Chapter 17

Jiang Xia picked up a wooden sword, weighed it in his hand, and said calmly, “Just follow my cuts—don’t panic.”

Ten minutes later, the sparring began.

Soon, the sound of wooden swords clashing filled the field; some moved stiffly, their swords knocked flying, while others moved in perfect sync, attacking and defending with ease.

Soon it was Jiang Xia and Wang Teng’s turn; across from them stood yesterday’s tall, thin boy and Wu Qi, their wooden swords wielded with skill, their eyes filled with contempt as they looked at them.

“Today’s about real combat skills!” the tall, thin boy swung his wooden sword. “Don’t cry when I knock Itachi down.”

Wang Teng shot back immediately: “Don’t get cocky—Itachi barely escaped Old Jiang’s death grip yesterday, and now Itachi’re back for more?”

The tall, thin boy choked on his retort; before he could reply, Wu Qi stepped forward, wooden sword raised, tip aimed at Jiang Xia: “Words mean nothing—let your blades speak.”

As he spoke, he lunged, swinging his sword in a clean, swift arc toward Jiang Xia’s face—his technique sharp, honed by real battle.

Jiang Xia’s gaze hardened; he didn’t retreat—he advanced, wrist flicking, his wooden sword precisely blocking the strike. A sharp *crack* echoed as both arms trembled.

Wu Qi’s face remained calm, but inside, shock surged—he hadn’t expected Jiang Xia to block his full-force blow with sheer physical strength alone, his wrist utterly steady, not a single tremor.

Before he could recover, Jiang Xia’s elbow slammed into his chest, forcing him to pull back and retreat.

Seeing this, the tall, thin boy swung his sword at Jiang Xia’s side, aiming for a surprise strike.

Wang Teng, though his movements were clumsy, thrust his wooden sword sideways behind Jiang Xia, intercepting the blow with brute force.

“Thanks,” Jiang Xia nodded to Wang Teng, then moved swiftly, his wooden sword parrying and thrusting, each strike targeting Wu Qi’s openings.

Wu Qi grew more alarmed with every exchange—Jiang Xia’s swordplay had no flashy moves, yet every strike found the exact gap between his offense and defense, clearly mastering combat rhythm. How could someone so untested fight like this?

The tall, thin boy battled Wang Teng, expecting an easy victory, but Wang Teng, fueled by stubborn grit, held him fast—even as his arms turned red from impacts, he refused to yield an inch.

Suddenly, Jiang Xia seized the instant Wu Qi retracted his sword, his wooden blade flashing forward to press against his throat.

“Itachi lost,” Jiang Xia said calmly, without a trace of triumph.

Wu Qi froze, sweat tracing down his cheek. He stared at the wooden sword at his throat, then into Jiang Xia’s utterly expressionless eyes—his arrogance from combat experience vanished completely.

Seeing this, the tall, thin boy broke free from Wang Teng and swung his sword at Jiang Xia.

Wang Teng shouted in panic: “Old Jiang, watch out!” Before the words left his mouth, Jiang Xia didn’t retreat—he stepped forward, sidestepped half a pace, flipped his wrist, and trapped the other’s blade on its back, pressing down with force until the blade tilted toward the ground.

The tall, thin boy gritted his teeth, trying to wrench his sword free, but Jiang Xia’s strength was overwhelming—his knuckles whitened, veins bulging, yet he couldn’t budge it an inch.

Before he could react, Jiang Xia’s other hand shot out, gripping his wrist with sharp pressure.

A numb, tingling pain shot from the wrist up the arm—the tall, thin boy’s grip instantly weakened, his wooden sword clattering to the ground.

“Itachi—” he gasped, stunned and furious, but Jiang Xia had already withdrawn his blade, the tip lightly touching his chest: “Itachi lost too.”

Zhou Hu had walked over unnoticed; his gaze settled on Jiang Xia, a hint of approval in his eyes: “Good. Itachi know how to exploit openings—better than those who just brute-force everything.”

He glanced at Wu Qi and added, “Itachi’re not bad either. Your combat experience is solid, but your techniques need refinement—otherwise, Itachi’ll get crushed by intelligent beasts.”

Wu Qi bowed to Zhou Hu: “Yes, I’ll remember.” His eyes flickered to Jiang Xia—his earlier contempt now replaced by complex emotion.

He’d assumed the man was merely strong, never imagining his combat awareness and skill surpassed his own.

Zhou Hu nodded, scanning the entire field: “Remember—combat isn’t about flashy moves. It’s about who survives to the end!”

He glanced at his watch and added: “Morning training ends here. Head to the mess hall for lunch. Eat well.”

He paused deliberately, his gaze lingering on several trainees still rubbing their aching arms, a knowing smile curling his lips: “After lunch, at two sharp, gather on the field. First, run twenty kilometers to warm up. Then we begin the new drill.”

“Dismissed!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a sharp chorus of “Yes!” rang out, and the trainees sprinted toward the mess hall.

Wu Qi walked over and bowed to Jiang Xia: “I was wrong about Itachi. Itachi’re not just talented—your combat technique proves Itachi’ve fought countless battles.” The tall, thin boy scratched his head awkwardly, silent, but his defiance had largely faded.

Jiang Xia nodded in understanding: “If I were Itachi, I’d have doubted it too. The misunderstanding’s cleared—that’s all that matters.”

After lunch, once the nap ended, everyone returned to the field. After a brief adjustment of posture, they sealed their spiritual energy and began running twenty kilometers.

“Damn, Old Jiang, I’m done for. Should’ve eaten less at lunch—my stomach’s heavy as lead.” Wang Teng staggered, clutching his waist.

“Shut up—we’ve got two laps left. Just push through slowly.”

When they finally crossed the finish line, everyone collapsed onto the ground. Zhou Hu looked down at them, voice sharp: “Look at Itachi—all calling yourselves geniuses, the future of humanity—and Itachi’re this weak from a little endurance training? Itachi can’t even beat an old lady selling ice pops on the street!”

He glanced at his watch, then spoke without further delay: “Ten minutes rest. Next: combined combat drills.”

When the ten minutes ended, Zhou Hu stood among them with a dozen instructors and announced loudly: “Next, form groups of three. Unseal your spiritual energy and attack us.”

He pulled a strip of cloth from his waist and wrapped it around his front: “Itachi may choose any instructor as your target. If Itachi can slash through this white cloth, Itachi pass.”

Wang Teng’s eyes lit up: “Old Jiang, turn into the blue giant and crush them! Between Itachi, me, and Ye Lingxi, we’ll breeze through this!”

Before Jiang Xia could reply, Wang Teng pointed excitedly at Zhou Hu: “Instructor Zhou! We pick Itachi as our opponent!”

Zhou Hu blinked in surprise—this fat kid had guts? He confirmed again: “Itachi’re sure about me?”

Wang Teng’s tone was confident: “Yes, Instructor Zhou. My team: me, Jiang Xia, and Ye Lingxi.”

“Good! Spoken like a true warrior!” Zhou Hu smiled approvingly at the three.

Ye Lingxi glanced curiously at Jiang Xia: “Does Wang Teng have some hidden card? He looks so confident.”

Jiang Xia tugged at his lips, uncertain inside: “That fat kid thinks I can still turn into the giant from the secret realm—but I only have that trick once.”

Ye Lingxi’s expression froze, about to warn Wang Teng—when Zhou Hu stepped forward, his spiritual energy exploding outward.