Chapter 56: Impolite

Bunny tossed and turned in bed the entire night, suddenly filled with deep regret over the momentary verbal satisfaction she had indulged in front of Cyrus.

A petty man like him would definitely take vicious revenge on her during combat class.

The alarm had already gone off, yet she had zero desire to get up and attend the lesson.

Even the fragrant meat buns stuffed into her mouth tasted completely bland. By the time she finally dragged herself to the combat room, she was nearly twenty minutes late.

Cyrus was bare from the waist up, wearing boxing gloves and pounding the heavy bag with full force.

Cool white light poured down from the ceiling, casting an alluring sheen over the thin layer of sweat covering his muscles after exercise. The lines of his physique flowed so smoothly they were almost pleasing to the eye—like the most perfect sculpture.

But Bunny had no mood whatsoever to admire his muscles.

Because Cyrus’s punches were both vicious and fast, extremely sharp. She could barely catch even the afterimages of his strikes. The air beside her ears whistled with powerful gusts; the knotted, bulging biceps and taut abdomen flexed tightly together, and even the raised veins on his arms radiated pure strength.

The heavy bag thudded loudly under the barrage. Standing in the doorway, Bunny felt as though that bag was herself.

After several more heavy blows, the dense bag was finally punched open. Sand poured out in a loud cascade across the floor.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Only then did Cyrus, still breathing in soft, heavy pants, flick a sidelong glance toward her.

"Guide Bunny, you are the first student who has ever made me wait personally for twenty minutes."

He deliberately emphasized the words "the first."

Being deliberately late for class was, after all, impolite.

Feeling guilty, she offered an excuse. "Sorry... the alarm didn’t go off."

Cyrus walked over to the storage cabinet, removed his boxing gloves, and began wrapping his hands with tape.

"If you’re late again in the future, I don’t mind personally dragging you out of bed."

She knew a pervert like him was capable of anything. Setting her training bag at her feet, she also began wrapping her hands and putting on knee pads.

"Run twenty laps to warm up first."

An icy command dropped. She silently cursed a string of colorful language and began the twenty-lap aerobic sprint.

Her stamina had improved considerably compared with before, yet she still lagged far behind the sentinels.

Twenty laps didn’t even count as a warm-up for them.

When the twenty laps were finished, she stepped onto the combat mat. Cyrus was already standing there with his hands behind his back, waiting for her.

He was so tall that when he looked down at her it felt as though he were gazing at a tiny little shrimp.

"Have you studied combat before?"

She answered honestly. "Does fighting count?"

The hair-pulling kind.

Cyrus gave a soft laugh. "You had best prepare yourself mentally in advance. Don’t start crying later."

Internally, she thought: Who are you looking down on? Crying was unlikely—she would at most play dead.

"Tactical combat is a practical, comprehensive confrontation system that integrates unarmed fighting, close-quarters weapon use, psychological warfare, and tactical positioning."

Cyrus drew the carbon-steel combat knife at his waist and slowly played with it in his hand, the pad of his thumb stroking the tip of the blade.

"The underlying logic is simple: tactics over techniques, survival over victory or defeat, control over killing."

Whoosh—!

The combat knife was suddenly flung out with force. It grazed the tip of her ear and precisely struck the bullseye several meters away.

"Today we’ll start with the simplest free sparring."

Cyrus first had her watch a basic instructional video, then practice the most fundamental power-generation postures and techniques with an intelligent training dummy.

"Combat stance: feet apart, knees slightly bent, fists clenched with palms facing down, elbows close to the body. Use the core strength of the torso to drive the shoulder and arm when punching."

His speech was rapid, as though he completely did not care whether she could keep up.

Of course he knew this little idiot could not keep up.

She memorized everything while sweating profusely—lead straight, rear straight, hook, uppercut... After digesting the material several times on her own, she finally managed to roughly familiarize herself with all the basic techniques.

"Review for ten minutes. In ten minutes, I will personally evaluate you."

The training dummy was extremely clever. It seemed able to predict her next move every single time, dodging with perfect accuracy before counterattacking.

She was beaten black and blue all over and still had to practice her evasion speed.

Meanwhile, Cyrus sat the entire time on a chair to the side, long legs crossed, quietly watching this little fool "take a beating."

Until the little fool was punched squarely in the head by the dummy—"Ow!"

She clutched her forehead and cried out in pain, yet somehow became even more motivated. She locked onto the dummy, sidestepped, and threw a heavy right hook. Although her abdomen took a solid hit in return, she finally managed to land a blow on a vital area of the dummy.

After a full evaluation, the system gave her a score of 59—failure.

Cyrus mocked her without the slightest mercy. "It seems the Guide still has a great deal of room for improvement."

She was panting hard from exhaustion. Before she could rest even five minutes, Cyrus hauled her up for the personal evaluation.

"I won’t use mental power. I’ll give you three free moves. If you can land a hit on any part of my body within three minutes, you win."

To add a little extra interest to the evaluation, Cyrus specifically proposed a reward-and-punishment mechanism.

"I heard Guide Bunny likes to play some stimulating little games with her teachers inside the classroom. How about this: if you win, I’ll grant any one request of yours free of charge."

She truly wanted to smash a basketball over Cyrus’s head.

She countered, "And if I lose?"

The corner of Cyrus’s mouth curved in a dangerous arc. "If you lose, you accept the punishment."

"What punishment?"

"You’ll see."

"Then I’m not doing it." Who knew what kind of punishment this pervert would invent.

Cyrus lifted the long outer corners of his eyes; his expression turned instantly cold and stern.

"Soldiers have no right to disobey a superior’s orders."

"Or are you saying you yourself also believe your boxing is a complete pile of shit?"

The provocation worked perfectly. Bunny had always been stubborn as an ox.

"Fine! We’ll compete!"

The evaluation officially began. Cyrus stood rooted in place like a wooden stake, completely motionless. Bunny dropped into a combat stance, took a deep breath, then shot forward and smashed a straight punch toward his abdomen.

But his speed was far too great. He even deliberately waited until she was almost upon him before pivoting on his combat boots to dodge—openly mocking how slow she was, like a turtle.