Chapter 16: Specializing in Defiance

Chapter 16: Absolute Domination Over Defiance

Except for those on duty, the students did not train on Sundays. During their rest time, drinking was permitted within the military academy.

The students began dividing the drinks: whiskey, beer, red wine, champagne. It had to be admitted that during World War II, the American military academies and armed forces enjoyed rations that other nations envied.

The first event: a 60-meter shuttle run.

One shuttle consisted of 120 meters—down and back.

They had to complete three shuttles.

The 360-meter shuttle run was one of the more challenging shuttle races—not too long, not too short—testing one’s willpower, endurance, and explosive power.

At each end of the track stood a table, each holding three glasses of whiskey.

Each glass contained 100 milliliters of 58-proof whiskey.

The rule was: the first to reach the table drank a glass of whiskey; the one arriving later had to slap himself.

This rule immediately sparked a frenzy of curses among the students.

“This kind of contest is fucking ridiculous...”

“Damn it, shouldn’t the loser drink and then slap himself?”

“Damn it, there’s no winner in this first contest. Sure, the loser slaps himself, but the winner has to down 600 milliliters of 62-proof whiskey—how could anyone continue competing after that?”

“No, no, no. This contest might force both sides to drink. Every time the first to touch the pole has to drink and lose time, while the one who slaps himself gains the advantage.”

“Right, right... Damn it, your reasoning makes sense, brother!”

“Fuck, guys, this contest is insanely thrilling. Anyone want to bet with me?”

“A bet? Damn it, why the fuck didn’t you say so earlier? I’m going back to get some money now.”

“Brother, I’ve got two hundred bucks under my bunk. Bring it here—it’s my camping fund for taking a girl out... Damn it, if you try to cheat me, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Fuck... shit...”

The cadets hadn’t been this happy in a long time. Today, a Chinese named Zhou Zhihan had brought them fresh joy!

Westerners expressed joy in their own way—everywhere you heard curses like “fuck,” “shit,” “damn it, brother…”

Some rooted for Ryuunosuke Sakamoto to be the last to laugh; others backed Zhou Zhihan to be the final victor. The best way to show support was to place bets on their chosen champion.

In the 1920s and ’30s, American soldiers were known for their laid-back attitude. They loved smoking, drinking, gambling, and dating local girls during downtime. This had become a kind of leisure culture, with the military turning a blind eye.

Especially after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the U.S. declaration of war, no one could be sure if they’d see the next sunrise. As long as no serious discipline was broken, officers tended to give their soldiers more freedom.

Both contestants took their positions at the starting line.

Each table at the ends held three glasses of whiskey.

Each glass contained 100 milliliters of 58-proof whiskey—burning like fire going down, with an even stronger aftereffect.

Zhou Zhihan had written the drinking rules for the second and third contests on a piece of paper. Sakamoto Ryuunosuke read them, agreed, and handed the paper to Sergeant Jink White for safekeeping. It was to be opened only before the second and third contests to announce the rules. Sergeant White would personally supervise the pouring of the drinks.

“What the hell?”

The students erupted into curses once again.

Sakamoto Ryuunosuke tied a white headband bearing the Japanese Rising Sun flag around his head, emblazoned with the words “Certain Victory.”

Zhou Zhihan had prepared as well. Knowing the Japanese revered the Bushido spirit, they always brought such banners to their contests.

Zhou painted two flags on his face.

The Five-Star Red Flag of China.

The Blue Sky with a White Sun flag of the Kuomintang.

Before his time displacement, he had been a member of the Chinese Communist Party.

After crossing over, representing the Nationalist Army, he was now competing against Japanese in the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. Both flags symbolized the indomitable spirit of the Chinese nation.

The first contest was about to begin.

This event was simply to determine the winner, with no regard for time.

After a morning of transformation, Zhou was fully confident he could defeat Sakamoto Ryuunosuke without unleashing his slightly superior combat skills.

His physical fitness was sufficient to meet the demands of Marine Corps training.

But with slapping oneself involved, Zhou did not dare slack off. He focused completely, committing his all.

“Bang!”

A cadet fired the starting pistol.

Both surged forward simultaneously.

Cheers, shouts, curses, clinking bottles filled the air.

Zhou darted like a startled rabbit; his explosive power kept him ahead, reaching the 60-meter point first. He grabbed a glass and downed it heartily.

“Okay!”

“Fu...ck... shit...”

The cadets raised their glasses in cheers, drinking alongside Zhou.

This was fucking exhilarating.

Sakamoto Ryuunosuke’s explosive power lagged by a second at the start, and he never caught up. He reacted swiftly, gritting his teeth, slapping himself hard, and used his skilled pole-touch technique to seize the lead on the return.

That slap ignited the crowd’s enthusiasm instantly.

“Go, go, go...”

The cadets urged Sakamoto loudly, hoping the next slap would be Zhou’s.

Everyone wanted to see both of them slap themselves—that was true excitement.

Zhou swallowed two big gulps of whiskey, but on the return, he was already two seconds slower than Sakamoto.

Sakamoto sprinted with all his might. Having slapped himself once, he was determined to regain his honor.

With just two steps left to reach the glass, the cadets shouted “Go, go, go!” Sakamoto’s vision blurred as Zhou snatched the glass first and guzzled it down.

“Shit…”

“Damn…”

The cadets watched helplessly as Sakamoto almost reached the glass but saw it stolen in the blink of an eye.

Sakamoto was ruthless. He touched the pole, slapped himself again, and turned to run back. His cheeks burned fiercely, finger marks raised and red.

This time, he led Zhou by at least two seconds.

He was determined to win.

Third time’s the charm.

He could not afford to slap himself again.

“Go, go, go...”

The cheers for Sakamoto rang out like countless slaps across his heart.

Reaching the turnaround point, gasping for breath, he reached for the glass. Just as his fingers grazed it, another hand beat him by a palm’s length, snatching the glass away.

“Damn…”

The cadets couldn’t stand it anymore. Sakamoto was too pitiful—they desperately wanted to see Zhou slap himself hard.

“Smack!”

Sakamoto’s fury ignited. Whether angry at his own incompetence or resenting Zhou’s strength, he slapped himself hard and turned to run again, trapped on a path of no return.

“Japanese, go, go, go…”

The cadets longed to see Zhou slap himself.

At the start of the fourth 60-meter sprint, Sakamoto led Zhou by at least three seconds but was beginning to slow. Yet this time, he was fully committed. Even though his speed dropped, so would the “cooked fish’s” pace.

Understand this: a three-second lead was a massive advantage.

Everyone was flesh and blood. After 180 meters of sprinting, no one’s stamina would remain untouched.

Unless they were machines.

Both were drenched in sweat. Zhou sweated even more, leaving a strong scent of whiskey as he passed through the crowd, making everyone suspect the alcohol he drank was almost instantly seeping out through his sweat.

But everyone only thought it—it was obvious even a fool would know alcohol cannot instantly convert to sweat. That was simply unscientific.

When Zhou drank, nearly a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. He drank every drop in one go, spilling not a drop.

He was like a damn alcoholic.

But then again, a time traveler was inherently unscientific.

The time traveler bore a miraculous system within.

One that dealt decisively with those who dared to defy.

(End of Chapter)