve.

Just as Lieutenant Hansen announced the start of the first test, a loud voice rang out.

“Sir! Please wait a moment.”

Everyone turned to the source.

Zhou Zhihan glanced sideways—damn, it was that Japanese student called Ryunosuke Sakamoto.

“Sakamoto Ryunosuke, fall out!”

Lieutenant Hansen frowned, lowered the raised starter pistol, and habitually waved his empty left hand.

Sakamoto stepped forward a few paces, hands clasped behind his back, legs slightly apart, chest out, abdomen in, chin raised, and saluted the officers.

“Gentlemen! Our two nations, Japan and China, are closely linked like brothers. Therefore, I request to participate in this fitness test alongside my Chinese senior, to encourage him to complete it and remain at the academy.”

Oh, hell! You’re not encouraging me—you just want to kick me when I’m down, aren’t you?

Zhou Zhihan clicked his tongue.

Well then,

It’s perfect—

I’ll use this brat’s golden finger as a banner.

To represent Chinese exchange students and defeat a Japanese cadet at the renowned West Point—that’s a flawless start to this crossover!

(End of chapter)