Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 50: Setting Out: Destination—the Siberian Training Camp

After eating and drinking their fill, the boxers were all feeling a bit tipsy—except for Zhao Wuji, who remained sober. In truth, didn’t he also want to get completely drunk? Max waited until the boxers had finished eating and drinking, then led them to where they would sleep. After turning a few corners, the group finally came to a halt in a hall with no door. Several of the lights in the hall were broken; at that moment, only a few of those hanging high from the ceiling were still working, casting a dim, yellow glow. The boxers all felt a sense of illusion—this warm feeling… wasn’t it as if they’d returned home? The tension and oppression they’d felt over the past few days finally began to ease at that very moment. A sense of comfort washed over them. They knew it was an illusion, but no one was willing to point it out. In the vast hall, dozens of mats were laid out, pressed tightly together, leaving only narrow aisles for people to walk through. After leading the boxers to this place, Max looked at everyone present and said, “This is where you’ll be sleeping tonight. Get a good night’s sleep! Right now is the only time you can be certain you’ll see tomorrow’s sunlight—once you arrive at the Siberian Training Camp, you won’t even know if you’ll live to see tomorrow’s sunlight.” Max’s words left everyone in the room silent. That’s right! Cherish this brief moment! Once at the Siberian Training Camp, no one could guarantee they’d see tomorrow’s sunlight. “Get some rest! Recharge your energy—we’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.” With those words, Max signaled to a guard and turned to leave. In truth, there was half a sentence Max didn’t say: “By this time tomorrow, I’m afraid many of you won’t be here anymore!” Max didn’t say it; he wanted these boxers to enjoy their last night of peace. Zhao Wuji found a random spot on the floor and sat down. Alan found a spot right next to Zhao Wuji. He’d intended to sit for a while, just like Zhao Wuji, but the moment he sat down, he collapsed and fell into a deep sleep, muttering something indistinctly. However, looking at Alan’s expression, Zhao Wuji thought to himself that Alan must be very peaceful in his dreams right now. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Zhao Wuji steadied himself and began to relax, then narrowed his eyes—a long-standing habit of his. Most of the time, he rested in this position. No sooner had he closed his eyes than Zhao Wuji sensed a cold gaze lingering on him, a gaze that seemed to turn into a knife, slicing into his flesh again and again. Zhao Wuji opened his eyes. The lights in the hall had been turned off, plunging the room into pitch darkness, with only the deep snores of the boxers echoing through the air. The moment Zhao Wuji opened his eyes, he stood out instantly, like a cold star in the darkness. The gaze that had been fixed on him was immediately withdrawn. Following the gaze, Zhao Wuji looked over and saw only a figure lying on the floor with its back turned, its body rising and falling as if it were already asleep. Zhao Wuji’s lips twitched, and a faint, cold smile flashed across his face. With his keen perception, how could he possibly fail to notice that the person was only pretending to sleep? “Berken…” Zhao Wuji murmured the name softly. He decided not to sit on the straw mat any longer; instead, he lay down and fell asleep for real. Before long, he had drifted off into the land of dreams. But would anyone be lying awake tonight? A quiet night, a still night—the night before the storm. Max stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze fixed on a certain direction. Tomorrow? Max kept muttering to himself, “I wonder what awaits them tomorrow?” The stars in the night sky gradually faded from view; the inky darkness of the night sky, like ink that had been diluted in clear water for a long time, finally faded away, slowly disappearing without a trace. Then, dawn broke, revealing a sky as blue as the sea, so clear it was mesmerizing. The boxers slumbering in the hall were jolted awake by a short, urgent alarm; they startled and snapped to attention. Zhao Wuji slowly opened his eyes, his gaze bright and his spirit radiant. Max’s booming voice echoed through the empty hall, deafening to the ears. Today, Max seemed even more decisive and decisive than he had been yesterday. “Get up, all of you! Get up! Haven’t you had enough sleep yet?” Max strode down the aisle between the sleeping mats, bellowing repeatedly. In his hand, a long whip cracked against the floor—and occasionally, it struck the half-asleep boxers as well. From now on, it was time to show them what true hell was like. Max thought coldly to himself. “Don’t make me shoot you right now—do you hear me?” Noticing that some of the boxers were still groggy, Max made a gesture. Instantly, the sound of bolt actions being cocked rang out. The sound rang in everyone’s ears. It sent a chill down the boxers’ spines, causing them to spring up from their sleeping mats and stand at attention. “Very good, that’s the spirit. In the Siberian Training Camp, the only thing you need to do is obey orders—absolute obedience. Otherwise, death awaits you. Do you understand?” Max repeatedly warned the boxers in his cold, ruthless voice, because only by doing so would they have a chance to survive. Boxers who disobey orders are of no value to the Siberian Training Camp, because people like them will never become the strong. And the purpose of the Siberian Training Camp was to weed out the weak and retain the strong. And people like them were destined to be the weak. Once all the boxers were on their feet, Max had them line up for breakfast. The fighters had expected a hearty breakfast, but to their surprise—and in stark contrast to last night—today’s breakfast was nothing more than mediocre. A mountain of bread and some lukewarm water—that was all there was. No one dared voice their dissatisfaction, for they had already sensed the tense atmosphere of the day; perhaps, over some trivial matter, they might end up getting shot. Everyone simply ate in silence, chewing on the dry bread and drinking the water, trying their best to fill their stomachs. Max glanced at his watch, estimated the time, and ordered, “Everyone, stop eating. Follow me.” All the boxers put down their bread, exchanged glances, then, looking bewildered, lined up and followed Max out of the hall under the watchful eyes of the guards. As they walked, they noticed the path sloped upward—it seemed they had been underground all along? After about ten minutes, the group finally came to a halt. Ahead of them, a heavy electronic door blocked their path. Max entered a code into the electronic panel beside the door, and with a “rumbling” sound, the electronic door slowly began to slide upward. A streak of light gradually spread, first illuminating their legs, then their entire bodies. Finally, the electronic gate slid all the way open. What met their eyes was a steep slope. Beside it lay a large open area where a massive transport helicopter was parked steadily. Below the steep slope lay a bottomless cliff. Max pointed at the transport helicopter and said to them, “See that helicopter? You’ll be boarding it right now to reach the actual camp of our Siberian Training Camp.” Max called out loudly, “Lawrence!” The helicopter’s door swung open with a clang. Immediately afterward, a massive figure stepped out of the helicopter. Good heavens! The boxers stared blankly at the Tyrannosaurus-like figure before them. He stood two meters tall, his body a mass of bulging muscles with not a trace of fat. He had a square, long face, pale yellow stubble, and eyes narrowed to slits that occasionally shot out fierce, menacing glances. A massive Polar Bear tattoo stretched from his back across his chest; it was so lifelike that, in the biting wind, it seemed to be roaring at them as if it were alive. This was Lawrence. The moment Lawrence stepped off the helicopter, the boxers felt the ground tremble. As Lawrence strode toward them, step by heavy step, they felt waves of rumbling beneath their feet. What a fierce-looking guy! That was the first thought that crossed every boxer’s mind. Just look at his arms—the muscles they usually took pride in probably didn’t even amount to half of what this man possessed. Lawrence stepped in front of the boxers, opened his wide mouth, and his booming voice nearly burst their eardrums. “You bunch of punks, what are you waiting for? Get in there!” The boxers shot a fearful glance at Lawrence before marching angrily toward the helicopter. Lawrence frowned, annoyed at their slow pace, and raised his massive foot, kicking the boxer bringing up the rear squarely in the butt. He stumbled heavily. The boxer who’d been kicked fell flat on the ground; as he got back up, he shot Lawrence a hateful glare. Lawrence gave him a cold glance, sensing the boxer’s resentment, and smiled coldly.