Chapter 5: Fight or Fry (in the Kitchen)

In hindsight, it was a complete mistake for Homan to accept Baisha into his advanced combat training class.

The mistake lay in the word "advanced."

Homan firmly believed that fighting was an instinct hardwired into every living creature—if even newborn beast cubs knew how to brawl for milk, then so should humans.

But Baisha—she had absolutely no clue how to fight!

Not in the sense that she didn't know what to do, but in the deeper, more stubborn sense that she rejected the idea of fighting altogether. She had zero combat experience—what was there to advance, really?

"Seriously," Baisha protested, "violence is a fast track to breaking the law. Resorting to it is hardly the best solution to a problem. Besides, everyone has their strengths—I could take the brains-over-brawn route, right?"

"You just don't want to suffer," Homan replied, chuckling as he lightly tapped her arm with a metal rod. "No excuses. You promised three sets of push-ups today. Fifty per set. No shortcuts, or nobody's eating."

Baisha let out a faint hiss and, trembling, pushed herself up with a groan to resume the exercise.

Not far off, Jingyi and Yaning were practicing punches on sandbags.

In their trio, Baisha, being the only total newbie in combat, got stuck with push-ups, pull-ups, weighted running—basically, the whole grimy buffet of physical training. Yaning had it slightly better—he could at least land a few punches on the bag and get a couple of Homan's gruff pointers.

But most of Homan's attention was laser-focused on Jingyi.

And honestly, who could blame him? Jingyi was the dream student for any combat instructor: fast learner, deadly accurate, relentless. Pain tolerance? Off the charts. Willpower? Diamond grade. No matter how badly she was knocked down, she got up like she'd only tripped over a shoelace.

Sometimes, when teaching her, Homan would feel momentarily dazed—like he wasn't coaching a girl, but programming a machine built for war with all the knowledge he'd gathered in a lifetime of battle.

By the end of class, Jingyi looked slightly winded but hungry for more. Yaning was panting like he'd been chased by a mech wolf. And Baisha? She was a soggy noodle. It took both of them to keep her from melting into the floor.

"Homan is a devil," Baisha muttered in a voice barely above a ghost's sigh.

"Word is he used to serve on the front lines as a federal soldier," Jingyi replied, sweat-soaked hair clinging to her brow but eyes glowing. "If we ever manage to beat him, getting into the military academy is pretty much guaranteed."

"Is there really no other path besides the military?" Baisha blinked. "You two have perfectly good brains too, you know."

"It's not just about being a soldier," Yaning said, more serious than usual. His green eyes glistened from the workout, like misted glass. "We want to be officers, to have a say in how the Federation is run. For people like us, the fastest way up... is through the military. Sure, there are barriers. But compared to everything else, it's still our best shot. With the Federation locked in conflict with the Empire and star bugs still swarming—opportunities for advancement are everywhere."

Baisha realized she'd underestimated these kids. They weren't blindly chasing some juvenile dream—they had a plan, and they were grinding for it, hard.

She fell silent.

"You're right, though," Yaning added. "The world isn't one-lane. You don't have to go the same way we do. Not many from Lanslow even make it into the academy each year. No guarantees."

"But look at her." Jingyi frowned at Baisha. "She's so physically weak, she wouldn't last a week outside the orphanage. She needs to train."

"I know, right?" Baisha sighed dramatically. "I can barely move now. My arms are still shaking. There's no way I can help out in the kitchen like this. If it happens too often, Mrs. Qiong might think I'm slacking and replace me..."

And there goes my bonus food!

Yaning and Jingyi exchanged glances. The words code red were practically flashing between them.

Baisha, watching their faces, knew she had them right where she wanted. She gently nudged, "You know... maybe I should skip the combat classes. I could just keep helping out in the kitchen. You two could explain to Homan that I'm just too busy—"

"This won't work," Jingyi cut in.

"We need a solution," Yaning said.

"Yes! Exactly—" Baisha started.

"We need to improve your physical condition!" they declared in unison.

Baisha: "???"

"Jingyi, how did you build your stamina? Teach her," Yaning said.

"I just followed Homan's training. He's the professional here." Jingyi's brain was clearly shifting into high gear. "But if you want a real secret to getting better at fighting—it's actual fights. I've been sparring with older boys in the orphanage. I could take her with me next time."

"I appreciate the thought," Baisha tried to wiggle away, "but aren't you afraid Mrs. Qiong will punish you for brawling?"

Jingyi grabbed her collar calmly. "There's no such thing as solitary confinement here. And this isn't my first time. You see those two bandaged boys—Weian and Kleiza? I did that."

"You?" Baisha blinked. "Didn't they say they beat each other up?"

"They were just too embarrassed to admit they lost a group fight to a girl. Standard orphanage etiquette—loser takes the blame."

"So... how'd you even get involved in the older kids' fight?" Baisha asked, frowning.

Jingyi stiffened, not answering.

"And don't tell me it was just 'didn't like their faces.' That's barely even a reason," Baisha pressed.

Back in her own time, fights often broke out over petty nonsense. Sometimes bullying spiraled into obsession, all over a passing comment or a strange look. But that was because those kids were bored. Too much time, not enough purpose.

But these orphanage kids? They matured fast. Baisha doubted they'd waste energy on meaningless drama.

"There was a reason," Jingyi muttered. "But we can talk after lunch."

"Uh-huh…" Baisha looked suspicious.

"Yeah, I'm starving," Yaning said, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "Hurry to the kitchen! Bring me an extra chicken wrap! And hey, maybe you're right—Jingyi shouldn't take you fighting. If both of you get caught, nobody eats. But if you're in the kitchen, at least one of us survives the fallout."

Jingyi looked like she wanted to scoff Do you ever think about anything besides food?—but bit her tongue.

Baisha noticed the dodge but didn't press. There'd be time. The truth always came out eventually.

Right before mealtime, Mrs. Qiong wandered into the hall and found Baisha wheeling a cart and setting the table.

She was meticulous. Plates perfectly aligned, cutlery placed with geometric precision. From a distance, it looked like a minimalist art installation.

Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing fragile wrists lined with red marks. She moved with trembling care, her hands still shaking slightly.

Mrs. Qiong watched her quietly, then turned and walked to the staff office to find Homan.

"Behold, the great Inspector-General herself," Homan greeted, lounging on the sofa and raising his liquor flask in salute. "You here to bless me with more orders?"

"I warned you—no alcohol inside the orphanage," Mrs. Qiong said coldly. "Especially not in front of the children."

"Oh, please. Half these kids will be addicted to alcohol when they grow up anyway," Homan scoffed. "But don't worry—I've told them it's for dulling pain. It's a drug, not a treat. Addiction's a privilege reserved for adults."

"I'm not here for your philosophical ramblings." Her voice was clipped. "I want to talk about Baisha. Why is she in your combat class? She's frail—possibly malnourished. That's why I assigned her to kitchen duty in the first place. She's not suited to be a soldier. You can't just force every kid here down the military track."

"She has to go to the academy," Homan replied, staring into his flask. "With her talent, she's not meant for obscurity. If she doesn't, she'll end up at Kangheng Security."

Mrs. Qiong paused.

"Kangheng's been quietly snapping up talent all over Lanslow," Homan said. "Hell, they've already swallowed most of our promising graduates. Isn't that ironic, Inspector?"

"Let her go to the military academy," he said flatly. "Even if she ends up as a logistics officer, a mech pilot, a tactician, a damn supply clerk—or just an ordinary grunt who retires quietly—it'll be more meaningful than selling herself to Kangheng."