Chapter 58: Prison Training

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Banyun Chan remained as serene as ever, as if life in this prison was exactly what she desired: calm and peaceful. Every time Zhao Li saw her, he felt as though this place was not a prison at all, but rather a hidden paradise.

It was a strange sensation. No matter how unique this place might be, it was still just a small, secluded housing unit specially prepared for Banyun Chan and possibly other female inmates—still within the prison’s confines and separated from the male prisoners by two doors. Yet, stepping through that door felt like entering an entirely different world.

“Sister Ban, have you finished that book? I brought you another one.” Banyun Chan seemed to have no other requests beyond asking for books to read within the prison. Recently, Zhao Li often brought her a few.

“Almost done, just a few pages left. You can put it down for now.” Banyun Chan always spoke so calmly that Zhao Li couldn’t tell when she practiced her cultivation. Her frail body made him question the old warden’s claim that she was even more formidable than Sanders—was it true?

However, when Banyun Chan advised Zhao Li to connect more with nature and learn from others’ experiences whenever possible, he had followed her advice without hesitation. Honestly, those stories did make Zhao Li feel something different. Sometimes he would feel anger over certain matters; other times, a sense of helplessness. It seemed there was rarely ever a time when life on this earth was truly satisfying.

“Is this life’s helplessness?” Though these were others’ stories, after hearing them recounted, Zhao Li felt as if he had lived through them himself. Occasionally, his mind would wander: if he encountered those situations, how would he handle them? Would he do better than those people?

“Life is not only about helplessness—more than that, it is about hope!” Banyun Chan looked at the younger man and, unable to contain her feelings, expressed this heartfelt truth. Then she quickly composed herself. A sharp gleam flashed in her eyes before returning to their usual tranquility.

“Hope?” Zhao Li chewed on the word thoughtfully, lost in contemplation. The old warden’s words still echoed in his ears: “I need an heir.” Was that truly hope?

The old warden was about to retire, which was part of Zhao Li’s own sense of helplessness. Yet there seemed to be something he could not let go of in the military, something that needed many to take over—including this prison. His conversations with Zhao Li implied he hoped Zhao Li would take over after his retirement.

For a sergeant like Zhao Li, this was undoubtedly a promotion of significant rank. If this had been a few months ago, Zhao Li would have accepted immediately without hesitation. But after all he had been through, did he truly have the ability to manage an entire prison?

He could barely coordinate with a few comrades—could he really govern the whole prison well? The many external aspects—logistics, supervision, the courts, transport, and so forth—could he handle it all?

When it came to cultivation, Zhao Li could confidently claim to be a prodigy. Not just in foundational physical techniques or combat skills, but even his mastery of Nameless True Qi and Muscle-Bone Misalignment Hand was enough to place him among the military’s lesser-known elites. But in terms of overall system management, though trained with a military orientation, what he learned at the recruit training center was far from sufficient.

The old warden seemed to have high hopes for Zhao Li, and Zhao Li did not want to disappoint him. Yet the pressure was immense. The more he interacted with these people, the more he learned. Not to mention the secrets they kept, but even what they openly spoke about covered nearly every military department. In their presence, it seemed there were no secrets within the military at all.

Banyun Chan merely calmed Zhao Li’s mood, but the real help had to come from Kang Hongyuan. This old man had grown increasingly content with life inside, and Zhao Li envied him deeply, unable to understand how someone so physically weak could earn such goodwill from everyone.

“You can’t please everyone. But as long as you’re in the same interest group, you must do your utmost to protect everyone’s benefits. This is your prerequisite to avoid being rejected.” Kang Hongyuan often offered Zhao Li guidance. To him, prison life was unbearably dull; occasionally instructing some clueless young people was a form of enjoyment.

“To live better, you must not only protect interests but also know when to sacrifice them. Sometimes, you even need to learn to let go of certain people within your own group—those who are insignificant, of course.” This principle was simple in theory but rarely practiced well.

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“Want to avoid being abandoned? It’s simple: first, prove your usefulness to the organization.” Kang Hongyuan enjoyed mentoring the young man.

“Is that enough?” Zhao Li asked sincerely. This was a personal shortcoming and something he longed to master.

“Enough? No, no, no—that’s not enough.” Kang Hongyuan glanced at Zhao Li and shook his head vigorously. “Being loyal and useful merely establishes your foothold. To avoid being cast aside, there is only one rule: strive to make yourself irreplaceable.”

“Those who loudly proclaim that no one is irreplaceable are usually the ones who have been abandoned. Don’t pay them any mind. Remember, you must become irreplaceable. Otherwise, given the right price, you will be easily discarded in exchange for benefits.” Kang Hongyuan relentlessly drilled these lessons into Zhao Li—lessons of governance and officialdom.

“Mm!” Zhao Li nodded thoughtfully, though whether he truly understood or was just playing along was unclear. Regardless, he took some insight from the conversation.

As for discussions with the violent types, Zhao Li had yet to understand their strict codes on when to sacrifice or retreat, never having faced such situations firsthand. But at least regarding his own daring intervention, he no longer harbored any regrets.

The old warden only asked him to consider the offer; there was no rush for an answer. Taking over the old warden’s legacy was no trivial matter. Even if Zhao Li agreed, the old warden would continue to observe and evaluate him, unwilling to hand over decades of work lightly. Entrusting it to the wrong person would be disastrous.

Professor Hans seemed unchanged, spending his days being wheeled by Zhao Li to suitable places to relax or bask in the sun. Sometimes he exchanged a few words, but mostly he sat alone, lost in thought, apparently still conducting mental experiments.

“Professor, do you really like calligraphy and painting?” Zhao Li doubted that a scientific fanatic could be skilled in such arts. How could he find time to practice daily? Such skills did not develop overnight. And the Louvre exhibition? It seemed a joke.

“How is that a joke!” Professor Hans protested earnestly, clinging to his only dream of impressing Zhao Li. “One day, when I get out, I’ll show you my talents in calligraphy and painting.”

“Then why not show me now?” Zhao Li felt reluctant to dampen the spirit of a double-leg amputee. He had worried that Hans might suffer psychologically from his injuries, but the professor showed no such signs.

Without paper or brush, Hans used a stick to demonstrate his Chinese calligraphy skills. It was undeniable that due to the nationwide cultivation of foundational physical techniques, Eastern culture had become a compulsory subject from childhood. Chinese calligraphy had gained global popularity.

Truth be told, though a Westerner, Hans had profound skill in Chinese calligraphy, enough to make Zhao Li feel ashamed. His strokes were precise and deliberate, clearly the product of great effort. Zhao Li, feeling embarrassed, criticized Hans’s work harshly before sending him to rest in a suitable place.

Hans understood Zhao Li’s little jest clearly and chose not to argue, instead laughing heartily. Only in Zhao Li’s presence did Hans dare laugh so freely. Yet, whenever the subject of Banyun Chan arose, his face twisted with fury, as if she were the one who caused his paralysis.

Sometimes, after a simple cultivation session, Zhao Li would work out on the exercise equipment provided for prisoners, inevitably drawing challenges from others.

These machines were almost exclusively for special forces training, and the inmates were so familiar with them that no one knew them better. When bored, Zhao Li always accepted their challenges and sparred with them without using true Qi.

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These men were indeed elite soldiers. Without cheating, Zhao Li found it nearly impossible to win against them. Initially, performing standard movements, Zhao Li took at least twice as long and his form was often imperfect. This was why the others always felt they had the upper hand.

Sanders, Zhang Yingzhan, and several burly men—former special forces instructors—were restless to test Zhao Li. Having someone to spar with was a rare treat, so naturally, they put him through rigorous training.

They drilled him in basic tactical maneuvers and every training exercise possible within the limited equipment and space.

Zhao Li knew their identities and understood the significance of their guidance. These methods only benefited him, so he trained regularly at fixed times according to their instructions.

Even during his training, those men often joined in for non-true-Qi exercises. The more restless ones enforced special forces standards, shouting commands, issuing verbal blows, and provoking him relentlessly—both to challenge Zhao Li and to satisfy their own desires to instruct.

It seemed they subtly tested Zhao Li’s limits, jointly devising a strict training regimen. Aside from firearms and some special skills they couldn’t teach, Zhao Li was to complete physical and basic skill training typical of special forces within months, along with theoretical military law studies.

This place felt less like a prison and more like a special forces school tailored for Zhao Li. The instructors were the most experienced special forces coaches, flight experts, firearms specialists, combat trainers, supported by top psychological counselors. There was even an absolute authority on biochemical weapons and a master-level expert in management. Such a luxurious teaching staff was rare even in the military.

The only shortfall was the lack of military doctors. Speaking of military doctors, Zhao Li couldn’t help but think of a fiery figure, the alluring Christine, whose image would swirl in his mind. Then he would feel guilty towards Li Mengdie, already enrolled in the genius academy, and hasten to clear his thoughts.

With a complete training staff but many missing facilities, Zhao Li’s theoretical knowledge reached new heights. In practical terms, he was still just a special forces soldier in part. Yet, given the limited equipment, those men confidently assured him that in any unit, Zhao Li would be an absolute number one.

Sometimes, thinking of Li Mengdie, Zhao Li would instinctively ask about the genius academy’s matters. The instructors all seemed bitter when discussing it. Their complaint was that all the best candidates, those with the finest qualifications, were taken by the genius academy, leaving them to train only those that academy rejected. This felt deeply unfair. Why should a mediocre school monopolize all the top talent? According to them, if they had those geniuses, they could form the strongest special forces unit in the military.

Zhao Li understood their meaning: the special forces soldiers they trained were far from the military’s best. The champions they spoke of were mostly outstanding graduates from the genius academy.

“Don’t worry, if the opportunity arises, I’ll fight for your honor.” Zhao Li could only offer this consolation. Unexpectedly, this promise sparked a passionate response, and his training standards were doubled.

Only then did Zhao Li understand the true meaning of “to overreach and backfire.”