Super Soldier

Chapter Twelve: The Prison Break – Part I

Just as Lin Fei found himself at a loss for ideas, his gaze happened to fall upon the squat toilet and the small washbasin in their cell.

Inspiration struck like lightning—he could dig a tunnel, an escape route from this cursed prison. As for where to begin, the squat toilet presented itself as a promising starting point. Beneath it, he surmised, lay the underground piping system. With a stroke of luck, they might crawl through those sewer lines to freedom.

A man of swift action, Lin Fei began smiling at the squat toilet.

"Fatty," he beckoned, "I’ve got a task for you. Tonight, get us something we can dig with. Your boss is about to lead you on a jailbreak."

“What? A jailbreak?”

“Keep your voice down!” Though Fatty was momentarily stunned, the other two inmates responded with enthusiasm. After hearing Lin Fei’s plan, all three agreed—after all, even a sliver of hope was better than waiting for death.

That night, Fatty smuggled a metal food tray back to the cell, hidden beneath his clothes. One of the other inmates returned with a spoon, the last brought a small bowl.

As darkness blanketed the prison, the digging began. Naturally, Lin Fei, their de facto leader, wouldn’t soil his hands with such labor. Instead, he stood by the laser-barred perimeter of the cell, doing exercises and shielding his crew from view.

"That’s it. The hole’s big enough for us to get through," whispered the older inmate after two grueling hours of digging. They had removed the toilet and unearthed a dark, gaping cavity beneath.

"Dig it wider. I’m not squeezing through that,” grumbled Fatty in hushed tones.

Another two hours passed. Suddenly, there was a loud "bang." Lin Fei, still working out beside the laser bars, caught a whiff of something foul—sharp, revolting.

The three inmates were drenched in a vile, unnameable sludge.

"You damned i***t! I told you not to dig so deep! You just had to push it—now you’ve punctured the sewage line! Look at this mess! The whole cell stinks of s**t!" One of the inmates exploded in fury, hurling blame at Fatty as the others joined in the shouting.

"Shut up! Fill in that hole—fast!" Lin Fei barked, resigned to their failure. “With that loud bang and the stench, the guards will be here in no time!”

Thus, their first escape attempt ended in disaster after four hours, leaving behind only the stinking aftermath of a ruptured waste pipe.

"Quick, hide the tray, the spoon, all of it. And remember—tonight, the toilet broke. That’s our story. If anyone dares tell the guards we were digging a tunnel, I’ll personally send them to hell by morning," Lin Fei growled, furious at their incompetence.

The failed attempt taught him a bitter lesson: a team of pigs is more dangerous than the prison itself. If he ever hoped to escape, he’d need capable allies—not these bunglers.

Soon enough, a guard arrived, pinching his nose as he investigated the cell. All four inmates were marched to the washroom for a thorough cleansing, then issued new prison uniforms—their old ones were so foul they were likely incinerated on the spot.

What followed was a ten-hour interrogation. Under the glare of powerful floodlights, the seasoned inmates held their ground. They knew that a failed prison break meant brutal punishment—if not execution. So they all stuck to the story: the toilet had suddenly broken, the pipes were ancient and decayed, and the prison administration owed them compensation.

By morning, the stench-ridden cell was deemed a hazard. Since the incident occurred at night, and the repair crew had already sealed the broken line, there was no definitive proof of sabotage. With no evidence, and given Lin Fei’s influence in the mess hall, the warden couldn’t easily sentence them to death. Instead, they were held in isolation for twelve hours and then reassigned to different cells. Lin Fei was moved to a new room.

He waved a casual farewell to his former cellmates, smiling faintly as he stepped into his new quarters.

That night, while the other inmates slept, Lin Fei was once again subjected to the merciless demands of the demon program inside him. Forced physical training began—sit-ups, unrelenting and punishing.

Bang, bang, bang—not the sound of table tennis, but of Lin Fei’s back slamming against the iron bedframe, echoing through the prison. For two hours, the noise persisted—sharp, rhythmic, relentless.

“Damn this program. Damn that accursed Warlord,” Lin Fei cursed silently as he powered through.

The devilish AI seemed to have upgraded itself. Now, it no longer controlled his body directly. Instead, it made him exercise—if he slowed or stopped, it would stimulate his pain receptors, jabbing his nervous system awake under the guise of "enhancing awareness."

Two hours in, his bed was soaked with sweat.

“Bastard, stop that racket! If you want to exercise, do it outside! Don’t ruin my sleep! Don’t think I fear you just because you’re the mess hall king—I couldn’t care less. I didn’t fight you for that title because it’s beneath me.

The last mess hall boss? I killed him. I was in the infirmary a month before you arrived. Now you show up, all high and mighty,” snarled a grizzled middle-aged inmate sharing the cell.

Lin Fei said nothing. More accurately, he had no energy to respond—the program had drained all his focus. He was at 762 sit-ups. Two hundred more to go.

He knew one thing: until he reached a thousand, he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep.

"You hear me, punk? Ignoring me? I’m one of the Empire’s top three close-combat assassins. Codename: Demon."

The man leapt from his bed, stormed over, and raised his leg to kick Lin Fei straight in the head.

The strike was swift, deadly—faster and fiercer than any enemy Lin Fei had encountered.

Just as he prepared to counter, a robotic voice whispered in his mind:

"Host is under attack during active training. Threat level: A-grade. Lethal danger detected. Activating automatic defense protocol."

Before he could react, Lin Fei’s body moved on its own. He bent sharply at the waist, arms crossing to shield the back of his skull. The man’s kick connected—but met resistance. The impact was so forceful that the entire metal bed slid several inches across the floor.