HLM -Chapter 1212 Combat Training

The old Chinese saying “fists and feet have no eyes” really holds true.

As soon as the training began, some people immediately started flailing wildly, completely lacking any technique. By the time Wang Bo noticed, two people next to him were already grabbing each other by the neck and kicking each other in the stomach.

Seeing this, Birrus stepped forward, flipped both of them to the ground, and shouted, “Is this training? Go to the side, calm down, and then perform the moves I taught fifty times!”

One of them, a white man with flaxen hair, wasn’t satisfied and pushed Birrus before charging again.

Birrus was genuinely angry. He grabbed the man, swung him backward, then leaned forward and used his shoulder to knock him to the ground. He then locked his knees onto the man’s back, twisted his arms behind him, and said, “Cadet #18009, you are suspected of assaulting an instructor. Since this is your first offense, I will not pursue charges. Next time, you will be expelled from the police force!”

The man immediately became compliant. Though his face contorted in pain, he didn’t say a word and merely gasped.

Birrus released him, and both offenders were taken to separate corners of the classroom to practice individually.

Birrus waved at the others to rest and cautioned, “Learning combat is for self-defense, fitness, and better arresting criminals. Anyone who uses it against their comrades will not be spared!”

The atmosphere in the classroom became tense. Wang Bo wanted to lighten the mood, so he took out a pack of tea and handed it to Atulu, signaling him to chat with the instructor.

Atulu approached and said, “Instructor, would you like to try my fresh chrysanthemum tea?”

Birrus looked surprised. “Hey, no wonder you became a squad leader—you really know how to behave. But this isn’t my taste.”

Laughter erupted nearby. Atulu looked confused. “What’s so funny? Instructor, you don’t like tea? Do you prefer coffee?”

Birrus blinked again. “You mean chrysanthemum tea? Oh, I thought it was something else. Chrysanthemum tea is fine—I do like tea.”

The laughter grew louder, and Wang Bo joined in, secretly relieved it wasn’t him delivering the tea.

Each class lasted forty-five minutes, with two consecutive sessions. The first session was just to warm up; in the second, Birrus increased the intensity.

Before the second session began, a doctor in a white coat brought a first aid kit into the classroom. Several timid students shivered immediately.

Birrus smiled. “Don’t be afraid. This is just precautionary. We’ve all learned first aid; a few bumps on the combat floor won’t be a problem—we can handle our own rescue.”

He recruited Uncle Bing as his assistant. The police were trained in techniques derived from military combat, often extending from deadly moves.

The combat techniques Birrus was teaching—such as chokeholds and joint locks—Uncle Bing was already proficient in, even more so than the instructor, and he executed them with precision.

Seeing this, Birrus had Uncle Bing demonstrate.

Uncle Bing beckoned Atulu. “Squad Leader, you’ll be my sparring partner. Don’t worry, I won’t actually break your throat.”

Someone asked, “Benjamin, have you ever actually broken someone’s throat?”

Uncle Bing smiled without answering. When pressed, a nearby officer said coldly, “We’ve executed missions in Iraq, Syria, and Somalia. Do you think we’ve never broken someone’s throat?”

The cadets swallowed hard and instinctively kept their distance.

Atulu hesitated. “Come on, we’re on the same side. Do you really have to go so hard on me?”

Uncle Bing replied, “You’re the hardest type to deal with—big, strong, and with enough body fat to absorb hits—so you’re the perfect candidate for demonstration.”

Before Atulu could argue, Uncle Bing lunged forward, delivering a kick aimed at Atulu’s knee.

But the Maori man wasn’t easy to beat. Though generally gentle, he trained consistently and had become close friends with a Muay Thai master, Kuncha. Thanks to his dedication, he knew how to withstand attacks. Atulu curled his knees to absorb the impact, leaned to brace with his shoulders, gasped as the kick landed, and threw a punch with his left hand while protecting his head.

Uncle Bing’s first strike missed, so he quickly shifted to the side, delivering a heavy blow under Atulu’s ribs.

Atulu’s strong resilience let him withstand it and continue punching. As they turned, their movements intersected. Uncle Bing moved behind him and struck the back of Atulu’s knee with a swift kick.

Instinctively, Atulu’s knee Buckerd, and he fell to the ground. Uncle Bing immediately moved in, wrapping his right arm around Atulu’s neck and interlocking his left arm, while his legs locked around Atulu’s abdomen like entwined roots.

Atulu struggled for four to five seconds, then his strength waned. Uncle Bing released him; though Atulu’s eyes were open and he was panting, he couldn’t get up. Half a minute later, he slowly rose.

The cadets applauded, and Birrus remarked, “Amazing! This is a chokehold from capture techniques—so powerful!”

Uncle Bing nodded. “Yes, Instructor. In training, we aim for unconsciousness in four seconds.”

Birrus explained, “The arteries on both sides of the neck, called the carotid arteries, are the main pathways supplying oxygen to the brain. If they’re compressed, the person quickly loses consciousness. That’s the key to the chokehold.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” someone asked.

Birrus nodded. “Very dangerous. That’s why you must be careful in training and consult Benjamin and Gerald privately for guidance.”

The “sweet guy” raised his hand. “I know this too. I’ve learned it before.”

Birrus smiled. “Then you’ll benefit from it. This is one of the most important items in the month-end assessment. Passing it earns you 20 points.”

After combat training, it was lunchtime.

The school offered a lavish buffet with Western, Chinese, Thai, and Japanese dishes.

Wang Bo took some fried tofu and roasted lamb chops. His hands were greasy from eating. When he went to wash them, he found no water coming from the faucet.

He asked the chef, “Hey, why’s there no water?”

The chef replied, “It’s voice-activated; the switch won’t work.”

Wang Bo froze. “Voice-activated? I’ve read a lot but never seen this—only motion sensors before.”

He tried clapping and coughing, but the water didn’t flow. The chef shook his head. “It’s not that kind of voice sensor.”

Wang Bo shouted back into the kitchen, “Open the main valve! Someone needs to wash their hands!”

Finally, the water flowed.