Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

On the clearing east of the camp, covered with gravel and sand, twelve sharpened wooden stakes stood neatly upright, with human-shaped targets made of old clothes and straw hanging on them.

It's 6:30 in the morning.

As dawn broke, the fog in the valley had not yet completely dissipated, and white moisture clung to the treetops, enveloping the entire campsite as if it were soaking in a bowl of milk.

He Yuanchao stood in the center of the training field, holding a shotgun with the muzzle pointing downwards.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried very clearly in the quiet morning.

"Everyone between the ages of sixteen and sixty, get to this open space within five minutes. Anyone who is late will have their rations halved today."

This sentence works better than any alarm clock.

The sound of the cabin doors being pushed open echoed around the house. Some people were still rubbing their eyes, some were running outside in their coats, and some were cursing under their breath but not daring to slow down.

Four minutes later.

Twenty-two people stood crookedly on the training ground.

Formations do not exist.

The group of people stood in all sorts of positions—some with their hands on their hips, some with their arms crossed, and some with one foot on the back of the other, looking just like elderly people queuing up to buy cabbage at the market.

He Yuanchao scanned the area from left to right.

There are only a few who can fight—Alice, Jill, Payton, former police officer Jack, hunter Tom, convenience store owner Rune, plus a middle-aged man named Henry who claims to have worked in an office at the Raccoon City Police Department.

Of the remaining fourteen, there were burly men like Greg, two young high school students, and several women who had clearly never touched anything harder than a kitchen knife.

Standing at the very back was a tall, thin man wearing a pair of crooked gold-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled shirt that looked like it had once been quite respectable.

Howard.

Former accountant.

In the world of "Bright Sword," He Yuanchao had dealt countless times with people who thought, "I'm an intellectual, why should I carry a gun?" At that time, Political Commissar Zhao Gang was in charge of ideological work, patiently explaining and reasoning with them.

But this is not the world of "Bright Sword".

There is no political commissar here.

There is no need for a political commissar here.

Because the zombies outside will try to persuade He Yuanchao.

"Today is the first day of training." He Yuanchao's voice was flat, as if he were just saying that the weather was nice today. "The schedule is simple—first, a five-kilometer run, then shooting practice, and in the afternoon, hand-to-hand combat practice."

Five kilometers?!

A sharp sound came from the back of the line.

It's Howard.

He pushed up his crooked glasses, a "you're kidding me" look on his face, and pointed to the bumpy dirt road outside the camp.

"You want us to run five kilometers on this kind of road? Do you even know what I do? I'm a certified public accountant! The longest distance I've ever run in my life is the hundred meters from the parking lot to the office building! You can't force me—"

He Yuanchao's gaze shifted over.

It wasn't the kind of murderous glare.

Very peaceful.

But something within that calm made Howard's words catch in his throat.

He Yuanchao walked up to him.

The distance between the two people was less than one meter.

He Yuanchao was a head shorter than Howard, but at that distance, Howard felt like he was being looked down upon.

"Mr. Howard," He Yuanchao said politely, almost to the point of being unsettling. "You said you're a certified public accountant. Very well. I respect your profession."

"But now—"

He Yuanchao turned to the side and pointed towards the outside of the barbed wire fence.

Downstream in the distant valley, three gray figures were swaying as they moved along the riverbank.

Zombies.

It's about two or three hundred meters from the camp.

It's not close, but it's definitely not far either.

"Did you see those three?" He Yuanchao's voice was still so flat, as flat as stagnant water.

"Go and reason with them."

"Tell them you have a CPA certificate."

"Let's see if they recognize it."

Howard's face went from red to white and then from white to gray in three seconds.

His lips trembled twice, as if he wanted to refute something, but after opening his mouth for a long time, he couldn't utter a single word.

Just then, the three zombies turned in a different direction. One of them tilted its head and looked towards the camp for two seconds, letting out a low growl.

Even though they were two or three hundred meters apart, the sound still gave most of the people present goosebumps on the back of their necks.

Howard's legs went weak.

Then he shut his mouth.

They silently retreated back into the queue.

He Yuanchao turned around to face the twenty-two people.

He didn't waste any more words.

"run."

One word.

Twenty-two people started running.

Five kilometers of dirt road might not be much under normal circumstances, but for these people who hadn't done any physical exercise for months, it was pure torture.

He Yuanchao was running in the lead.

He wasn't fast; he kept his pace at a level that most people could barely keep up with.

Alice followed him lightly, her breathing not even becoming labored—her body, enhanced by the T-virus, was just taking a walk for this amount of exercise.

Jill ran very steadily, after all, she was a former SWAT officer, and her physical fitness was excellent.

But those who came after them fared much worse.

When they reached the two-kilometer mark, the former lawyer Martin was the first to fall behind, clutching his knees and panting heavily, his face as red as a pig's liver.

After running three kilometers, a supermarket cashier squatted down by the roadside and vomited.

After running four kilometers, Howard collapsed to the ground, lying sprawled out, his glasses flying two meters away.

He Yuanchao did not stop to wait for them.

He merely glanced back and coldly said, "Walking is fine. But you must complete the entire journey. Those who don't reach the finish line won't get breakfast."

This sentence is more effective than any motivational slogan.

Everyone gritted their teeth and kept moving.

Some walked, some crawled, and some even leaned against roadside tree trunks to catch their breath, but no one dared to actually stop.

Because they all knew that He Yuanchao meant what he said.

In this man's dictionary, the phrase "just saying" does not exist.

Forty-five minutes later.

All 22 people returned to the training ground.

They were in all sorts of poses—some were bent over panting, some were sprawled on the ground with their eyes rolled back, some were drinking water, and some were rubbing their calves.

He Yuanchao stood there, his breathing as steady as if he had just stepped out of the house.

"Okay. First item complete."

He turned and walked to the armory—a specially built small wooden hut—and took out several hunting rifles and a box of bullets.

"Jack".

The former policeman stepped out from the crowd. Although he had run quite a distance, he was still in good spirits.

"Take eight men who know how to shoot over there to practice. The standard is to hit the target's head at 20 meters, and seven out of ten shots are acceptable. Those who don't meet the standard should keep practicing until they pass."

"Roger that." Jack nodded, took the guns, and began calling out to his men.

"Fourteen men who can't shoot, follow me."

He Yuanchao walked to another open space on the training ground.

There was nothing on the ground except for a few sticks and a hunting knife that he had placed there beforehand.

Fourteen people nervously gathered around.

He Yuanchao did not give a lengthy speech.

He picked up a wooden stick and weighed it in his hand a couple of times.

Then they walked up to a straw target.

There were no fancy moves.

He simply jabbed the target in the neck with the stick.

"puff--"

Straw flew out from the tear.

"The zombie's head is its only vital point. But hitting the head accurately in close combat is not easy. So the first move you need to learn is not to hit the head, but to hit the neck."

"Breaking the neck is equivalent to severing the connection between the brainstem and the body. Although it won't kill it, it can temporarily incapacitate it. Then you can finish it off with another blow."

He handed the wooden stick to the female office worker closest to him—a woman named Lisa.

"Hold on. Thrust in there."

Lisa's hands were trembling, but she still gripped the stick.

She stabbed at the target's neck—but with too little force and at too low an angle, the stick slid off the target's shoulder.

"Again."

The second time was a bit better.

"The angle is two inches too low. Let's try again."

The third blow—this time it finally hit the neck.

"That's right. Remember this feel. Go back and practice it fifty times every day. Practice until you can hit it with your eyes closed."

He Yuanchao taught them one by one.

Each person has to poke the target more than ten times by hand.

He patiently corrected everyone's grip on the stick, the direction of force, and the distance of their steps.

That patience was exactly the same as when he trained the new recruits of the Independent Regiment in the world of Bright Sword.

However, at that time he taught them how to stab Japanese soldiers with bayonets.

Now they're teaching how to poke zombies with a stick.

There is essentially no difference.

It's all about survival.

The morning's training session ended amidst sweat and groans.

At lunchtime, everyone looked like they had been pulled out of the water.

My legs were so sore that they trembled as I went up and down the stairs.

I can't lift my arm.

He can't even hold chopsticks properly.

But no one complained.

Including Howard.

Because they witnessed He Yuanchao's skills firsthand during training—his speed, his power, his precision that left no time to react—it was enough to make anyone understand one thing:

This man can protect them.

But the prerequisite is that they themselves must also learn to protect themselves.

Jill watched as He Yuanchao packed up the training equipment, secretly admiring him.

She also underwent rigorous training during her time at STARS, but that was in a military camp with professional instructors, standard facilities, and a systematic training program.

On a riverbank, He Yuanchao used a few sticks and some straw to build a crude but complete training system.

Moreover, his teaching methods are different from those of military instructors.

Military instructors are training a group of people who are already willing to obey.

He Yuanchao was training a group of ordinary people who didn't even know if they could pick up a weapon.

The former requires standards and discipline.

The latter requires patience and fear.

He Yuanchao has both.

After dinner.

Most people were so exhausted that they collapsed onto their beds and fell asleep.

But there were still people on the training field.

Alice.

She stood alone in front of the target, holding the Nepalese kukri that He Yuanchao had given her, repeatedly practicing a set of slashing movements.

He Yuanchao came out of the wooden house and saw her.

He walked over.

"Aren't you going to rest?"

"I can't sleep." Alice sheathed her sword and turned to look at him. There was a fine layer of sweat on her forehead, and her golden hair looked somewhat dull in the moonlight.

"The fighting techniques you taught those people today—did you learn them from some textbook?"

He Yuanchao raised an eyebrow.

"You noticed?"

"The way those movements are generated is different from standard close-quarters combat. It's more... primitive. More ferocious. Like something honed on a real battlefield."

He Yuanchao did not deny it.

"You're right. Those skills are honed on the battlefield. As for which battlefield—"

He smiled.

"I don't remember very clearly."

Alice stared at him for two seconds.

She knew he was using that "amnesia" excuse again.

But she didn't ask any further questions.

Teach me.

Alice sheathed her saber and then assumed a fighting stance.

He Yuanchao looked at her posture and nodded slightly.

"You have a good foundation. The T-virus gave you reaction speed and explosive power that ordinary people don't have. But your movements rely too much on instinct—instinct is enough when dealing with ordinary zombies, but when you encounter those mutated giants, relying solely on instinct will put you at a disadvantage."

"What you need is skill."

"Deal more damage with less effort. Achieve greater speed with fewer movements."

He walked up to Alice and assumed a fighting stance.

"Come on. Hit me."

Alice didn't stand on ceremony.

Her right fist shot out like a bullet—its speed, enhanced by the T-virus, was so fast that ordinary people couldn't even see its shadow.

He Yuanchao tilted his head slightly.

The force of the punch grazed past his ear, bringing with it a cool breeze.

"Too straight," he commented. "Your fist travels in a straight line, but the joints of the human body are curved. Using an arc results in a shorter attack path and makes it harder to predict."

He stretched out his right hand and drew a semicircle in the air.

"See clearly? Try again."

Alice adjusted her angle and threw another punch.

This time it followed an arc.

He Yuanchao blocked the impact with his forearm—the force of the collision made his arm slightly numb.

Alice's strength increased even more after the enhancement drug injection; a full-force punch could break several ribs of an ordinary person.

"It's much better. But the timing of the punch is still a little off—you raise your shoulder slightly before you throw a punch, which is a 'warning' move. Any experienced opponent will know you're about to punch when they see your shoulder move."

"Lock your shoulders. Generate power from your waist."

He gave an example.

The movement was extremely subtle—a slight twist of the waist caused the arm to swing out, while the shoulder remained completely still.

The punch was so fast that Alice's dynamic vision could only see a blurry shadow.

"Give it a try."

Alice did as she was told.

Once. Twice. Five times. Ten times.

He Yuanchao corrected her on every occasion—the way she held her fingers, the angle of her wrist, the shift of her center of gravity, and the rhythm of her breathing.

These things may sound trivial, but each one is a genuine essence gleaned from countless life-or-death battles.

The moonlight cast two intersecting shadows on the training field.

One is tall and the other is short.

One male and one female.

The two most formidable fighters in this apocalyptic world sparred silently in the night.

About an hour later.

Alice finally stopped.

Her breathing quickened—although her physical stamina was virtually limitless, the mental strain of high-intensity technical practice was equally immense.

"Your stuff—" Alice wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, "If you teach more people, the fighting power of this camp will increase several times over."

He Yuanchao took out a compressed biscuit from his pocket, broke it in half, and handed it to her.

"I will teach them. But we have to take it one step at a time. Those guys can't even hold a stick properly yet, let's teach them to stand up first."

Alice took the cookie and took a bite.

I chewed it a couple of times and frowned – this stuff really does taste similar to sawdust.

But she swallowed it anyway.

In the apocalypse, complaining about food being unpalatable is a luxury.

The two sat side by side on a wooden stake by the training field, munching on their half-eaten biscuits and gazing at the moon on the distant mountain ridge.

There was a moment of silence.

He Yuanchao spoke up.

"The training intensity will be increased tomorrow."

"Um."

"Those people will be more tired."

"Um."

"But they will become stronger."

Alice turned her head and glanced at him.

The moonlight outlined a strong line on his profile.

She swallowed the last bite of the biscuit, stood up, and dusted off her pants.

"Then I need to become stronger."

"I can't let you shoulder everything alone."

She left after saying that.

His steps were light and quick, like a black leopard moving through the night.

He Yuanchao watched her figure disappear in the direction of the wooden house.

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"They're quite ambitious."

He shook the crumbs of the half-eaten biscuit into his mouth, chewed a couple of times, and stood up.

I glanced at the stars in the sky.

The system displayed a line of small text on his retina.

The training camp is newly established, with 150 causal points added.

He Yuanchao turned off that line of text.

Then he walked back to his own shack.

There's still a lot to do tomorrow.