Chapter 17: The Ruthless One

Chapter 17: The Ruthless Man

Zhou Zhihan’s body instinctively bristled with goosebumps as every impurity within him was swiftly expelled under the urging of the alcohol. Each drop of sweat carried away the dross shed during his body’s transformation into something stronger. His muscles and bones were tempered, his blood vessels and meridians repeatedly massaged and cleared. To an outsider, drenched in sweat and seemingly exhausted, it appeared he was simply drained; yet in truth, he was reveling in the exhilarating process of his body evolving towards perfection.

This time, unlike before when he exhausted himself with burpees, he transcended his physical limits without pain.

Zhou Zhihan could distinctly feel his strength growing.

Sakamoto Ryunosuke’s stamina was waning, while Zhou Zhihan’s was steadily increasing. He no longer needed to activate his slightly superior combat skills to effortlessly crush his opponent.

Every time Sakamoto slapped his own face, Zhou Zhihan heard the system’s “ding,” signaling the accumulation of aerial combat coins.

With the wine glass still a meter away, Sakamoto faltered once more, allowing Zhou Zhihan to snatch the glass between flashes of fire and electricity.

“Smack!”

Sakamoto’s face swelled from the slap. His resolve began to waver, his hatred for himself matched only by his loathing for Zhou Zhihan.

After four slaps, Sakamoto finally realized he had fallen into a trap dug by his adversary. He cursed his own lack of wit; if Zhou had not been confident of victory, how could he have agreed to a contest where he had to slap himself?

But stopping was not an option. The match was not over.

If he stopped now, he would have to crawl beneath the legs of everyone present—a humiliation worse than death. Gritting his teeth, he pressed onward.

Each time, victory seemed within reach, yet the symbol of triumph—the wine glass—slipped through his fingers in a flash.

The frustration of watching victory escape was maddening.

With three or four meters left to the 300-meter mark, Sakamoto’s legs began to weaken. To salvage his pride, he abandoned his original pacing strategy of sprinting the first 240 meters at full throttle. Now utterly spent, he could only watch helplessly as Zhou Zhihan surged past once again, seizing the wine glass a step ahead.

“Smack!”

He struck himself hard again. Rage consumed him—he wanted to kill Zhou Zhihan, everyone present, and even himself.

The final 60 meters were a struggle. What tormented him most was that Zhou Zhihan struggled forward beside him, a mere half step away. One giant stride would surpass him, yet that half step felt like a thousand li—an insurmountable chasm.

“Baka!”

Sakamoto watched helplessly as Zhou Zhihan took the lead by that half step, lifted the final goblet of wine, and breathed heavily, a smile spreading across his face so infuriating it could provoke a hundred attempts to kill.

“Smack!”

His eyes burned with fury, his already swollen face flushed even deeper, like a wild beast enraged beyond pain.

During the five-minute break, Sakamoto paced slowly for a minute before collapsing to the ground, staring up at the sky. His entire face was swollen.

All around, the cheers, clinking glasses, laughter, and shouts of the trainees filled the air. They drank with Zhou Zhihan, cursed together, and unleashed their pent-up youthful energy.

This was only the first round. The true king would be the one laughing last. Sakamoto lay gasping, quietly cheering himself on. Zhou Zhihan had consumed 600 milliliters of whiskey and run 360 meters round trip. With the alcohol surging through him, staying alive was already an achievement.

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“Chinese, don’t collapse before the deadlift. Don’t steal my chance to humiliate you.”

Indeed, Zhou Zhihan panted heavily, his face flushed redder than the sun, drenched as if pulled from water, sweat even soaking the ground beneath his feet.

Then, as if drunk, Zhou Zhihan rose from the ground, tiptoed, and began to dance Swan Lake!

“Oh my God! He’s really drunk—won’t those beautiful little swans in the dance troupe kill him if they see this?”

“Fuck, that bastard’s dancing is terrible, but I like it…”

“Fuck, it’s not just terrible, it’s like a pile of stinking dog shit—but I like this stinking dog shit…”

Sakamoto Ryunosuke was physically strong. The five-minute rest helped his breathing stabilize. Having trained hard for years, his explosive power and endurance were excellent. His will was unyielding; he believed he would win the deadlift challenge.

Deadlift relied purely on strength—no shortcuts. The stronger the body, the heavier the weight it could lift.

Although Zhou Zhihan’s muscles were symmetrical and elastic, deadlifting demanded a physique of steel!

“Pour the drinks… you bunch of stinking dog shit, all of you like little dicks… move your big asses… go pour the drinks, damn it…”

During the rest, Sergeant Jin Ke White finally opened the second note. Amidst his torrent of curses, the trainees hurriedly set up the drinking tables for the deadlift competition!

Stimulated by the thrilling contest between the two, the trainees were energized. Many clutched beer bottles, drinking wildly alongside Zhou Zhihan; others found whiskey just as intoxicating and raised their glasses in remote cheers.

Every weekend, the trainees relaxed—drinking, smoking, barbequing, playing cards, watching movies, gambling, chasing women—but never had they felt as carefree and unrestrained as today.

The second event:

Deadlift.

Twelve barbells arranged in two rows of six for the two competitors. Each pair of barbells had the same weight, ascending as follows:

50 kg,
80 kg,
100 kg,
120 kg,
140 kg,
160 kg.

Between each pair of barbells stood a table.

The first table held a small wine glass and a large wine glass.

The small glass contained 50 milliliters of liquor.

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A large glass, normally for beer, was filled with 500 milliliters of whiskey.

The next table was empty.

The rule: for each pair of barbells, the first to complete the lifts could choose the drink on the table.

If the winner chose the small glass, the loser had to finish the large glass and then proceed directly to the next pair without completing the remaining lifts.

If the winner opted for the large glass, the loser had to lift the required number of repetitions for that pair within the time limit before advancing.

Around the table’s four legs were lined beer and whiskey bottles.

For safety, both competitors could forfeit any deadlift pair. However, the loser had to drink twice the amount in the large glass to ensure fairness; otherwise, they were deemed defeated.

Those who forfeited had to crawl under everyone’s legs.

Only now did everyone understand that Zhou Zhihan was truly ruthless—he left no room for retreat for either himself or Sakamoto Ryunosuke.

The required repetitions for each pair were:

50 kg deadlift – 20 reps,
80 kg – 15 reps,
100 kg – 10 reps,
120 kg – 5 reps,
140 kg – 3 reps,
160 kg – 1 rep.

No time limit. The first to finish was the victor.

Belts were handed to the two, and several burly trainees stood by each pair to assist and prevent injury.

This was training time; in wartime, soldiers would wear tactical belts and gloves.

The two tightened their belts, wrapped their wrists and palms with bandages.

“Begin!”

With that command, the first 50 kg deadlift round commenced.

(End of chapter)