Dragon and Tiger Clash (2)
The entrance exam for the Sa-yeong Ability Hunter Corps was held at a massive sports center in the heart of Guangzhou University City. Shared by ten universities in the district, the facility was on the scale of an Olympic stadium, leaving vast empty spaces even after accommodating thousands of hopeful recruits.
Most of those who had gathered in response to the recruitment notice were hunters who had provided rear-guard support in battles against the Black Sea Party. Drawn by the prestige of the Guangzhou Public Security Bureau, or riding the wave of patriotism, they had followed orders for a pittance without any formal affiliation. Of course, beneath that devotion lay the intent to indirectly connect with the rising hero, Gao Xusen. One could never underestimate the Chinese instinct for money and power.
There would be more than a few among the applicants who had belonged to other units, but few boasted proudly of their records. It was better to pretend those experiences never happened—getting hammered by peasant workers' artillery and Black Sea Party bike charges, then fleeing in disarray without regrouping. Surviving that hell was a miracle, but hardly something to brag about.
My subordinates, disguised as security personnel, were controlling the crowd.
"Form a line! Anyone disrupting order will be disqualified from recruitment!"
In the center of the artificial turf field, the first round of selections was underway. Beneath ten canopy tents lined up in a row sat medical devices precisely measuring muscle mass and condition, with long queues of applicants waiting their turn at each one.
The test method was straightforward. Measure muscle mass and condition to calculate the normal force output range, then compare it to the applicant's actual demonstrated strength to determine their reinforcement coefficient. For example, if the median normal force was 400 Newtons (N) and an ability user exerted 800 N, their coefficient would be 2.0—meaning they could produce twice the power of their given physique.
Hushan Liang, the deputy director who had come to observe, voiced a doubt.
"I don't mean to question the vice director's judgment, but I'm not sure if this is really a good testing method. It seems too simplistic... or maybe just too lacking."
I replied nonchalantly.
"It's far better than picking by gut feeling. Scientific, efficient, accurate. Few countries have formally adopted it yet, but I expect it to become the international standard soon."
Of course, no test could surpass my discernment. But that didn't mean I could rely solely on my eyes—especially not with advertising the Golden Age's Eye. To convince Gao Xusen, we needed an objective, quantifiable method.
"International standard..."
Hushan Liang, lost in thought, nodded from a bureaucratic perspective.
"Well, it does establish objective criteria. You can compare results numerically, which is crucial for reports. Though using a method devised by the Wa-nu wholesale feels a bit off..."
Wa-nu, a derogatory term for Japanese people, slipped out naturally amid recent diplomatic friction between China and Japan. As Hushan Liang noted, Japan had been the first to institutionalize reinforcement coefficient testing. Since ability awakenings almost always came with physical enhancement, quantifying that enhancement revealed the practical scale of one's powers.
Coefficients from 0.8 to 1.2 were considered civilian levels. Even for an awakened ability user, failing to exceed 1.2 meant lacking qualification for official recognition. A reasonable benchmark in my view—opening a circuit didn't guarantee usable power. Severe imbalances in bio-enhancement could even produce trash worse than a normal human.
"1.175? Unacceptable!"
A burly man from one tent raised his voice.
"My grip strength is 862... what do you call these units? N? Just N? Anyway, 862 N, and my reinforcement coefficient is lower than the guy ahead of me? He had similar grip strength and got 1.8! This is a scam!"
Grip strength of 862 N put him above most athletes, justifying his pride, but a coefficient of 1.175 made him small fry among ability users.
Intelligence seems a notch above an ape.
With baseline physical prowess, he could manage as a hunter, but without power growth, he'd be stuck at the bottom rung in any unit.
"You took bribes, didn't you?! How much? Name your price!"
As the man started causing a scene, two of my subordinates entered the tent and dragged him out forcibly. The strength gap rendered his struggles futile.
But it didn't end there.
"I object!"
An elderly man from another tent shouted noisily.
"How can such a shallow test measure the depth of one's qi? I am recognized by the Taoist master of the Southern Taihe School. I need no such trivial exam!"
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it around.
"Behold! This is the certificate issued by the Southern Taihe School!"
The world is wide, and fools are plentiful. The gaudily gold-embossed certificate reeked of tackiness, amplified by the oversized red seal.
The Wudang School I knew was just a tourist trap, artificially created. There were Taoists and temples along Wudang Mountain's ridges, but true lineages had burned away during the Cultural Revolution.
If not, some plausible longevity techniques might have survived.
Useless overall, but better than baseless cults due to proven effects—like India's Yoga Sutras. Lately, initiates into authentic yoga had surged worldwide.
"Wonder how many more idiots like that are out there."
My Korean mutter drew a wry smile from Kyung-tae beside me.
"Hyungnim, you know Xi Xiaodong?"
"A person?"
"Mixed martial artist. Rose to fame by thrashing self-proclaimed traditional Chinese martial arts masters—one way or another."
"And?"
"Every time Xi Xiaodong pounds these 'masters' into dough, they always say the same thing: true masters seclude themselves in layered mountains. Why would reclusive experts with profound gongfu stoop to worldly money or fame?"
"..."
"One opponent he's gunning for is a Shaolin monk named Yi Long, who claims to have mastered Vajra Indestructibility—making his body impervious to swords or spears. And shockingly, people buy it."
A body impervious to blades or spears. Reminded me of the Boxers.
"Xi Xiaodong's challenged Yi Long multiple times, but he always refuses. Says he's beyond worldly fame."
"...How do you even know this stuff?"
Shrugging, Kyung-tae replied,
"Yi Long was a flash-in-the-pan fighter once. Fun to watch, so I followed a bit. Nothing to learn, though."
In short, a prophecy of more such pitiful souls unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. Less individual stupidity, more a side effect of blind patriotism. As national pride in culture and tradition bloated unchecked, rational criticism branded anti-national got crushed by mob violence, paralyzing logical thinking and multiplying idiots. Ultimately, the Communist Party's karma—they fomented patriotism endlessly for governance ease. No group easier to rule than patriotism-drunk citizens.
Given that soil, superstitions and delusions spreading like wildfire in this magic-revived era was karmic inevitability.
"Ahem."
Hushan Liang cleared his throat awkwardly, momentarily excluded from our Korean exchange. He might know names like Xi Xiaodong or Yi Long—or at least guess from the Wudang commotion.
"The applicants don't seem top-tier. Not sure we'll launch before Spring Festival."
Completing the corps formation before Spring Festival was Gao Xusen's hope, relayed through Hushan Liang—not his own. He eyed a spotlight on CCTV's Spring Festival Gala. The Chunwan, as it was shortened, dwarfed ordinary holiday specials—a state-managed national project promoting Party initiatives. The Sa-yeong Hunter Corps qualified, so Gao Xusen likely had a slot.
Worth billions in value.
Once featured on Chunwan, recruits would flood in—a nationally hyped project couldn't be allowed to fail.
"Speaking of Spring Festival."
Arms folded behind my back, I fixed Hushan Liang with a gaze.
"Your family's plans? Spending it back home?"
He would've brought it up himself if I hadn't. Glancing around, he replied gravely.
"No. As you probably anticipate, the coming festival will be highly dangerous. The Red Thieves won't sit idly while the government flaunts domestic stability. Terrorism will erupt everywhere—one hundred out of one hundred places. Can't even board a train carefree."
"Can't."
"Moreover, as associates of Deputy Secretary Gao Xusen—prime candidate for People's Hero designation—we face elevated threats. Regrettable not to spend it together, but I'd like to send my wife and kin somewhere safe this month if possible."
"Decided where?"
"We discussed among ourselves. Abu Dhabi seems ideal."
"Abu Dhabi... Not bad. Safe, quiet."
Desert-bordering nations lately marketed sparse vegetation as a refuge selling point—fewer awakened wildlife threats. This long-term haven pitch could revive slumping tourism. The UAE excelled at it: politically stable, excellent security and infrastructure, no major enemies except Iran. Pro-US yet China-friendly, with Dubai hosting the Arab world's largest Chinatown.
"We'll handle the visas?"
I shook my head at his question.
"No need. Emirati brokers I know from business will sort all procedures upon arrival. Even tomorrow if you want."
"Thank you, cadre."
"Call me vice director. Tell Director Park the departure date."
China had a visa-free deal with the UAE, but only for 30 days. Local influencers as brokers could secure 10-year visas without meeting legal hurdles—corruption ran deep there too.
"Your son turns fourteen this year, right?"
Hushan Liang flinched slightly. No prior talk of his child. But no fresh wariness—he and the three deputy directors saw me in that light.
"Yes."
"If exile drags on, he could finish university there."
"Better for his future. My wife frames it as study abroad."
"You'll need to earn hard then."
"We rely solely on your magnanimity, vice director."
"Fatherly duty's no easy task. Any university you'd like him to attend?"
"Bit early to voice such hopes, but..."
"Just hypotheticals. Who knows a child's potential if not the parents?"
With the stage set, Hushan Liang spilled university names fueled by paternal ambition. Avoid US branch campuses. Sorbonne branches were solid. Dorm life? Dubai options fine, so UK branches too. Names poured out—he'd researched tirelessly in spare moments.
"My boy's smart as a whip, just hates studying. Find his passion, and he'll ace any university."
"Indeed."
How often was a lazy child truly brilliant? Still, I nodded agreement outwardly. While a child drains your spine, enduring filthiest labors is a loving parent's life.
A pathetic father couldn't easily escape my shadow.