Super Soldier

Chapter Four: Forced Training

"It is now time for physical training. Scanning host's bodily condition.

Muscle strength: 8

Cell vitality: 11

Bone density: 10

Cellular energy: 9

Mental stamina: 15 (10 being the average adult value)

Requesting control access to host’s body. To ascend as a War God, the host must dedicate himself to rigorous physical conditioning, the cornerstone of martial supremacy."

As this proclamation echoed through Lin Fei’s mind, control over his own body slipped away.

The three cellmates stared at the newcomer, bemused, as he dropped to the ground and began performing push-ups—flawless, military-style, at an unwavering rhythm of “one, two, three, four,” without pause. A thousand repetitions later, he transitioned smoothly into squats—another thousand. Then sit-ups followed. Every conceivable form of prison-cell exercise was employed with relentless precision.

Finally, he began contorting into poses reminiscent of ancient yogic arts, folding his legs near his head in a posture that seemed to reach for unity between heaven and man. Eyes shut, hands pressed to the floor, he continued his training with rhythmic body lifts.

The expressions of his cellmates morphed from initial curiosity, to disdain, to utter astonishment, and finally to a kind of silent dread. Not that Lin Fei witnessed any of it—by the time he was halfway through, sheer exhaustion had robbed him of consciousness. It was no longer he who moved, but the warrior system embedded in his mind.

After several relentless hours, the War God system finally relented. Lin Fei was allowed to collapse onto his bunk.

The three prisoners stared at the sweat-soaked floor and the ominous black characters emblazoned across the back of his prison uniform: “EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.”

Their faces grew pale.

The following morning, Lin Fei awoke early, though every fiber of his being ached and his stomach was hollow. He needed no divine revelation to know the cause—the damned War God system and its monstrous training regime from the night before.

He vaguely remembered it saying something about emitting bioelectric pulses during sleep to accelerate recovery and alleviate fatigue. Yet if this was the result with overnight stimulation, he dared not imagine how he’d feel without it. Rising at all might have been impossible.

Looking over, he saw his three cellmates bearing dark rings beneath their eyes—obvious signs of restless sleep. The portly one was muttering under his breath, "Kills in his sleep… extremely dangerous… a monster.” No doubt a nightmare had visited him.

“When’s breakfast?” Lin Fei asked the trio of exhausted men. The scene momentarily reminded him of his academy days, early risings, and morning meals in the canteen. But one glance at the iron walls and laser grid was enough to dispel such illusions. This was not the academy. This was a cage.

“In about ten minutes. Once the laser wall retracts, we head to the main mess hall,” the pudgy one—who had claimed yesterday to be a top enforcer in a gang—replied, now speaking to Lin Fei with an odd mixture of deference and caution.

Ten minutes later, the blue laser wall at the cell’s entrance vanished.

“All inmates, proceed in order to designated mess hall for your scheduled meal,” announced the synthesized voice of the prison's AI.

Lin Fei, aching all over, dragged himself forward—still cradling the massive iron ball shackled to his ankle—following the guards’ directions into a metallic corridor.

He was starving. The War God system had evidently burned through vast amounts of energy by pumping bioelectricity into him all night. As the saying goes, “wool comes from the sheep’s back.”

To Lin Fei, the prison felt like a labyrinth. Now, he was being led to one of its great open spaces—what they called the Primary Mess Hall.

The hall stretched over a thousand square meters, filled with inmates in identical uniforms, silently wolfing down their meals.

Meal service was automated—mechanical dispensers handing out largely unpalatable synthetic food. It filled the stomach, but bore no resemblance to anything one might call “delicious.”

Still clutching the metal ball, Lin Fei made his way to the self-serve counter, only to realize that with his hands full, fetching food was a clumsy ordeal.

Luckily, he turned to find the chubby enforcer trailing behind him.

“Here—hold this for me.” Without waiting for a reply, Lin Fei dropped the iron weight into his arms.

“Ugh!” The fat man nearly dropped it. His widened eyes betrayed the shocking heaviness of the ball. He now regarded Lin Fei with an even deeper wariness.

Freed of the burden, Lin Fei grabbed a large tray and began stacking it with what passed for the most edible-looking offerings available. After filling it completely, he added a bowl of hot soup and made for a nearby table—it was too risky to carry such a full tray any farther.

The fat man obediently followed, still cradling the iron ball like some sacred relic.

“Put it down there, and go get yourself something to eat,” Lin Fei ordered. The man complied instantly. He had passed the test—perhaps this one could be useful, a potential follower. After all, if he was to become a War God, wouldn’t a few attendants be fitting?

Lin Fei began devouring his food with practiced efficiency. Around the hall, other inmates stole glances at him, but the sight of the heavy shackle and the words “EXTREMELY DANGEROUS” on his back kept them at a safe distance.

Just as Lin Fei was beginning to feel full, the system’s voice returned, cold and unyielding:

“To accelerate your mastery of combat skills, analysis suggests that fighting real opponents is the most effective method. You are now assigned the following task: defeat all six hundred and twenty-one inmates currently present in the mess hall.

Reward for completion: Do you still expect a reward for such a rudimentary mission? At the very least, if you succeed, it proves your worthiness as a candidate for War God.

Penalty for failure: If you cannot handle such child’s play, you are unfit to be my host. The nature of the punishment… well, I doubt you wish to know.”

“What?! You want me to fight six hundred and twenty-one prisoners? Alone?! Are you insane? That’s suicide!” Lin Fei protested inwardly.

“If you refuse,” the system responded coolly, “I will seize control of your body and execute all six hundred and twenty-one inmates myself. That would guarantee you a death sentence.

Relax. You won’t die. As a concession for this first mission, I will slow your perception of time and enhance your cognitive reflexes. Time will move at a third of its normal pace for you.

Additionally, I will project a personalized combat interface directly through your visual cortex. Follow the movements I provide, and theoretically, you will at worst be severely injured—but you will survive.”

It sounded more like a threat than reassurance.