TTB C23

Chapter 23  

20 “Dragonbone”

After waking, the alcohol had completely worn off, and after a quick wash, He Lin went out for a run.

Compared with night runs, he preferred mornings—the air fresher, the feeling of facing the sunrise stronger.

As he ran, he thought about the previous night.

Before the injury, he could drink a thousand cups without getting drunk; after recovery, he strictly avoided alcohol for a long time per medical advice, only trying small amounts a year later—so why the blackout this time?

Was it alcohol, or an old aftereffect flaring up—he couldn’t tell.

Back home, after breakfast, He Lin tidied the apartment.

One by one, he returned the badges to their case, tugging loose more memories from his special-operations days.

Like adults who still dream of college entrance exams, some life moments turn into lifelong nightmares.

For He Lin, the nightmare was Hell Week.

In those special-ops years, he’d done a dozen Hell Weeks—some focused on endurance, some on survival in the wild, some on team coordination, and one was pure limit-pushing; only the very first had been a large-scale live-force assessment.

In that selection, he earned a Warrior Badge.

When it ended, the survivors were finally bussed to Tianning Training Base—like marching back from the prehistoric to civilization.

After seven days of grinding, the candidates barely had room for joy—just wanted to lie down.

The leadership finished remarks and announced results—He Lin ranked first among all rookies.

Then came selection. Leaders told them to rest in place. Everyone collapsed where they stood—too spent to lift a finger.

No one expected posture now; they were like penned lambs awaiting the special-ops captains to pick their stock.

The four teams were the fabled Dragonflame, Python, Wolffang, and Blue Sparrow.

Within special-ops, roles split by emphasis: breachers, snipers, pointmen, assault; teams filled gaps as needed.

Those with specialties were easy calls; He Lin watched the plump demolitions tech get claimed by Skull-face.

Others waited, eager for their captain’s call; the lawn slowly emptied.

When it came to He Lin—near-pointman at close range, competent as sniper at distance, strong in assault—he was the free agent every team wanted.

All but Blue Sparrow’s captain were interested.

Three of them, still in Blue’s gear and not even stripped, debated his assignment.

One he recognized—the Skull-face.

After the other two had argued themselves out, Skull-face said mildly, “I called him first.”

The other two fell silent.

Skull-face walked over to collect him.

He Lin burned.

He remembered that offhand line outside the tent: “This one—I want him.”

As if he were plunder pre‑claimed—ownership decided in a sentence.

He’d show them he was flesh and blood, due basic respect.

He stood. “If you’re choosing like this, why not ask what I think?”

Sensing an opening, an older captain grinned. “Then which team? How about Wolffang?”

Another chimed in, “Want to hear the benefits? Python’s got the best annual leave.”

Wolffang spat. “Don’t con the kid—most leave means most injuries. You do the most dangerous work; if you want ten days in jungle eating cold meals with bugs and beasts, go there.”

Python’s captain shot back, “As if you’re less dangerous? Wolffang runs the most ops all year.”

He Lin laid a trap. “If you want to lead me, at least be stronger in every way. Whoever beats me, I follow.”

He said it while locking eyes on Skull-face—baiting him.

Wolffang’s captain smirked. “Using a dare? We’ve got seniority. You want to topple the ranks, pup?”

Python’s captain bowed out. “Too wild for me. You can take him—and teach him.”

Only Skull-face looked at him. “You just finished a limit course. Beating you now wouldn’t be fair. Fight me in a few days. I’ll allow a reassignment.”

That cool, condescending tone again—it stung.

“So sure I’d lose?” He Lin’s hackles rose. “No need to wait. Now.”

Skull-face’s mask hid any expression; only his eyes showed—and he acquiesced.

“Fun—let the young ones go,” Wolffang laughed, offering a floor. “He Lin, right? If you lose, you go to Dragonflame. If you win, come to us—I’ll hold a spot.”

Python volunteered to referee. “What’s the contest?”

Skull-face flicked a glance. “You choose.”

He Lin didn’t hold back. “Field-strip and reassemble, marksmanship, and hand‑to‑hand. Best two of three.”

These were his best: his opponent was a captain—no slouch—so he built in margin instead of a single‑round kill.

Skull-face didn’t even say “good”—just nodded.

The captains chuckled—Python most of all, smiling without comment.

Picked trainees gathered to watch.

The gear was on hand; Python brought two empty pistols and handed one to each.

They faced off across a table.

“Go,” the referee barked. He Lin snapped the pistol up and tore into it. Skull-face didn’t move.

He Lin’s hands flew. In moments, the pistol lay in parts—already reaching to reassemble while the other hadn’t started.

Some trainees whooped.

He Lin felt the round was his—he threw a taunt of a look across.

Then Skull-face’s hands began to move—slowly picking up the pistol, giving it a flex. Only two words fit: liquid smooth.

With a series of soft clicks, the weapon fell into components.

Magazine, slide, recoil spring, barrel—lined in order.

He Lin glanced up—and his pupils tightened.

The gun had come apart as if by magic—falling to pieces in the man’s hands.

Fallen apart…

As did He Lin’s heart.

The circle fell silent; even cheers were forgotten.

Then Skull-face bowed to the parts—long fingers lifted, snapping pieces together with unerring speed.

Sweat ran down He Lin’s brow; he fumbled onward.

Skull-face was unhurried—restoring the pistol; the slide locked home with a clack.

Before He Lin finished, Skull-face tapped the mag in, flicked the safety, and mimed a shot across the table.

He Lin followed a heartbeat later—but on a battlefield, he’d already be dead.

Python checked the timer. “You all see it. No need to read seconds.” He looked at Skull-face. “So slow—are you going easy? Blindfolded you’d still be faster.”

Skull-face didn’t explain—twirling the pistol once before laying it down.

He Lin could tell—his opponent had deliberately started late.

He Lin’s breakdown time was top-tier among trainees; shaving another second would be murderous effort.

What kind of monster was this man?

Even allowing for exhaustion from Hell Week, He Lin was outclassed.

Suddenly, he felt less certain about marksmanship. Skull-face asked, “Next?”

“Hand‑to‑hand,” He Lin said.

He had to take the second—at least to avoid humiliation.

At the call, He Lin launched.

Fresh off seven days of inhuman pace, he poured the pent‑up fire into this moment.

Skull-face stepped back.

He Lin mapped it out: different from the big bruisers—this one was a shade shorter, lean muscle, agile, strong.

A worthy adversary.

He Lin’s brow tightened—he ran through every hold and lock he’d ever practiced.

The man kept yielding ground, so He Lin pressed faster to force an opening—switching from testing taps to a drive.

His wheel kicks were his best—arc strikes from sanda—with long legs and power, high or low, he could whip a wide sweep with crushing force.

But after a string of kicks, Skull-face only gave up two steps—never raising a guard.

He Lin was angrier—each dodge felt like a put‑down.

He punched—fast—Skull-face tilted—fist wind shaved his ear.

Even as he fought, He Lin admitted: the man had skills. Reaction speed was uncanny; he read He Lin’s intent almost before it came—slipping ahead of time. Only surprise would crack him.

Skull-face waited, rested; He Lin never flagged—he strung strike into strike, fists and feet.

Time stretched; Skull-face still hadn’t thrown a blow, but his evasions grew more ragged.

Meanwhile, He Lin’s lungs burned—breath ragged.

Finally, Skull-face had to block—one forearm lifting.

Between glove and sleeve, a sliver of wrist bone showed—pale skin under black cloth. As they brushed past, He Lin snapped at the exposed wrist.

His combatives coach had taught: in a real fight, nothing is dishonorable—groin kicks, eye jabs, biting—they’re fair when lives are at stake.

Nothing is shameful but losing.

Skull-face whipped his hand away—wrist grazing He Lin’s lips; he stumbled back a step—brow seeming to crease.

He Lin caught a hint of soap on that hand and grew more incensed. They’d been crawling in mud for a week—filthy as eels—yet this Blue captain was clean as new.

He spat in the grass—provoking on purpose—then charged again.

He pressed harder, variations piling—herding Skull-face into the crowd. When there was nowhere left, He Lin raised a knee.

It looked like another wheel kick; in truth he shifted—driving a horizontal knee at the ribs. Landed, it would injure—at worst, crack bone.

Skull-face could no longer play cat and mouse—one hand checked the knee, the other’s knee flicked toward He Lin’s post leg.

He Lin didn’t panic—took him down in a death-roll, dragging Skull-face with him as they tumbled twice across the grass.

He Lin surged on top. The sun burned; the ring erupted in cheers.

He ripped the skull mask away—

—

In the living room, the recollection slammed against pain—then disintegrated.

It was like crossing a bridge and feeling it break at midspan—falling into the river below.

Memory fractured—crisp images turned to bubbles. What was sharp a moment ago shattered into shards.

He didn’t remember what he saw when he tore the mask away—only the result after.

He’d thought the second bout was in his pocket—but the startled beat cost him.

Just as the face registered, he was flipped—momentum reversed—and thrashed.

No killing blows, just point‑stops—but a thorough loss.

He Lin had analyzed his failure. First, Hell Week had cost him physically. Second, the opponent was simply that good. Third, after losing the strip‑and‑build, he grew impatient—burning too much early.

Most crucial—he’d blanked at the sight. In a fight, that’s fatal.

After that—loser’s terms—he joined Dragonflame. Skull-face became his captain.

As the plump tech later sighed, “Of all the people to pick a fight with—you chose the unluckiest star?”

From then on, the captain rode him hard.

Extra drills every day; chores in every spare minute; hauling gear before training, cleaning after, squaring away the gym; queueing in the canteen; tidying the captain’s quarters—it was as if he weren’t human.

He Lin felt his blood pounding.

He hated that man.

What was his name?

Two characters…

A shadow loomed—ungraspable.

He seldom fought himself like this—but now he needed it. If there’s a debt, there’s a debtor; how could he hate so fiercely yet lose the name?

His skull felt set on a burner—each scrape through memory a ladle stirring his brain. He doubled over, shaking, nausea rising; the headache made him want to smash his head into a wall.

He coughed—unable to hold it—and something hot surged up.

He clapped a hand to his mouth and spat blood—an old aftereffect of head trauma: stress‑induced ulcer bleeding.

And through the red, two characters cut free.

Dragonbone.

Afterward, sweat drenched him; his fringe stuck to his cheeks; his chest heaved—like running a long road, like dying and clawing back.

Luckily, the episode wasn’t severe.

When he stopped pulling at the memory, the pain ebbed; he took a hemostatic—bleeding slowed.

So—that man’s call sign was Dragonbone…

Not a name, just a codename—and the face in his mind was blur.

He Lin shut his eyes, exhausted. Forget it—just an irrelevant person…