A month passed in a blur of bruises and discipline.
Between the university's grueling training schedule and her personal workout plan, Wang Zhi barely had time to register the days slipping by. She woke before dawn and collapsed into bed long after curfew, muscles screaming, palms blistered, mind exhausted.
But she didn't give up. She fell. She got up. And she ran again.
Her determination began to pay off. Slowly, she was climbing—no longer just a name in the middle ranks, but one of the top 15 in her class. The instructors noticed. Her peers started respecting her.
But Wang Zhi didn't let it swell her ego.
Success didn't make her complacent—it sharpened her hunger.
She wanted more.
Then came one bitter morning.
The sky was grey and the air smelled like rain and metal when Instructor Han marched them to the edge of a scarred trench in the ground. It stretched the length of a football field, its bottom filled with sewage-brown mud and dotted with filthy puddles that reflected the barbed wire above.
The wire sagged like serrated smiles, just inches above the ground.
"This," Instructor Han announced, "is your battlefield. Crawl through. Stay low. Mouth shut. Eyes open. Anyone who lifts their back high enough to touch the wire? Start over."
His voice was flat, emotionless—but his eyes glinted with challenge.
Wang Zhi stared at the mud. It stank of rot and decay. Her uniform was still damp from the morning's PT. The cold wind slithered under her collar like ice.
Her stomach twisted.
But she stepped forward.
"Go!"
She dropped to the ground.
The mud swallowed her elbows and knees. Pebbles and shards of gravel bit into her skin. Her uniform clung heavy to her legs like wet chains. She kept her chest low, breath shallow, arms dragging her forward inch by inch.
Halfway through, her hand slipped on a jagged rock.
A sharp pain ripped through her palm—a deep cut, fresh and bleeding. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, but she didn't stop.
Around her, others whimpered and groaned. One recruit cried openly. Another rolled out and quit.
But not her.
Wang Zhi crawled through pain, past exhaustion, until she clawed her way out of the trench—mud-slicked, gasping, trembling.
Instructor Han gave her a look.
A nod.
Just once.
But in his world, that single nod was thunderous approval.
That day, she didn't just feel like a student.
She felt like a soldier.
Two days later came the most anticipated—and dreaded—milestone: combat training.
Names were called out in pairs for sparring.
When Wang Zhi's name was paired with a male classmate, a murmur rose through the crowd.
"Sir, how could I spar with a girl?" her opponent asked with a smirk, eyeing her lean frame. "Isn't sparring supposed to be among equals? Wouldn't it be unfair... for her?"
Some recruits laughed. Others stared awkwardly.
Wang Zhi didn't flinch.
She stepped forward, eyes steady. "I believe we'll know whether I'm capable—after we spar."
No anger. No mockery. Just calm confidence.
The match began.
At first, he was cocky, treating it like a joke. But the smirk slowly faded as she dodged, countered, struck. She wasn't just fast—she was strategic. Sharp. Precise.
She began to win.
Frustrated, he snapped.
He stopped holding back. His hits became wild. Dangerous. Reckless.
Then—one strike too far.
He lunged with full force. Wang Zhi twisted, fist clenched, ready to land a blow that would end the match—
But just before impact, a hand caught her wrist.
Strong. Familiar.
In the same breath, the attacker was flipped to the ground, pinned, gasping.
"Still charging into fights, I see," came a calm, deep voice.
Wang Zhi's breath caught in her throat.
Him.
The man from the alley. The stranger who had saved her once before.
She stared at him, eyes wide, heart thudding.
And then she found her voice.
"Still appearing out of nowhere to rescue me?"
A ghost of a smile curved his lips. "Maybe," he said softly. "Or maybe… I was assigned to watch the reckless ones."