Qin Bing stood with the unshakable posture of a drill instructor, her hands clasped behind her back, her feet planted shoulder-width apart. She radiated an authority that was part drill sergeant, part valkyrie, an intimidating aura softened only by a fierce, warrior-like grace.
Despite the nagging pain from his unhealed left foot, Xiao Ke mirrored her stance perfectly.
Her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. "As a soldier, you need to master two things: hand-to-hand combat and kill strikes. We'll start with combat."
She paced slowly. "It's simpler than you think. On the battlefield, flashy, choreographed nonsense gets you killed. This system is the brutal, distilled essence of ten thousand years of imperial warfare, condensed into eighteen essential moves. Don't let the small number fool you," she warned, her eyes locking onto his. "Don't mistake 'simple' for 'weak.' These are the most practical, most savage techniques we have. Each one is designed to kill."
A fire ignited in Xiao Ke's chest. He nodded, his focus absolute.
Qin Bing was a woman of action, not words. Without further preamble, she launched into the lesson.
The system was designed for the chaos of unarmed, close-quarters combat on the battlefield. While it boasted eighteen moves, it was really built on a foundation of nine core techniques. The other nine were simply variations. For example, the "Striding Punch" was an all-out offensive blow, while the "Parrying Punch" was its defensive twin—a block that flowed seamlessly into an identical strike.
To put it simply, the first nine moves were for striking first. The back nine was for countering.
Qin Bing ran through the forms just once. Incredibly, Xiao Ke absorbed it all. He committed every punch, kick, and elbow strike to memory and immediately began to practice on his own. His movements, while raw, already held the brutal core of the techniques.
A flicker of surprise crossed Qin Bing's face. Some people are just born for this, she mused. They see it once, they get it, and they can even build on it. That's pure, raw talent.
After watching him run through the set a few times, she corrected a handful of minor mistakes in his form. Then, she left him to it, retreating to her quarters to bathe and change. She had no intention of babysitting him.
Her philosophy was simple: a master can open the door, but you have to walk the path yourself. True strength is forged in the fires of self-discipline, not under the watchful eye of a supervisor. She used to tell her soldiers all the time: "Don't just pretend you're working hard. The results won't play along."
After a long bath, Qin Bing changed into a fresh Chiliarch's uniform. She left her hair down this time, letting it fall freely over her shoulders—a subtle touch of casualness that softened her usual sharp, military edge. The crisp thud of her military boots on the stone courtyard announced her return.
Two hours had passed. Xiao Ke was drenched, his uniform plastered to his chest and back with sweat. But he was oblivious, lost in the zone. He threw every punch, every kick, as if his life depended on it, as if he weren't training in a quiet courtyard but fighting for his life against a real enemy. He treated practice like a final, desperate battle.
Qin Bing's eyes narrowed, a rare spark of admiration lighting their depths as she watched his handsome, determined face. He was completely absorbed.
"Xiao Ke!" she called out.
He stopped mid-strike, turning to face her. "Chiliarch?"
She rolled her neck, a predatory grin touching her lips. "These are killing techniques. You can't learn how to kill by punching the air. Come on," she said, beckoning with a finger. "Let's see what you've got."
Xiao Ke froze. He couldn't actually fight her, could he? She was a Chiliarch, countless ranks above him. Striking a superior officer was a grave offense. Besides, he was a man, she was a woman; the whole idea felt wrong. And above all, he knew she was terrifyingly strong. He'd be utterly crushed, and the humiliation of being dismantled by a woman was a feeling he'd rather avoid.
His hesitation earned him a scowl. "What is this? Are you a soldier or a shy schoolgirl? Stop dithering."
Her words stung. Steeling himself, he bowed his head slightly. "Ma'am. My apologies in advance."
"Show me," she said, her smile returning, sharp as a knife's edge.
Xiao Ke exploded forward with the most basic move: Striding Punch. His left foot shot forward as his right fist launched like a cannonball, aimed straight for her chest.
The moment the punch left his shoulder, Xiao Ke realized his mistake. He was aiming for her chest. Was that inappropriate? The thought flashed through his mind, a fatal hesitation. He was overthinking it—as if his clumsy punch could ever hope to land on her in the first place.
A flicker of indignation crossed Qin Bing's eyes. She flowed inside his guard, dodging the punch with contemptuous ease, and locked her arm around his neck. A sharp twist, a brutal yank, and Xiao Ke was slammed onto his back, the air knocked from his lungs with a pained grunt.
That'll teach you to get fresh, she thought, a cold satisfaction washing over her.
"On your feet!" she snapped at his prone form. "Don't play dead. You think the enemy will wait for you to catch your breath on the battlefield?"
Wincing, Xiao Ke forced himself up and faced her again.
For the next two hours, he became her personal punching bag. She moved through him like a storm, battering him with one technique after another. By the end, his uniform was filthy, his face bruised and swollen. He began to wonder if this was training or just a thinly veiled excuse to beat him senseless.
Finally, she called a halt. "Rest for fifteen minutes," she commanded, her voice void of sympathy. "Then we move on to the next lesson: the military saber."