Chapter 152: God-Given Talent

There was no reveille at the special training base; of course, those little Japanese devils wouldn't bother with such niceties. They were rather petty and simply used whistles, which were exceptionally unpleasant and ear-piercing.

Five-thirty.

Beep, beep, beep...

The waking whistle suddenly sounded, startling the special training squad members still deep in dreams.

Just as they opened their drowsy eyes, two Japanese officers armed with wooden sticks rushed in and began hammering violently against the heads of their beds.

A fraction of a second too slow, and a stick would come down. Naturally, it wouldn't strike a vital spot, but taking a blow like that still hurt intensely.

Linger and drag your feet now? Not a chance. Quick, jump out of bed, get dressed, and wash up!

In less than a quarter of an hour, all six stood in a line on the open ground in front of the wooden building. The ground was covered with a layer of gravel, and the accumulated snow had long since been swept away.

They were lined up by height. Zhou Sen was neither the tallest nor the shortest among the six, taking his place as the second from the left.

At the head of the line was Jim, codename: The Gardener, the fellow who had "kidnapped" him, communicated with him the most in the cellar, and claimed to be "The Rampaging Bear" Yuregin—quite a talkative guy.

Right next to Zhou Sen was Chivanov, thin with a pair of handlebar mustaches, looking somewhat like a man from the northern border. Despite his Russian-sounding name, he was actually a native Daur. Seventy or eighty years ago, he would have simply been considered Chinese. Codename: The Hunter.

Next was Anna. She had never told Zhou Sen her real name, and Susanna was just an alias she had borrowed. Codename: Lilac.

Then came Sato. Among the Japanese, he was quite tall, but in this team, he didn't particularly stand out. Codename: The Assassin.

The last one was Sergei Petrov, short and slightly plump, a Tatar (Cossack). Codename: Bread.

Whether he had a particular fondness for bread—eating several at a single meal—was anyone's guess, hence the codename.

Being selected meant these people undoubtedly possessed special skills. The Japanese wouldn't just pluck random people off the street; they weren't picking radishes.

The Gardener excelled at tracking, the Hunter at wilderness survival, Bread at horsemanship and swordsmanship, and Lilac at communication and photography, among other things.

In truth, these people were sparring partners while simultaneously filling gaps in their own skill sets. Only Zhou Sen and Sato were the actual targets of the special training.

Naturally, the base had also assigned them instructors. Aside from driving, which couldn't be learned here, almost everything else was on the menu.

"Considering the injuries to your feet, physical training is postponed for three days, but all other training must proceed!"

"We will now begin breath-holding practice. My requirement for you is two and a half minutes to pass, and three minutes for excellence!"

Six basins of icy cold water were placed before the six of them.

"On the first day, anything under two minutes means breakfast is forfeited," Ozawa declared, his ruthless gaze sweeping across everyone's faces.

"Begin!"

Everyone took a deep breath and submerged their faces into the water. That instant felt cold enough to freeze one's marrow.

"No lifting your heads! Anyone who raises their head loses breakfast!"

As Ozawa kept his stopwatch running, right around the one-minute-thirty-second mark, someone couldn't hold on any longer and suddenly burst up.

Zhou Sen was also reaching his limit. The wound on his chest hadn't fully healed yet, and holding his breath like this for too long caused a needle-like pain to flare up in his left chest.

Yet he knew he could not afford to lose. Even if he couldn't pass, he had to push through the two-minute mark.

Normally, an ordinary person could only hold their breath for about a minute, while trained soldiers could exceed two minutes.

Anything over two minutes was extraordinary, especially for a first-time practice.

Generally, people who were good swimmers had good breath-holding times. As it happened, Zhou Sen had grown up in Ice City by the banks of the Songhua River, and his swimming skills were quite impressive.

At times like this, an overlooked advantage suddenly manifested.

Two minutes and three seconds, four seconds...

Zhou Sen could no longer feel the stabbing pain in his chest, nor could he hear the sounds of the others outside. All that remained was Ozawa's voice counting the seconds in his ear.

Breakfast was secured; now to see if he could pass!

*Splash!*

Sato yanked his head out of the water. His face was as red as a ripe tomato, his dead-fish eyes wide with utter disbelief as he stared at Zhou Sen, who was still holding his breath underwater...

Zhou Sen was also reaching his breaking point. His head began to spin, and he could no longer hear Ozawa counting the seconds. It was only the first day anyway; there was no need to fight tooth and nail for dominance just yet. He lifted his head, braced his hands on the bench, and breathed heavily.

Suddenly, he noticed an utter silence surrounding him. He raised his head in surprise to find everyone staring at him in astonishment.

"Instructor Ozawa, can we eat breakfast now? I'm starving."

The corner of Ozawa's mouth twitched. In the history of this base, the record for a novice's first breath-holding attempt was around two minutes—and that was for someone with prior similar training. Yet Zhou Sen, looking like a delicate, fair-skinned young master, had actually smashed past the two-and-a-half-minute mark.

"The Assassin" had already given him enough of a pleasant surprise by tying the record, and now came a record-breaker.

Regarding the bet between the two, Ozawa hadn't favored Zhou Sen at all. But now, the gap didn't seem quite so insurmountable after all.

Sato's face turned livid. Convinced he had this trial in the bag, he had lost the very first event—mere training—and so miserably at that.

"This is the first time, and some of you failed to grasp the techniques under rushed conditions. For those under two minutes, breakfast rations are cut in half. 'The Assassin' and 'Young Master' may enjoy full portions. You have ten minutes to eat breakfast, and assemble in the classroom in ten minutes!" Ozawa announced. "From now on, alongside breath-holding, there will be physical training. Failure to meet standards will result in the same punishment!"

Breakfast consisted of cornmeal porridge, steamed corn buns, and salted vegetables. Originally, it was one bowl per person plus two buns, which was basically enough to fill one's stomach. Now halved, it didn't matter much to Anna, whose appetite was small, but the remaining three suffered terribly.

"Young Master, you're so good at holding your breath. Care to teach us?"

"Sure. Breath-holding actually has its tricks. Before you inhale and go under, make sure not to draw too sharp a breath..." Zhou Sen wasn't stingy. These were just minor diving tricks; plain and simple, nothing overly complex. Anyone with half a brain could figure it out after a few tries. How could he pass up such an opportunity to foster good relations?

Special training wasn't just about training scores; every aspect was evaluated and graded. In terms of interpersonal relations, the arrogant Sato was no match for the accommodating Zhou Sen.

If you were overwhelmingly superior, everyone would accept it and yield to you. But when you didn't look all that impressive right now, who the hell was going to take you seriously?

The first lesson was brainwashing—a compulsory subject. The instructor was a Japanese man in his forties named Takaya.

Everyone was accustomed to calling him Professor Takaya.

Then came the distribution of the Nakano School's espionage textbooks. Naturally, the covers bore the stamp of "Internal Material" and looked strictly confidential.

The textbooks were in Japanese, but the lectures were conducted entirely in Russian.

That was quite interesting.

For Sato, his Russian was the worst in the entire special training squad. For the others, Russian was either their mother tongue or learned from childhood.

Not only was communication effortless, but writing in Russian was also completely barrier-free.

The so-called brainwashing consisted of doctrines like the Japan-Manchuria integration, the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, alongside the vilification and distortion of communism.

Once preemptively accepted, these concepts could indeed produce subtle changes in a person, especially when reinforced during the brainwashing process with numerous supporting examples—such as the "purge" that had recently taken place within the Soviet Union.

To Zhou Sen, these matters felt rather distant, and he couldn't feel any skin-deep pain from them.

However, these topics were subject to examinations, so he had no choice but to listen. Failing the exam would spell trouble.

Next came espionage techniques. Zhou Sen was quite interested in this field, having learned some basics previously at the police academy, though they were superficial and lacked practical application.

The teachings here were different. Although still theoretical, they far surpassed anything taught at the police academy. Moreover, they incorporated the tracking techniques of the Soviet Cheka, comparing them with those of the Japanese Nakano School to discover the respective strengths and weaknesses of both systems.

The curriculum of the Soviet Special Police Academy was indeed solid, but it was better suited for urban environments in the Soviet Union.

Every technique had to be adapted to local conditions; there was no such thing as a one-size-fits-all solution.

Like a sponge, Zhou Sen eagerly absorbed the knowledge he had previously been reluctant to learn.

On the first day, unprepared, Zhou Sen held his breath for two minutes and thirty-three seconds. On the second day, two minutes and thirty-six seconds. As for Sato, perhaps suffering from internal agitation, his time actually regressed by two seconds. Meanwhile, everyone else's scores climbed, with Bread—the worst performer—suddenly extending his time by ten seconds!

Though they still missed out on breakfast, they could see hope.

Once they fell asleep, leaving Sato behind, the others went to soak in the hot springs for half an hour before returning to bed.

Not only did the pain in their feet heal quickly, but waking up the next morning, their spirits were much better than the day before.

As for Sato...

With his aloof attitude toward everyone, he was thoroughly ostracized, and Zhou Sen didn't even need to stir the pot himself.

Three days later, the soles of everyone's feet had mostly healed, thanks to the daily hot springs combined with the ointment provided by Bai Yulan.

Even though Zhou Sen had suffered the most severe foot injury, he was practically recovered.

Physical training commenced: running laps around the base, weightlifting, climbing, push-ups, pull-ups, and other common military physical conditioning routines.

Then came equipment training, assassination techniques, stealth, kendo, and the like.

For firearms training, shooting focused primarily on pistols and rifles, and to Zhou Sen's surprise, they used Soviet-made weaponry.

When it came to marksmanship, Zhou Sen knew he was no match for Sato; he had self-awareness. Across the entire special training squad, one had to admit that even though Sato was using unfamiliar Soviet firearms, he mastered them faster than the others, and his shooting accuracy was superior.

However, when it came to progress, Zhou Sen was remarkably fast, advancing by leaps and bounds.

Actually, it wasn't Zhou Sen's first encounter with the Tokarev pistol; he was already familiar with it, having simply never fired one before.

Once he grew accustomed to the weapon's mechanics, combined with his sharp intellect, hitting the bullseye every time right off the bat was impossible, but going from missing the target entirely to hitting it consistently posed no problem. As long as ammunition was plentiful, his marksmanship would steadily improve.

Moreover, Ozawa was secretly giving him extra coaching behind the scenes, guiding him on how to master and utilize his own weapon.

Next was the rifle. The Mosin-Nagant rifle was the standard-issue weapon of the Soviet army and had to be mastered. Unlike the Arisaka Type 38, it was longer. Although its shooting accuracy was slightly inferior to the Type 38, its larger bullet caliber, greater kinetic energy, and superior lethality made up for it.

In terms of range, the Mosin-Nagant rifle, utilizing 7.62mm smokeless powder rifle ammunition, fell just slightly short of the Type 38.

In close-combat scenarios, the Mosin-Nagant could deliver effective lethality up to four hundred meters, whereas the Type 38 could reach four hundred and fifty meters.

Naturally, Zhou Sen preferred the Mosin-Nagant because its operational feel and shooting experience were superior. After using the Mosin-Nagant, switching back to the Type 38 felt distinctly awkward.

However, the shorter Sato naturally harbored resentment toward the Mosin-Nagant. Although his marksmanship was stronger, Zhou Sen caught up from behind.

On the fixed rifle targets, it took him less than three days to close the gap.

Every day was packed with schedules. Aside from training, it was more training. To ensure everyone maintained their physical strength, each person received a canned beef ration daily.

Their diet was far superior to that of the garrison soldiers.

During this period, Zhou Sen's appetite surged significantly, and his sleep time was compressed to five hours a day. Beyond routine training, he voluntarily undertook heavy additional physical conditioning.

If he wanted to defeat Sato in head-to-head combat, he had to achieve a breakthrough level of progress in a very short time.