Super Soldier

Chapter Eight: The Prison Intern Doctor

Although Lin Fei had trained extensively in combat within his subconscious, when confronted with a mob of frenzied inmates—this lopsided battle of one against many—he quickly found himself overwhelmed, his strength insufficient, his body accruing wounds.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Lin Fei landed blow after blow, incapacitating the assailants before him. Yet for every enemy he felled, more surged forth to take their place.

Just as he was reaching his limit, salvation came in the form of a cluster of sleep-inducing grenades, tumbling into the first mess hall. Enveloped in the pale haze, Lin Fei once again succumbed to unconsciousness.

It was unclear how much time had passed when he awoke, but he found himself once again in the prison infirmary he had first arrived at three days prior—or perhaps all prison infirmaries simply looked the same.

After a brief check, Lin Fei noted that his injuries were fortunately superficial—no broken bones, just bruises and cuts. A drip of some unidentified fluid was attached to his arm.

He lay still for quite a while before the round-faced intern doctor, Ouyang Feng, arrived to change his IV. But this time, she looked haggard—her eyes bloodshot, her complexion pale.

“You look more like a patient than a doctor today,” Lin Fei quipped, greeting the red-haired intern with his usual wit.

“It’s all thanks to that maniac in the first mess hall,” she snapped. “He’s caused two brawls in four days. I’ve had to treat over two hundred inmates—stitches, bone resets, bandages. I worked three days straight, sleeping barely one or two hours a day just to finish patching them up.”

“And just when I thought I could finally rest, I came back from a short nap to find another wave of patients waiting—this time over three hundred, many with aggravated injuries!”

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered while adjusting his IV. “I know I prayed to You last week to send more wounded inmates so I could practice... but I didn’t mean hundreds at once!”

Her eyes blazed with irritation as she vented her frustration, oblivious that Lin Fei was, in fact, the very “Lord” responsible for the chaos—or more accurately, the so-called maniac who’d ignited it.

In the warden’s lounge of Carl Prison, a heavyset middle-aged man sat on an oversized sofa, a jagged scar tracing down from his eyelid—a relic from his early years in the military. After falling out with his superiors, he had been exiled to this remote facility, where he’d remained for a decade.

Behind him stood a modest wine cabinet. A thick cigar nestled between his fingers, he leafed through a report, along with surveillance footage of the two mess hall riots and a file on Lin Fei.

“Curious,” the warden mused. “This boy with the metal sphere has an unremarkable history—eighteen years of mundane existence, the only notable detail being a stint as a forensic assistant.”

“Yet just ten days ago, he began exhibiting extraordinary combat prowess. Intriguing.”

The boy’s record, which included killing his entire class and instructor, the warden dismissed as the act of someone driven too far by bullying during his military school days. It reminded him of his own youthful fury, a reckless edge he could not help but admire.

“No need to send him to solitary this time,” the warden said to his adjutant. “Once he recovers, send him back to eat in the first mess hall. I want to see whether he can tame that den of wolves—or be devoured by them.”

Lin Fei remained in the infirmary for the rest of the day. Perhaps thanks to the enhancement from his internal War God system, his cellular regeneration accelerated, and combined with the nutrients from the IV, he was almost fully recovered by nightfall.

The only regret was not seeing Ouyang Feng again—she was likely still buried under a mountain of injured inmates.

The next morning, fully recharged, Lin Fei was escorted out of the infirmary by prison guards. The clinking of the heavy metal ball chained to his ankle echoed as he walked, giving his stride a strange rhythm. Perhaps, he mused, he had a latent talent for music.

As the gates of the mess hall swung open, Lin Fei stepped inside and noticed that only a little over four hundred inmates had managed to come for breakfast on their own. Most were wrapped in bandages, visibly battered.

“Good morning,” Lin Fei greeted casually. Every pair of eyes in the hall turned toward him—some hesitant, others resentful, a few wearing the bitter expression of a jilted lover.

The guards, ever diligent, exited the hall and locked the doors behind them.

As Lin Fei scanned the room, none of the inmates would meet his gaze. Heads bowed, bodies shifted away from him instinctively.

“To enhance your—” The War God system tried to speak again, but Lin Fei interrupted.

“Enough. I know. You want me to challenge the entire hall again. Give me five minutes. Let me eat first.”

He sat at the nearest table. The inmates who had been sitting there immediately retreated beyond a five-meter radius.

“Hey, Fatty—bring me breakfast,” Lin Fei called out to a heavyset inmate who was hiding behind others, pretending not to see him.

Reluctantly and trembling, the man brought him a heaping plate of synthetic food. His hands shook so violently that some of it spilled, but Lin Fei, ever magnanimous, merely waved him away with a gesture of forgiveness.

Lin Fei ate swiftly. Once finished, he flung the tray aside, flipped the table, and issued a new challenge to every inmate in the hall.

The provocation worked. A few lightly wounded inmates, unable to restrain themselves, charged at him. The brawl erupted anew. This time, however, most targeted Lin Fei directly. But with prior experience under his belt, he skillfully dodged and countered, dropping opponents in a relentless rhythm.

Each strike he landed was decisive—one hit, and the foe stayed down.

Fists blurred before his eyes. Thankfully, the chain on his ankle was long enough to allow fluid movement.

At one point, three particularly vile inmates attempted to yank the iron ball he’d placed on the ground to trip him. But Lin Fei noticed them in time. Three swift kicks later, each perfectly aimed and merciless, a chorus of screams rang out. From that day forward, the mess hall would have three fewer men—and three more eunuchs.

The others took note. Though the fight raged on, no one dared lay a finger on the iron ball again.

Lin Fei had improved—his technique sharper, his stamina stronger. Just as he was getting into the rhythm, a dozen more sleep grenades began rolling into the hall once again.