Du Zhanpeng slowly retracted the right leg he had just kicked out. He did this not to flaunt his victory, but out of fear that an accidental movement might lead to a misunderstanding with Qin Fen, which would certainly cause a world of trouble.

Pulling back his impending attack, Du Zhanpeng interestingly crouched down to look at Du Peng. "The Flying Swallow Dance of the Formless Waterfowl Fist might look impressive to others. But in my eyes, it’s no different from trash. I told you long ago, you are not qualified to fight me. Don't forget, I am the future heir of the Du family. And you? You are nothing more than the product of Father’s drunken error with a kitchen maid. Don't think that just because you share the surname Du, you are my brother. You aren't worthy!"

Du Peng's entire face contorted like a demon from the abyss. He strained both arms to push his body up, but Du Zhanpeng was a step ahead, reaching out and pressing his hand down onto Du Peng's forehead, forcing his face hard into the ground, sending up a spray of mud.

"Interested in sparring with me?"

Qin Fen’s voice was remarkably calm. The M134 had long been tossed aside. Having lived at the bottom rungs of society, he had long grown accustomed to the fickleness of human kindness and could handle most situations with composure.

But not today! Qin Fen felt his emotions dangerously close to spiraling out of control.

The surrounding recruits stared at Qin Fen in confusion. Du Zhanpeng’s displayed strength, though still appearing to be four-star, could potentially defeat even a five-star Meteor-level master. His Seven-Star Immortal Thunder Skill was a martial art that could not be bought, even with limitless wealth!

To issue a challenge to a man like that? Had he gone mad?

Du Zhanpeng slowly stood up and shook his head lightly. "How can there be so many self-important people in this world? Are you trying to stick up for this piece of junk? Never mind that you can’t beat me; even if you miraculously won, would that make him any less worthless?"

"Qin Fen…" Du Peng, still lying in the mud, slowly began to push himself up again. "If you are a comrade, don't fight for me."

"Fine. I’ll wait until you win it yourself."

Qin Fen squatted down and offered his shoulder, allowing Du Peng to use it as leverage to stand back up.

"Beat me?" Du Zhanpeng shrugged, his smile radiating utter disdain.

Snakehead, standing nearby, clicked his tongue repeatedly. "This Du Peng is truly a tragic figure. His Formless Waterfowl Fist is masterful, yet he runs into the Seven-Star Immortal Thunder Skill. What a tragedy."

Big Stone, in his simple-minded manner, quietly asked, "Why is the Formless Waterfowl Fist a tragedy against the Seven-Star Immortal Thunder Skill?"

Snakehead also leaned in to whisper back, "Legend has it that the Seven-Star Immortal Thunder Skill is not only a supreme Earth-level technique, but it is also a specialized art that counters the Formless Waterfowl Fist. See? Isn't that tragic for Du Peng?"

Qin Fen gently patted Du Peng’s back. He knew what Snakehead said was true. The Formless Waterfowl Fist was originally superb, but it dimmed significantly when faced with the Seven-Star Immortal Thunder Skill.

Du Peng leaned against the main trunk of a large tree. The recent fight hadn't physically injured him much, but the utter humiliation of the defeat had left his spirit listless, making him look as if he had suffered a severe blow.

"Lost again…" Du Peng’s words carried an inexpressible bitterness. His usual cold demeanor had been completely swept away by his current listless dejection.

Qin Fen remained silent. Offering comfort in moments like this was not a wise choice.

Du Peng also lapsed into silence, but Qin Fen slowly spoke up. "Your fists carry a sense of melancholy and suppression. They lack the carefree spirit associated with the legendary Formless Waterfowl Fist. In truth, sometimes daring to truly confront everything about yourself can actually set you free."

Du Peng’s body gave a slight tremor. Qin Fen said no more. Advising someone wasn't about incessant chatter. For an intelligent person, one or two well-placed sentences often achieved the best result.

After a brief silence, a flicker of a monumental decision sparked in Du Peng’s eyes. He spoke with a tone laced with faint sorrow, "You should have understood from Du Zhanpeng’s words just now, shouldn't you?"

Qin Fen gave a soft "En."

"That’s right." Du Peng’s tone suddenly gained a minuscule touch of liberation. "I am indeed from the Du family. Just as Du Zhanpeng said, Du Yu sexually assaulted my mother while drunk. And so, I was born."

Du Peng took a deep breath. "I never demanded or expected any special treatment just because I carry Du family blood. I only hoped that the mother who bore me for Du Yu could receive some small compensation and care. But…"

Du Peng’s smile was filled with pure hatred. "The kitchen maid remained a kitchen maid, and was even branded with the accusation of seducing the master of the house. That cold household didn't feel the slightest need to do anything or offer any compensation for that woman. It was as if nothing had ever happened, as if everything was simply taken for granted…"

"You must find it strange how I managed to learn the Formless Waterfowl Fist under such circumstances, right?" Du Peng’s rhetorical question held a hint of self-mockery. "It’s laughable, really. My mother begged countless times for me to be allowed to study martial arts, only to be relentlessly rejected. It wasn't until one day that Du Zhanpeng claimed he needed an opponent to gain more practical combat experience that I unexpectedly gained access to the supreme secret art, the Formless Waterfowl Gong, something others supposedly couldn't even buy with money."

By the end of his narration, Du Peng’s hatred hadn't lessened; if anything, it had intensified. Yet, his spirit felt significantly lighter after finally voicing the things he had kept suppressed.

Du Peng spoke slowly, his initial recounting seeming to require immense effort for every single word. By the time he finished explaining everything, the bouts for most other recruits were already concluded, with only a few matches still locked in struggle.

The trio of Snakehead, Mute, and Big Stone had been separated by the draw. Only Mute managed to avoid the "trash group"; the other two had been unlucky, losing their preliminary rock-paper-scissors matchups and subsequently having to fight their opponents' strengths with their own weaknesses.

Mute, the only one to escape the trash group initially, walked up to the instructor, whispered something, and was then promptly assigned to the trash group as well.

Qin Fen stood up at that moment and walked before the instructor. "I request to enter the losers' group for training."

"Heh heh…" The instructor chuckled, glancing in Mute's direction, and stated dryly, "I thought you had a bit of street smarts, but it turns out you’re just another fool who thinks loyalty is a meal ticket. Since you want to be brutalized so badly, I’ll oblige. Get over to the trash group."

The others waited a while longer until the handful of undecided fights finished. The instructor, growing impatient, bellowed, "Enough! Everyone stop fighting! Taking this long to settle your opponent clearly shows how much trash you are. All of you, into the trash group!"

In the end, Du Zhanpeng, Xing Wuyi, that female soldier, and thirty other recruits constituted the winners' group. The remaining sixty-odd people were all relegated to the trash group.

"Excellent! We finally sorted out who the absolute garbage is and who is slightly more salvageable trash," the instructor said, hands planted on his hips. "Here, the designation of 'trash' is not permanent. You utter wastes of space can challenge those thirty-odd individuals at any time. If you win, you can switch places."

The expressions of many in the winners' group immediately soured, including those who had lucked into the group by drawing favorable opponents. Conversely, many in the trash group began to look excited. The reason they came for this intensive training wasn't to return to their barracks and report to their superiors that they had the honor of joining the trash group.

"Very well! There are three final matters," the instructor stomped his boot heel heavily on a nearby stone, and the slightly stirred crowd immediately fell silent again.

"First, I must introduce you all to this island—why it is named 'Happy Paradise.'"

The instructor puffed out his chest with theatrical flair. "Because every soldier who comes here to train brings me happiness! Every time I abuse them, torment them, and train them, I experience immense joy. That is why I named it Happy Paradise. As for the soldiers who have trained here, they affectionately call it 'Devil’s Island.'"

"And I," the instructor continued, his pair of brilliant blue eyes sweeping across all the recruits again, "am affectionately called 'Satan' by every soldier who has been through training. Because I am so satisfied with that title, I've forgotten my original name. So, you may call me Instructor Dear Satan."

Satan licked his lips, which were still very moist but in no way alluring. "Let me tell you about a word I despise most—a term many call 'elite.' I hate the elite; I detest them immensely. I despise the self-righteous arrogance of the elite, that look they give everywhere as if they are hot stuff. I hate it, I deeply loathe it! So, when I heard that this training cohort was composed of supposed 'New Recruit Elites,' I told myself: This time! I must set a record!"

The recruits perked up their ears, wondering what this instructor, who had displayed signs of mental instability from the start, was plotting now.

"I intend to set a record for a one-hundred-percent washout rate! Ensuring none of you make it to the final scheduled day of training here." Satan’s ferocious face broke into a hysterical, manic laugh. "To achieve this goal, I will not hesitate to use any means necessary! You must understand, my training camp has a death quota! Fifty percent! The military region has granted me the authority to actually train half the members to death during training. So, if you don't want to die, you still have time to leave now."

A death quota—that was a special training metric reserved only for truly elite combat units. Ordinary recruit training never featured such stipulations.

Various expressions flitted across the faces of the recruits upon hearing this, and the atmosphere became profoundly quiet.

Satan spoke again. "Compared to life, what the hell is face worth? You can leave right now and survive, sparing your parents the grief of mourning your death. Don’t look at others; comparing yourselves to each other is an incredibly foolish endeavor."

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