A single bead of sweat traced a path down Liu Jinquan's temple. Xiao Ke's voice was unnervingly calm, almost gentle, but each word landed with the weight of a hammer blow. It was a quiet pressure, a suffocating force that bent Liu Jinquan's will until it was on the verge of snapping.
He grit his teeth, the humiliation a bitter taste in his mouth. His back, stiff with pride just moments ago, began to arch downwards. He was going to do it. He was going to stoop and retrieve the fallen chopstick.
"Hold on."
The voice, deep and resonant, cut through the tense silence of the mess hall. Qiao Dong had arrived, his entourage flanking him like a pack of wolves.
Liu Jinquan froze, his body locked in a half-bow. He turned, his face a mask of awkward relief. "Brother Dong!"
Qiao Dong didn't acknowledge the greeting. Instead, he shot his subordinate a look that could strip paint—a silent, furious reprimand. You're my man, and you're folding this easily? Liu Jinquan's cowardice was a direct reflection on him, and in the shark tank of military politics, perception was everything. Everyone here had seen Qiao Dong send Liu Jinquan to start trouble; seeing him grovel was a public stain on Qiao Dong's own authority.
By the time his eyes landed on Xiao Ke, however, the fury was gone, replaced by a practiced, easygoing smile. He sauntered over, pulling out the chair opposite Xiao Ke and sinking into it as if he owned the place. Their eyes met across the table.
"Come on, Xiao Ke," Qiao Dong began, his tone laced with false bonhomie. "My guy and your guy had a little tiff. Let's not make a federal case out of it, alright?"
Xiao Ke offered a serene smile of his own. "I'm not. I'm simply asking him to pick up what he dropped. If I wanted to make a case out of it, I'd be treating this as a direct challenge to my authority."
Qiao Dong chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "It's a chopstick. It's dirty. We'll get another one. Problem solved." He motioned to one of his lackeys. "Hey, grab Captain Xiao a fresh pair."
Before the man could move, Xiao Ke's voice, still level, cut him off. "No, thank you. We're finished eating." His eyes never left Qiao Dong's. "But he dropped it. He will pick it up."
The pretense shattered. Qiao Dong's smile evaporated, the affable mask crumbling to reveal the cold, hard ambition beneath. A flicker of violence sparked in his eyes. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest in a posture of pure dominance. The temperature around the table seemed to drop.
"Make him pick up that chopstick," Qiao Dong said, his voice a low growl, "and you might want to start thinking about the consequences. Have you considered what life is going to be like for you after tomorrow?"
It wasn't a threat; it was a promise. A declaration, delivered in front of a captive audience, that once the Centurion rank was his, he would crush Xiao Ke. The entire mess hall held its breath. They all knew Qiao Dong was the frontrunner. For a mere Decurion like Xiao Ke, crossing him was career suicide—or worse.
Every eye was on Xiao Ke, waiting for the crack, the flinch, the moment he would inevitably back down. Qiao Dong stared, hungry for it, imagining the sweet satisfaction of watching Xiao Ke's composure crumble under the weight of his future power.
But Xiao Ke just sat there, an island of tranquility in a sea of tension. The corner of his mouth was still turned up in that infuriatingly placid smile. He regarded Qiao Dong not as a threat, but as a minor, almost amusing, inconvenience.
With a look that was almost pitying, Xiao Ke said, "Don't worry about me. Just let him pick it up."
"You—!" Qiao Dong's chest swelled with a sudden, sharp intake of air. He shot to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping violently against the floor. He loomed over Xiao Ke, his face a thundercloud of rage. "Forget about the day after tomorrow. You won't even make it past tomorrow. If you're unlucky enough to draw me in the selection trials, I will personally end you."
He spun on his heel and stormed out, his crew scrambling to keep up.
Left behind, Liu Jinquan's last shred of defiance evaporated. With Qiao Dong's protection gone, he was exposed and utterly defeated. His face burned a deep crimson as he bent over, snatched the chopstick from the dusty floor, and placed it on the table. Then, without a word, he turned and fled like a stray dog, chasing after his master.
A low murmur rippled through the soldiers. The lines had been drawn. The polite fiction of rivalry had been burned away, leaving only raw animosity. Tomorrow's Centurion selection wasn't just a contest anymore. It was a battlefield. And everyone pitied the man who had just been marked for death.
To them, Xiao Ke's stand wasn't brave; it was reckless. Qiao Dong was already a Level 2 War Soldier, and rumors were flying that he was on the cusp of Level 3. Xiao Ke, like the rest of the Decurions, was a mere Level 1. This wasn't a fair fight. It was a public execution waiting to happen.
Even Xiao Ke's own men looked at him with a mixture of awe and terror.
He turned to his core followers, Duan Canglong and Luo Hou. "Let's go. Time to head to the town square and resume training."
As he rose, he noticed that only Duan Canglong and Luo Hou moved to join him. The rest of his squad remained seated, their faces etched with conflict, unspoken words caught in their throats.
"What is it?" Xiao Ke asked, his brow furrowing.
One of them finally found his voice, forcing the words out. "Captain… maybe you shouldn't have pushed him like that."
"Oh?" Xiao Ke's expression was unreadable. "And what would you have had me do?"
Silence. They didn't have the nerve to tell their captain how to act, but their fear was a palpable thing.
Xiao Ke swept his gaze over them. "I know what you're thinking. You're afraid that when Qiao Dong makes Centurion, he'll come after me, and you'll all be caught in the fallout." He paused, letting the reality of their fear hang in the air. "That's fine. If you feel the need to hedge your bets, to go kiss his ring and pledge your loyalty behind my back, I won't stop you. But right now, it is time for training. And as long as I am your captain, you will follow my orders."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Duan Canglong glared at the hesitant soldiers. "Have you already lost faith in him? Pathetic."
Luo Hou cracked his knuckles, his voice a low growl. "If I hear that any of you bastards went crawling to Qiao Dong, I'll personally break your legs."
With their loyalties made clear, the two of them hurried to catch up to Xiao Ke. After a moment of shamed silence, the rest of the First Combat Squad slowly rose and followed.
The rest of the day became a stage for Qiao Dong's burgeoning ego. He moved through the training grounds and the barracks like a king holding court, his sycophants trailing in his wake. Every time his and Xiao Ke's paths crossed, he would offer a dismissive sneer before turning away.
Xiao Ke paid him no mind. His focus was a razor's edge. He drilled his men, he practiced his combat forms, and when night fell, he meditated, cultivating his Origin Power. His routine was his anchor, his discipline a fortress.
Meanwhile, under the cloak of darkness, Qiao Dong enacted his own desperate plan. Slipping past the familiar patrol routes, he made his way to the temporary encampment of the White Shark Battalion. He was there to see its Centurion, Qiao Mingxuan.
There were no pleasantries. Qiao Mingxuan simply summoned a military medic, who produced a syringe filled with a shimmering, volatile liquid. For the second time, Qiao Dong's body was flooded with a potent potential-stimulating agent—a devil's bargain for instant power.
Hours later, wracked with pain and fever, Qiao Dong felt a seismic shift within him. A new channel of power blazed to life. He had done it. He had forcibly broken through to become a Level 3 War Soldier.
"Haha! I did it!" he roared, a wild, triumphant joy in his eyes as he looked at Qiao Mingxuan. "I'm a Level 3! Thank you, Young Master Qiao! Thank you!"
He was so consumed by his newfound strength that he failed to notice the cold, predatory smiles on the faces of Qiao Mingxuan and his men. He was completely oblivious to the subtle, irreversible decay that had just begun in his Martial Veins. The shortcut had come with a terrible price. The potion had withered his potential at its root. He would be a Level 3 War Soldier for the rest of his life, and nothing more.
While Qiao Dong celebrated his pyrrhic victory, Xiao Ke sat in the silent solitude of Qin Bing's cultivation chamber. He channeled the serene, pure Water of Origin, directing the flow not to his Martial Veins, but to his very skeleton. A current of warmth spread through his core as the energy saturated his coccyx, the final bone in his torso's foundation. With a soft, internal hum, it lit up, joining the other two.
Three bones out of 206, now forged and glowing with latent power. He felt the change immediately—a foundational strength humming deep within his core. He clenched his fist, feeling the kinetic potential coiled in his muscles. He conservatively estimated his punch now carried over 400 pounds of force—the impact of a sledgehammer, four times the strength of an ordinary man.
He was satisfied. This raw physical power, combined with the 100 Hz of Origin Power from his rank as a Level 1 War Soldier, created a potent synergy. Against anyone short of a true War General, he could more than hold his own. That included cocky, newly minted Level 3 War Soldiers.
A slow smile spread across Xiao Ke's face.
"Qiao Dong," he whispered to the empty room, "I'm actually looking forward to this."
"Let's see what wins the day. Your 300 Hz of borrowed power… or my 100 Hz, backed by 400 pounds of pure, unadulterated strength."