Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

At 4:30 PM, swordsmanship training began.

This is the part of the day that He Xu dreads the most.

Even with the dagger in hand, that sense of disharmony still lingers.

But he began to get used to that awkwardness.

Mike broke down the movements even further, dividing a wrist rotation into four steps, and making him repeat each step twenty times before moving on to the next.

He Xu stood in the center of the training field, holding the dagger in his hand, repeatedly practicing the wrist-switching and hand-changing motion.

Several new scratches appeared on his arm, all from being rubbed by the blade during practice.

Mike had sharpened the blades to be a bit duller, but they still left red marks when they cut the skin.

"You're better today than yesterday," Mike said, standing two steps away, his tone carrying a cautious acknowledgment. "At least the knife didn't fly out."

He Xu did not respond.

He didn't let the knife fly away today, but his fingers were still not accurate enough when switching hands. Twice it almost slipped out of his hand, but he managed to catch it with his palm.

After he clamped it in, the edge of the knife handle left a red mark on the edge of his palm.

He put the knife down and flexed his fingers.

My knuckles are slightly sore, and the handle of the knife has left a shallow indentation on my palm.

He was supposed to finish his knife training for the day, and Mike was already packing up his protective gear.

But He Xu picked up the knife again and said, "Let's do one more set. The last hand switch was still too slow."

Mike looked at his expressionless face and knew he couldn't persuade him, so he took a step back and let him continue.

He Xu practiced for three more sets until his fingers could barely grip the handle before he put the knife down.

The blade landed on the cushion with a dull thud. Looking at his slightly trembling fingers, he felt that he had achieved his goal for the day.

He Xu didn't know how many times he had sat on the edge of his bed in his room at around 1 a.m., with the dagger on his knee, staring at it blankly.

The lights were a warm yellow, and outside the window was the kind of darkness in the mountains and fields free from light pollution.

He looked down at the dagger—the blade was polished to a shine, the handle had been soaked with his sweat countless times, and the edges had a faint dark sheen.

He Xu tried rotating his wrist; the blade rotated along the web of his hand and landed precisely in his palm.

He can now do this action with his eyes closed.

This is the result of his four days of practice.

He placed the dagger on the bedside table and turned off the light.

He didn't know what he was thinking.

It could be tomorrow's training, it could be Jonathan's look today, or it could be that question he hasn't had a chance to answer yet—do you really want to be an actor?

But before he could come up with an answer, drowsiness pulled him into the deep water.

The phone lit up briefly on the bedside table.

Jiang Yanbai sent a message: "Why haven't you been replying to messages lately?"

He Xu did not see it.

He was already asleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw on his phone screen was an unread message.

He stared at the line of text for a few seconds, then typed: "I've been too tired from training lately, and I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow at night. I haven't had time to check my phone."

After sending the message, he put his phone aside, changed into his training clothes, and went out for a run.

When I came back from the run, my phone screen lit up briefly.

Jiang Yanbai's reply popped up: "You didn't reply yesterday either. You didn't reply the day before either."

He Xu stood by the bed, holding his phone, a towel draped over his shoulder, his sweat still damp.

He typed: "I practiced until 11:30 the day before yesterday, went back to my room, collapsed onto the bed, and slept until dawn. I didn't even have time to look at my phone screen."

Are you free today?

"No. I have combat training this afternoon, and knife practice tonight."

Jiang Yanbai's messages paused for a moment, then a line popped up: "Are you filming a movie or serving in the military?"

"almost."

He Xu put his phone back on the bedside table, picked up a towel to wipe the back of his neck, and then walked out of the room toward the training ground.

He Xu simply felt that since he had taken on the job, he had to do it well.

Moreover, he knew in his heart that he was never one to let himself off easily—

He wouldn't stop until he was satisfied with each set of movements; every time he wasn't thrown gracefully enough, he would mentally dissect the problem until late at night; every time a bullet missed its mark, he would add an extra set of training to "atone for his sins."

He had long been accustomed to, and even dependent on, this method of self-imposed pressure.

Only when he feels he has exhausted every last bit of strength can he close his eyes in peace.

Those scratches, bruises, and muscle aches—these are not things to complain about.

Complaining only makes him seem like he's not doing a good enough job, and he doesn't accept the option of being "not good enough."

He picked up the dagger again, held it in his hand, and tried rotating his wrist.

The blade smoothly flipped across the tiger's mouth and landed back in the palm. It's a bit better than yesterday.

It's not even close.

But at least it's not worse.

He Xu returned to his practice position and began a new round of specialized practice.

-

However, it is clear that excessive self-harm will always have side effects.

He Xu's body had not had a full rest for four consecutive days.

After intense training every day, he would practice his dagger skills in his room until 1 a.m., and then get up at 6 a.m. sharp the next day.

With his sleep reduced to less than five hours, coupled with a high-protein diet and extremely low carbohydrate intake, his body had long since started showing warning signs.

He just hadn't noticed—or rather, he had noticed, but he chose to ignore it.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, at 4:30, the swordsmanship training had just ended, and He Xu's hands were still trembling slightly.

He should have stopped to drink water and rest, but he glanced at the time and realized there was still almost an hour until dinner.

So he turned and walked toward the combat training area, saying to Jonathan, "Let's have another sparring session. I want to try the knife counterattack we practiced this morning."

Jonathan was leaning against the wall, drinking tea from his thermos.

He glanced at He Xu, his gaze lingering for a moment on He Xu's slightly pale lips and the dark circles under his eyes: "You're not feeling well today. Take a rest."

"I can," He Xu said calmly. "Just one set."

Jonathan looked at him, remained silent for a few seconds, then put down the thermos: "Okay. Just one set. If you can't keep going, call it a stop yourself."

That sparring session lasted less than ten seconds.

He Xu's blocking action was correct—he raised his right arm to block Jonathan's straight punch that came from the side.

But then, his knees buckled suddenly the moment he shifted his weight.

The muscles, pushed to their limits, failed at the crucial moment—the quadriceps felt as if they had been severed from the middle, and the person's center of gravity suddenly collapsed to the right and back.

Jonathan's next attack was already out—a mid-range kick, the power contained, but the trajectory was already halfway through.

He felt He Xu's body collapsing and immediately tried to pull his legs back.

But his center of gravity had shifted too quickly, and he tilted over as well, causing their trajectories to collide in mid-air.

He Xu still had the prop dagger in his hand.

In the instant he fell, only one thought remained in his mind—the knife tip was facing outwards, and Jonathan was in front of him.

He was already leaning back, and Jonathan's body was pressing down in his direction.

If the blade had maintained the same angle of attack, Jonathan would have landed squarely on the blade.

He couldn't think about it any further.

He didn't even think to let go and throw the dagger away.

He simply instinctively used the last of his strength to flip his entire wrist over.

The tip of the knife suddenly turned from facing outwards to facing inwards, and as the blade flipped, it grazed the skin on the inside of his forearm.

Then, in the instant he fell, with the force of gravity, the blunt knife got stuck in his own side.