No Slacking!

The missile towers built across the airport were faithfully carrying out their defensive duties.

The menacing warheads loaded inside the launch tubes would not let a single suspicious aircraft slip by.

And the precise friend-or-foe identification radar ensured there would never be an embarrassing accident of firing on allied units.

Ye Lan also knew that the true reason the airport was as impregnable as a fortress was because of the many hidden defensive structures buried beneath the surface.

Of course, none of that had anything to do with Ye Lan and Su Lixiao—their destination was only the tarmac of this airport.

On this landing field, large enough to host a hundred aircraft, stood rows of twin-rotor helicopters always ready for takeoff.

These twin-rotor aircraft had powerful engines, could transport large numbers of personnel or vast quantities of supplies, and in times of need could even be fitted with weapons systems—cheap, reliable flying machines.

Beside each helicopter were several “crew members” at work.

But their clothing was surprisingly formal—most wore neat suits and slacks—so instead of crew, they looked more like salesmen.

And truthfully, their behavior was no different from salesmen either.

Whenever a new student emerged from one of the passage exits and approached a particular helicopter, the “crew” rushed forward with enthusiasm.

They carried the students’ luggage, cracked jokes, and half coaxed, half persuaded them to board.

Moments later, the helicopter would lift off.

Su Lixiao immediately sensed something strange in the air: “What kind of kidnapping ritual is this?”

Ye Lan wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead and explained: “To put it simply, those ‘crew members’ are volunteers. They’re senior students tasked with receiving us freshmen. The reason their behavior looks like a kidnapping is because they get benefits from it—like earning credits.”

Su Lixiao’s eyes lit with understanding: “Oh! I get it now. No profit, no effort, right?”

“Exactly. As long as they deliver us to the freshman reception hall, their task is complete. So now it’s our turn to choose which helicopter.”

Ye Lan looked over the field packed with aircraft, and suddenly felt his old problem of choice paralysis creeping up.

Su Lixiao, however, eagerly volunteered: “Then let me choose!”

“Alright, alright.” Ye Lan of course had no reason to refuse her enthusiasm.

And besides, whichever helicopter they chose, it made no real difference.

At most, the difference lay only in the paint job: camouflage, desert tan, all black—plenty of variety, but nothing fundamental.

Su Lixiao rested her chin on her hand, carefully scanning the entire line of aircraft, then pointed in one direction: “Lan, let’s take that one, okay?”

“Huh? Which one?”

Ye Lan followed the line of her finger—and burst out with a curse: “What the—Pink?!”

It was a helicopter painted entirely in bright pink.

Seriously?

So macho?

Ye Lan was certain he didn’t remember originally boarding such a gaudy-colored craft with Su Lixiao in the past—it had been far too long—but it definitely hadn’t been pink.

Seeing his dramatic reaction, Su Lixiao’s expression dimmed a little: “Then… should we pick another one?”

But Ye Lan suddenly changed tack and said firmly: “No, no. We’re taking this one.”

His decisiveness even startled Su Lixiao.

“Are you alright?” she asked, worried for his mental state. “Really, we can pick another one.”

“I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. This one.”

He felt the need to explain himself, so he pointed beside the pink helicopter: “Look at those two guys over there, slacking off so comfortably. How can I let that slide?”

Next to the pink aircraft were two lounge chairs, with two men wearing sunglasses sprawled out sunbathing.

From their clothes, they were just like the other “crew members.”

But because no freshmen had dared go near the outrageously pink-painted chopper, the two had simply taken the chance to openly loaf around.

Su Lixiao found this contradictory and asked: “But didn’t you say they volunteered for credits?”

Ye Lan replied: “True, but some don’t need credits. They just come here to goof off.”

Su Lixiao blinked, her mouth open, at a loss for words.

Ignoring the enthusiastic greetings of other volunteers, Ye Lan and Su Lixiao walked straight through the rows of helicopters toward the pink one.

The two volunteers, still lounging in their chairs, gazed up at the sky.

Perhaps they heard the footsteps, but assumed the newcomers were headed to the helicopter next door, so they didn’t stir, and instead kept chatting.

“See? I told you, Old Zhou. Not a single freshman wants to come here. This way of slacking is perfect, right?” said the man on the right. From his tone, it was clear he had chosen the macho-pink paint.

“Eh, it’s alright… I just need sunglasses so no one recognizes me.”

The man on the left, who had a full beard, seemed to feel guilty about slacking and was trying to hide behind his shades.

The one on the right waved off his concern: “So what? If we’re not embarrassed, it’s others who’ll be embarrassed. And besides, no sunglasses will hide that huge beard of yours.”

“…Really? Is it that bad?” The bearded man sat up and stroked his chin, just in time to see Ye Lan and Su Lixiao standing before them. He froze.

Ye Lan raised a hand awkwardly and said, “Hello there.”

“What the hell—broad daylight and I’m seeing ghosts?!”

The bearded man leapt out of his chair, staring in disbelief at the pair of living, breathing freshmen in front of him.

His sunglasses slipped off in shock.

Looking from the pink helicopter to the boy and girl, he stammered: “Didn’t you see the color? You’re not… colorblind, are you?”

The bearded man recovered, turned to his companion, and said: “Heiderei, no one gets that ancient genetic defect anymore.”

Then he looked back at Ye Lan and Su Lixiao. “You really want to ride our helicopter?”

“Yes,” Ye Lan and Su Lixiao answered in unison.

The two upperclassmen exchanged a glance.

Heiderei sighed and reluctantly opened the helicopter hatch, pulling out the reception supplies.

“Sorry, we weren’t prepared,” the bearded man said quickly, straightening his suit to smooth out the wrinkles. “I’m Zhou Zhanying. You can call him Heiderei. Sorry you had to see us slacking—please don’t get a bad impression of the Academy.”

Zhou Zhanying?

Hearing the name, Ye Lan’s heart skipped.

From the first moment he saw the full beard, he had already guessed.

Zhou Zhanying was a well-known name in the Soul-Slaying Military Academy—codename “Eagle Eye.”

To make student strength easier to gauge, the Human Alliance had established a comprehensive ranking for all academies, nicknamed the “Sky Tower.”

Anyone who could place on the Sky Tower was considered a genius among geniuses—near godlike in the eyes of ordinary people.

And Zhou Zhanying was ranked among the top ten in sniping ability.

With only a moment’s thought, Ye Lan recalled his record from memory:

[Personal File: Zhou Zhanying, male, legendary mercenary of the “Hidden Magazine” Mercenary Corps, outstanding graduate of the Soul-Slaying Military Academy. Expert in beyond-visual-range sniping, stealth, and assassination. Owner of a weapon named “Piercer of the Galaxy.” The weapon’s specific abilities are unknown. Both weapon and wielder disappeared during his final mission…]

The reason Ye Lan hadn’t recognized him at once was because this Zhou Zhanying looked nothing like the deadly, untouchable man he remembered.

Right now, he was more like an ordinary middle-aged office worker, caught red-handed slacking at work, and nervously scrambling to cover it up.

“Heave-ho!”

Heiderei came out of the helicopter lugging a small table, grunting from the effort.

“My suggestion? You two should pick another helicopter. We haven’t even powered this one up yet—it’s not even connected to the network. If you insist, you’ll be waiting a while.”

Heiderei was thin and frail, clearly unsuited for hauling furniture, which explained his complaining.

And his appearance told the rest: thinning blond hair, pale skin, deep-set green eyes rimmed with red veins—every sign of chronic late nights.

Once seated, Heiderei pulled a laptop from his bag and began typing with practiced ease, the rhythmic clacking of the keys betraying his programmer nature.

“Clack, clack, clack—ka-thunk!”

Suddenly the typing stopped.

The laptop’s printer whirred, and a sheet of paper slid out.

Heiderei glanced at the document, froze, and looked again, his eyes widening.

He raised an eyebrow, waved Zhou Zhanying over, and said: “Hey, Old Zhou! This record has to be wrong, right? These stats can’t be real?”

Zhou Zhanying, puzzled, walked over and picked up the paper.

Scanning it briefly, his expression also turned to utter confusion.