Volume One, Chapter Thirty-Three: The Pursuit of Learning (Part Three)

Sniper training did not begin with the instructor leading the trainees onto the shooting range. Instead, in a cramped classroom, a projector cast slides onto the wall—photographs of more than a dozen human faces and heads, mangled by gunfire. The gruesome images provoked strong physical reactions from several faint-hearted trainees.

“All these were hunted by sniper rifles,” the instructor explained with utter calm.

Next, portraits of famous snipers from post-World War II appeared on the screen. The instructor analyzed the common facial expressions and psychological traits of these hunters.

At that time, private cars were still rare in the country, and the driving course was exceptionally rigorous: regardless of previous experience, every trainee was required to drive on public roads from the very first day.

On the second day, trainees paired up, each group assigned to drive to a destination five hundred kilometers away on the Inner Mongolia grasslands, crossing cities, towns, and mountainous terrain within a strict ten-hour limit.

Four vehicles driven by instructors wove among twenty-six trainee cars. All the trainees were driving without licenses. Before departure, the instructor whispered to these potential road hazards, “If you cause an accident or even kill someone, you bear the full legal responsibility. If you’re stranded en route, you get a zero for this module and no chance to retake it.”

By evening, twenty-three cars reached the destination, but only eleven made it within the time limit. One car plunged into a reservoir, and two crashed into mountainsides.

No one cared about the fate of those who failed; the six unsuccessful trainees simply packed their bags and left.

Most of the trainees were elite among the elite in law enforcement, but due to circumstances, few had much prior driving experience. Like Chang Ke, over a dozen had never driven before. Yet by pairing up, all of them quick-witted, they soon acquired impressive driving skills.

Exhausted, the trainees camped on the grasslands for a night. The next two days were devoted to full-speed horseback riding.

Chang Ke knew he lacked athletic talent and was slight of build, but thanks to his innate sense of balance, he managed not to be thrown off during the gallop.

The instructor taught no techniques—he simply let them run wild across the yellow early-spring grasslands. After two days, Chang Ke’s inner thighs were raw and bloodied.

This harsh training truly was a matter of “forcing ducks onto a perch”—success depended not only on natural ability but also luck. After two days, three more trainees were injured in falls, and one would clearly spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

For the return drive, they took an even more treacherous rural route at night, chosen by their exacting instructor. The road was rough, and the Toyota van’s headlights were dim. Chang Ke’s passenger was Water Snake—the most irreverent man he had ever met. Fortunately, they joked and laughed along the way, but Chang Ke noticed Water Snake’s uncanny ability to read maps with accuracy within a hundred meters.

As they neared the Miyun camp at dusk, Water Snake, a cigarette dangling from his lips, glanced at his watch and asked slyly, “Ever had rainbow trout from the reservoir?”

Chang Ke replied, “I’ve certainly eaten it more times than you. Which restaurant do you want to go to?”

Both were playing their own subtle games of feigned nonchalance.

Because all the trainees had gone through rigorous IQ testing, the courses were efficient and highly practical. Whether one understood the material would be judged by comprehensive scores after each subject exam.

The triathlon was the most brutal training, designed to test everyone’s willpower and endurance.

They were assigned a short-distance sprint: a 25.75-kilometer course—750 meters of swimming, 20 kilometers of cycling, and 5 kilometers of running.

The torment lay in how each discipline used entirely different muscle groups.

Swimming required shoulders, chest, and arms; cycling demanded rapid leg pumping and hip movement, with the waist coordinating the effort; running relied on leg tendons, with the arms swinging from the shoulders.

Though Chang Ke lacked the muscular build of some, he possessed a willpower that transcended physical limits, allowing him to achieve above-average results.

After each session—held every two days—muscles ached all over, faces turned deathly pale, and some even fainted. Such physical depletion led some to mental breakdowns requiring psychological counseling. The sheer severity caused half the trainees to consider quitting, drafting resignation letters in their minds as they trained.

A few simply collapsed midway, declared their withdrawal from the course, and quietly packed their belongings to leave.

Chang Ke could not give up; he knew he had no such privilege.

A sudden disaster had robbed him of his studies and thrust him into an unimaginable, bewildering life. No one could tell him what he would become, how he should live, or even how long he might survive. He needed the pain of physical exertion to offset and forget the agony of losing control over his own life.

Magpie, one of the female trainees, twisted her ankle while running. She shouted to Chang Ke, “Gentleman!” He hesitated, then turned to help her up, letting her right hand rest on his shoulder.

Magpie smiled, “You really do have manners.”

A rebuke came from the trailing off-road pickup: “What do you think you’re doing!”

Chang Ke, supporting the wincing Magpie, replied, “Aren’t we a team?”

“Who told you this is a team? Focus on your own performance. We don’t foster teamwork here!”

Chang Ke let go of the frail Magpie, leaving her to fall to the ground and chased after the leading trainees.

The instructor for the striking and grappling course came from a special forces unit whose designation had been erased. He reminded the trainees that, given the brief duration of the training, only quick, practical techniques would be taught.

“This isn’t street fighting, nor is it martial arts competition. You’re facing enemies you must kill in a single move. The most effective close-combat system used by military and law enforcement worldwide is Israeli Krav Maga.” He wrote on the blackboard: Krav Maga, then showed slides of real combat.

The trainees mastered the essentials quickly. In sparring, Chang Ke was either left with a bruised face, covered in contusions, or had his joints wrenched. The other trainees, all with extensive frontline police experience and robust physiques, were used to fighting criminals.

Refusing to be outdone, Chang Ke spent every free evening in the boxing room, kicking and punching the bag, pondering techniques.

One evening, the instructor came to the boxing room after dinner, knowing the weakest and slimmest trainee often practiced alone there.

Watching silently from the shadows for a long time, he finally said loudly, “This method is useless—completely pointless!”

Chang Ke turned, deflated. “Then how can I beat them?”

“Why do you want to ‘beat’ them?” The instructor stepped into the light. “Those are your enemies. Your goal isn’t to win—it’s to kill. If you don’t change this mindset, all your training will be for nothing.”

Chang Ke pondered this, beginning to understand, though still unsure how to act. The instructor approached him. “I told you, Krav Maga isn’t for competition. It was invented for real combat—no rules. Your frame is thin, so you’re already outmatched in strength. Training harder won’t help. If you’re unwilling to use lethal techniques and still worry about conventional rules, your strength is wasted.”

“If the goal is to kill, then aim for the deadliest targets.” The instructor gestured to Chang Ke’s body. “Both ears, the eyes, the philtrum, the jaw, the groin.”

“Once you know the targets, use your whole body—not just fists and feet. Elbows, knees, and shoulders are all power points. Chinese martial arts say, ‘An extra inch gives extra strength’—that refers to traditional weapons. Your long arms are an advantage defensively, but in real combat, reach isn’t always beneficial—it’s farther from your power base. You’ve heard of a crossbow bolt losing force at the end? Keep your punches short, explosive, and fast. Remember the physics of impulse: the shorter the contact time, the greater the impact.”

He threw a dozen straight punches into the bag. “Punch fast and retract quickly.”

“Make a flat fist. Your hands may be skin and bone, but your knuckles are hard. Don’t just train for power—train for speed. Your punch should land like an iron hammer.”

“Kick with the side, stomp down. Drive power from the hips and thighs.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll show you slides to learn some Muay Thai tactics—use elbows and knees; done well, they’re deadlier than fists. In Muay Thai, running, jumping, and landing all channel the body’s full force into the blow—brutal stuff!”

“Don’t trust the routines in martial arts novels—they’re fiction made up by scholars. Hong Kong movies are even less reliable—just stunts and tricks. Most folk martial arts are all show and no substance. A few styles have some theoretical value—for example, ‘the hands are two gates, the feet do the striking’—that’s about using the body’s power.”

“For you, the key is to train for speed, ruthlessness, accuracy, and cleverness. Besides your hands and feet, grab anything nearby that can hurt and use it. Don’t strike unless you must, but if you do, finish the enemy in one move, or kill in a single blow.”

Chang Ke asked, “But these techniques are for fighting one or two people. What if there are too many?”

The instructor nodded honestly. “If you’re outnumbered, run as fast as you can. But if you can’t escape, remember—sometimes people are like wild dogs: the more you run, the harder they chase, sensing your fear. Here’s a tip for fighting many at once: even if there are twenty, as long as they’re untrained, go all out against the leader or the fiercest. Ignore the rest. At that point, it’s not about technique, it’s about dominance.”

A rare, heroic smile flickered across the instructor’s usually stern face. “Back in the day, I’d chase down twenty men alone—they’d scatter like the tide. That’s what it means to be fierce—whether you’re outnumbered or not, ruthlessness never fails.”

A month later, Chang Ke’s combat scores were among the best.