The Mad Instructor's Game
Clouds drifted lazily across the clear blue sky. Staring blankly at the wide-open heavens, Chris Bennett, the insane instructor of the Northern Training Camp, felt like she was back on Earth. It was all too familiar.
Whenever that happened, she always thought the same thing. How great would it be if she could use guns? Missiles, mortars, landmines... hundreds or thousands of modern weapons capable of effortlessly taking the lives of creatures stronger than herself. It didn't matter what kind. No matter the cost, Chris Bennett would welcome them with open arms.
'Then I wouldn't have to force these damn trainees through this heartbreaking bullshit...'
But her world only allowed cold steel weapons. And some magic-like crap on top of that.
'Damn... there really must be some god out there.'
Aliens, maybe? But what difference did it make if they transported 100 people across dimensions every month and slapped inexplicable restrictions on civilization? From an ant's perspective, she was a god. From hers, they were no different.
She felt guilty about her job. That's why she always convinced herself otherwise. It was all the fault of those bastard gods who banned modern firearms. She was just struggling in her own way to boost the survival rate of these bottom-tier combatants.
And honestly, she wasn't wrong.
'...I know it's an excuse, but what can I do? This is the best method I've come up with.'
Slacking off on training might feel good now, but the moment they hit the field, it'd be a death sentence. The current intensity was her carefully calculated Maginot Line. She couldn't dial it back any further—not when she could already see the combatant death rate skyrocketing in her mind's eye.
Chris Bennett had to save as many lives as possible. It was a vow she'd etched into herself long ago. One she couldn't betray until her dying breath.
For all those headaches, she quietly rolled her wrists as the approaching group of trainees came into view.
*
"Instructor. We've unified our opinions and—"
"This batch is naive. The ringleader steps right up like this... makes my job easier."
Slap!
Hitting the cheek was incredibly efficient for breaking someone's spirit. The shock hit the head directly, shaking vision and scrambling senses. The loud smack echoing near the ears would intimidate even the toughest person. It instilled deep humiliation, etching hierarchy into the bones. And the biggest advantage? The wide impact area might split skin, but it rarely broke bones. No lingering damage.
Chris Bennett, who knew this all too well, slapped Ri Shaolin across the face.
"What the—!"
Slap!
She didn't let the trainee finish. Didn't give her time to think. Chris already knew Ri Shaolin's entire plan. Years as an instructor had shown her this scenario plenty of times.
She wouldn't let Ri Shaolin take control. Losing sight in the wild meant death. Most animals instinctively recoiled from strikes near the eyes. Humans were no different. Without training, the head—packed with vitals, especially right next to the eyes—couldn't stay calm. It ignited millions of years of survival instinct.
Slap!
"Ri Shaolin. 21 years old. Chinese. Right? Your eyes are pretty!"
Chris had memorized trainee profiles while waiting up all night for visitors to her room. Not all 50—time didn't allow—but the noteworthy ones. Ri Shaolin's info was in there. She was a clear person of interest, leader of the women's group.
Why say it? Simple: I know all about you. Chaos from realizing your info was compromised.
It worked. Ri Shaolin froze unconsciously as her details spilled from Chris's mouth. Her panic was obvious.
'Ringleaders are always like this... but this one's got venom in her eyes.'
The glare reminded Chris of that male trainee, Lee Kangin. Tough. But different too. Lee Kangin was straightforward—pure fighting spirit. Ri Shaolin's eyes mixed dozens of emotions. And at the core... fear.
'Not enough yet.'
To fully break her, Chris needed more fear.
Clap!
Just 6 seconds since Ri Shaolin spoke. The gathered protesters couldn't react to Chris's sudden move. They just stood stunned. The atmosphere was set—no one dared jump in between them.
'Just as I planned.'
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Six, seven, eight times... With each palm striking her cheek, the venom in Ri Shaolin's eyes faded. Defiance gave way to submission and terror.
Now? Chris glanced sideways at the dispersing trainees.
"Shouldn't we stop her...?"
"Us...?"
The ongoing violence shifted their mood. Time to act before they intervened. She signaled Brack discreetly.
"Mm..."
Brack asserted his presence. His massive build, high-pressure training style, and equal rank as instructor. The trainees noticed, thinking, 'Instructor Brack might step in.'
'Not that he will.'
He just loomed—part of their pre-planned scenario.
Chris refocused on Ri Shaolin. Even after multiple slaps, defiance lingered. As expected, simple violence and pain weren't enough.
Chris lowered her hand and asked, "How's that feel? Like shit?"
"I was just making a legitimate demand—!"
Slap!
"How's that feel? Like shit?"
"There's no reason I should be hit—!"
Slap!
"How's that feel? Like shit?"
"Let me speak—!"
Slap!
"How's that feel? Like shit?"
"...Yeah, it feels like shit, you crazy bitch!"
Satisfactory after four tries. Quick for someone blinded by rage. Some past trainees took over ten.
"Wanna play a game?"
"Fuck off!"
"Heh heh. Shut up and listen. When superhuman combatants fight here..."
Clang!
Chris tossed a dagger; it skittered across the ground.
'It's a slaughter knife, so I should preserve the blade... but handing it over nicely in this mood would be ridiculous.'
Ri Shaolin glared at the dagger, then at Chris, her face screaming, 'What now?'
"One usually ends up dead. Before anyone intervenes, a corpse appears."
"N-No way..."
"I know what you're imagining, but I'm not some kid stomping chicks for fun. You think I'd tell you to fight me?"
"Then what?!"
"Hold on. First, you're still a trainee, not a combatant... So by instructor authority, I appoint you temporary combatant. Now we're equals. Okay? Kill me, rape me—no problem."
"That's a huge problem."
"Shut it, Brack."
"Kill...? What...?"
"Pick up that knife and stab my throat. I won't dodge or block."
The trainees gasped at her shocking words. They knew she was crazy, but not this crazy. No one intervened, figuring, 'Brack might stop her,' or 'She'll dodge at the last second.'
They knew her physical prowess. Dodging a normal stab was easy for Chris. In a monster-infested world where humans weren't top predator, raw power mattered disproportionately. Instructors who nurtured that power were elite among elites.
Chris Bennett was a true superhuman. Punching rocks to dust, moving at speeds barely visible to the eye. She'd block a surprise stab effortlessly.
'...But I won't dodge.'
Ri Shaolin hesitated faintly. If she backed down now, the plan crumbled. Time to provoke.
Her words and actions screamed strong pride. Scratch that itch.
"You said I suck? Then kill me and be done."
"...You think I can't?! I will! I'll kill you!"
"Do it. If you can."
"Argh! You told me to! You made me! No regrets!"
Ri Shaolin bent to grab the dagger.
"Ugh..."
She paused, surprised by its weight. First-time knife holders always did. Cold metal heft sobered her excitement, vividly imagining the act.
Chris had pierced her mind too.
'Modern folks can't handle it. As long as they don't get sentimental.'
So, amp up the reality. Chris stared intently. The blade pointed at her. Ri Shaolin's pupils shook, breath ragged, limbs trembling faintly. Peak sentimental human.
'Whoa, she's really gonna stab.'
Chris didn't just watch.
Thud! Thud!
"Wha—What?!"
Chris strode forward without hesitation, placing her hand over Ri Shaolin's on the hilt. Just enough pressure not to break fingers.
"Ugh..."
The near-pain crushed her thrill. Chris tilted her head, exposing her neck vulnerably, pulling the blade close—enough to draw a bead of blood.
"Said it's a game, right? If you don't stab, I'll stab you once."
The blade was icy—like winter wind's edge. Ri Shaolin's exhale was warm; up close, Chris felt it vividly.
Ri Shaolin's panicked expression— from the words? Or the mad act? Chris didn't dwell.
Their heights matched, but Chris's tilt made her look down domineeringly. Intentional pressure.
"Argh... I'll do it... I can..."
Chris's crazy image. Superhuman strength. Hierarchy. All crushed her. Planned actions piled on. Those crimson eyes pierced like they saw through her. Sweat soaked her back.
Ri Shaolin averted her gaze unconsciously... to the blade at Chris's neck.
'Gotcha, Ri Shaolin.'
Bad choice.
"Scars..."
Dozens of jagged scars on Chris's neck—exactly like shallow blade cuts.
Ri Shaolin hesitated, then rasped, "...How many times... have you played this insane 'game'..."
"Dunno, lost count after both hands. Count 'em for me."
Chris drawled lazily.
'Before you, a dozen chicks held blades to my neck like this. All failed. Think you're different?'
Chris smirked mockingly—or appeared to.
"I'm different! I—"
"You look struggling. Need help?"
"What? What do you—?!"
No time to think. If she really stabbed, Chris would be in trouble.
Chris pressed harder on Ri Shaolin's hand, driving the blade into her own neck. Ri Shaolin felt the flesh yield vividly. Blood welled, flowing warmer, thicker.
"Crazy! What the hell—!"
"Helping you?"
"Stop! If anyone's stabbing, it's me! I'm not ready—!"
Ri Shaolin yanked back in panic. Ironic—the stabber blocking the blade. Chris's weak push stopped at her resistance.
Chris gazed down. Eyes met.
"..."
No more venom in Ri Shaolin's eyes. Pure terror at murder's weight.
Chris pressed silently.
"Ah... Stop!..."
Her pull strengthened; Ri Shaolin matched with both hands now. Overwhelmed—Chris's superhuman strength outclassed normal woman's double grip.
Chris read her limit. Arms quivered; blade tip shook wildly.
'...Stings.'
As planned, the wobble tore skin. But Chris didn't flinch.
"Stab my throat with that knife. Or your left eye gets gouged. With this dagger."
No more flippancy—heavy, grave tone. Sudden seriousness from a clown sold sincerity.
Chris weaponized it. "Dagger" emphasized. Specific "left eye"—easier to imagine than vague death. In blood's metallic reek, anyone could picture it.
"Let... go...! I'll... do it... my will...!"
"You let go. Don't stab—just release, and you win."
"Ugh...!"
'Now! Press!'
"Let go."
Killing intent surged. Eyes bulged, locked. Blood trickled down hilt to hands—warm, far warmer than air. Fishy scent lingered.
1 second, 2, 3. As Chris tensed to push...
"...I... can't... I was wrong... sob..."
Ri Shaolin broke. Tears streamed from venomous eyes. Total surrender, sobbing white flag.
Clang!
"Hic... sob..."
Chris relaxed only then. The dagger dropped as Ri Shaolin flung it away.
Tension drained from Chris. Why tense? If Ri Shaolin released, Chris's reflexes had to stop it midair. Doable, but close enough for caution.
'I want this, but damn, it's exhausting.'
Ah, crazy bitch act?
"Hack! Ptui!"
Chris spat thick phlegm into her palm. Gross, repulsive—but no hesitation. Maniacal grin plastered, she smeared it on her neck wound to staunch it.
As expected, trainees stared in revulsion.
'Phew...'
Intense first impression, erratic behavior, vulgar speech, unpredictable personality. The "mad bitch" image was set.
Her mind raced to end this, retreat, properly bandage.
These acts always drained her.
"You lose, Ri Shaolin."
"Sob..."
Chris approached the slumped girl, picked up the bloody dagger, waved it playfully. Time to wrap up.
"Your eyes really are pretty. Like jewels. No accessories here. Wanted one."
No real intent to gouge.
'I'm not actually crazy...'
Instructors were mentors; trainees, disciples. She valued that. Her goal was survival rates—no harming them.
Forgiving outright ruined the image built through chillsome acting.
Would a real mad bitch let it slide nicely?
"Eyes... please, not the eyes... sob... please..."
Ri Shaolin shielded with bloody arms, scooting back weakly—legs failed her. She truly believed Chris would do it. Pitiful, heartbreaking—even for the toughest.
Chris signaled Brack discreetly. As agreed, he intervened.
"Hey. That's enough."
"Huh? Why?!"
"She's a trainee. That's beyond corporal punishment."
"Sob... hic..."
Ri Shaolin looked up desperately. Hope flickered amid terror and despair. No one wants an eye gouged.
"Didn't you hear our chat? She's temporarily a combatant!"
"Temporary combatant appointments aren't for that."
"Still a combatant! Equal to me!"
"Wrong. Temporaries hold both statuses—trainee takes priority to prevent insubordination."
"...Fuck. So, no?"
"Yes."
Explained loudly for all—why Chris couldn't gouge. All scripted with Brack.
Chris sighed regretfully, convincingly so.
'I rage, Brack reins me in.'
Pattern to repeat. Extreme good cop/bad cop.
"So fucking boring... ha..."
"Th-Thank... you... Instructor Brack... sob..."
Ri Shaolin wept in relief, thanking him profusely.
Thus, the ringleader's submission shown to all. Dirty trick—broke her without hearing demands. But Chris's best option. No more group rebellions after today.