That night, after sending the photo, Chi Yao slept soundly and woke up naturally.

He checked the time—only five thirty in the morning.

That must be Major General’s biological clock at work.

A message had come in three hours earlier.

Thinking of how Jing Xi must have fumed with shame and anger after receiving the picture, Chi Yao cheerfully opened it.

The next second, he shot upright in bed, staring in disbelief.

The message was sent by “himself.” The content was short again, just four photos in a grid.

In the photos, he was wearing a sailor outfit and a miniskirt, grinning foolishly, both hands curled like paws against his cheeks, making a cutesy “cat scratch” gesture.

【Behave, or I’ll post this online.】

“Damn.” Chi Yao swore under his breath.

This was even more shocking than a nude—it burned his eyes.

Zooming in, he confirmed it was software‑generated.

After getting mad, he ended up laughing.

【Keep the outfit. Next time, let’s form a girl‑group.】

By the time he got out of bed, a reply had come.

【Do you even know how to write the word shame?】

Chi Yao sent back:

【Didn’t study much. I only know how to write ‘dissolute.’】

After that, no reply came.

When he walked out of the tent, the rookies were already doing morning drills.

According to the original plan, they would now start a week of real combat training in the mining zone, ending with inter‑squad competitions.

Two instructors jogged up to greet him.

“Sir, do you have any orders?”

Chi Yao glanced up at the sky and casually asked: “Any rivers around here?”

The round‑faced instructor checked the map.
“Ten kilometers north.”

Chi Yao: “Then let’s go.”

After days of chicken, it was time to change the menu.

Elsewhere, on the rescued starliner, a young noble had posted his experience online. He hadn’t expected the hashtag #Extreme ShadowSavedUs to rocket to the social media trending board.

Under the topic, comments exploded, fierce debate raging—

“No way. Even star pirate groups buy PR now?”
“Handsome? Sure. But ‘rescuing people’? Yeah, right.”
“The flight was delayed. Did Extreme Shadow really show up?”
“My uncle works in the military; they did get a distress call from that route.”
“Am I the only one begging for photos of Old Master Chi? How long since he’s shown his face?”
“Extreme Shadow have done robbery, murder, kidnappings—what haven’t they done? Just because he looks good, you people forgive him?”

The noble youth had only posted on a whim, but seeing the uproar he added proof:

【Clearing it all up: 1. Extreme Shadow did show up (see, this is Old Master Chi, insanely hot!). 2. They didn’t harm us, they actually won us back from Skull group (yes, through contests of military stance and blanket folding, you read that right). 3. I stand by every word.】

With more nobles and tycoons chiming in, credibility soared.

By nightfall, the topic was at peak heat—

“Ahhh! Old Master Chi is the alpha of every fantasy! Gimme gimme!”
“Pathetic. He’s a fugitive in the grey zone, and you worship him?”
“So bitter. If he were to reform, the line of omegas wanting him as theirs would circle the Empire three times.”
“If he ever got jailed, the prison’s omega application rate would skyrocket.”

Back at base, as Jing Xi got off the ship, he received a very strange message.

The sender’s ID was blank.

He hesitated for a moment, then opened it.

【Brat, nice job acting human for once. Keep it up! Love you xoxo~】

Jing Xi: “…”

His gaze lingered on the last three words.

From a lover?

Unimpressed, he closed the message.

For someone like Chi Yao, lovers—or illegitimate children—were no surprise.

On X30, Chi Yao, “forced” to act like a repentant rogue, sneezed while chewing grilled fish.

The nearby rookies looked over: “…”

So Major General Jing does sneeze.

For what was supposed to be the highlight week of combat training, Huang Hao and several colleagues spent it watching Jing Xi eat grilled fish.

Huang stared blankly at his little notebook. Pages were filled not with tactical notes but recipes for fish.

“Is Jing Xi trying to ascend to godhood?”

Other officers were going numb.
“Looks like he’s checked out entirely.”
“Once Extreme Shadow left, his fighting spirit vanished.”
“He’s not prideful anyway. Lose, win—he doesn’t care.”

Huang Hao blinked. Sounded reasonable—yet odd. Jing Xi had a bet with Li Bo. Could he really be this laid‑back?

Meanwhile Chi Yao enjoyed a leisurely week of reading and sunbathing.

Then suddenly, the AI monitor descended, enlarging a virtual feed.

Pei Zhenyue appeared, stern in crisp uniform, hands folded before him.

“All instructors, bring your rookies to Military Factory Station 88. Tomorrow begins the comprehensive rookie assessment.”

The final phase gathered every squad for large‑scale evaluations.

Results would directly determine rookies’ postings.

For the five general‑rank officers leading them, rankings meant honor—or humiliation.

On the way to Station 88, anxiety weighed the Cygnus Squadron recruits.

The more carefree they’d been before, the more regret they now felt.

“Should have trained harder.”
“It wasn’t up to us—depended on what Major General arranged.”
“He must have had a reason for it…”
“But I’m still so nervous! Our foundation’s already the weakest. Others trained a whole month—we’ll be crushed!”

Rest cabin chatter grew panicked.

Losing didn’t matter so much—they just didn’t want to disappoint Jing Xi.

Chu Xiao listened quietly, then suddenly stood.

Someone asked: “Where are you going?”

Chu Xiao: “To train! If I can’t even beat other rookies, how can I ever be Brother Li’s rival?”

The others exchanged looks, then followed.

But at the training room door, they found a note:

【Equipment under Maintenance】

Chu Xiao and the group: “…”

Even Heaven seemed against them.

By next morning, they reached Station 88.

Warships filled the vast landing base—dozens of squads already present, Li Bo among them.

He approached Jing Xi politely.
“How was your month?”

Chi Yao, hands in pockets, ignored the offered handshake.
“Delightful.”

Li Bo only retracted his hand, unbothered. Sooner or later, Jing Xi would fall.

“I look forward to the contest.”

Chi Yao gave a lazy smile, brushing past.
“I find it boring. No challenge at all.”

Li Bo’s expression cracked. “The winner’s not decided yet.”

Meanwhile, Chu Xiao gaped at the sight of row after row of crisp, disciplined rookies disembarking under tight formations.

Tugging the round‑face instructor’s sleeve, he whispered:
“Sir, if we do badly, will Major General and you be punished?”

The instructor shook his head.
“No. Just do your best.”

With the weakest squad, no one expected glory anyway. At worst, they’d land last.

Chu Xiao and others sighed in relief—not hurting their commander was good enough.

At noon, Pei Zhenyue, Zhao Hongyi, and other senior officers arrived. The tests officially began.

Chi Yao was half‑asleep, only pulling on his coat and shuffling toward the briefing hall after the AI alerts nagged him.

Running into Pei Zhenyue at the door, he was told:
“You’re tired? At least wear your uniform properly.”

Chi Yao draped the coat over his shoulder, stepping in with a smirk.
“None of your damn business.”

Pei Zhenyue: “…”

Had this kid always been so wild?

For fairness, instructors couldn’t guide their squads during testing. They were gathered in the hall to watch via live feed.

For weaker teams, this was like public execution.

The first test: simulation Q&A. Rookies donned full‑immersion gear, placed in random scenarios, answering tactical system prompts.

Scores updated in real time.

Li Bo’s team shot to the lead. Chi Yao’s sat low, third page from bottom.

Li Bo smirked, glancing at Jing Xi, eager to see defeat on his face—only to realize the man was napping at the desk.

The hall buzzed.

Leaders clicked on squads to observe individual answers, both to gauge talent and scout recruits.

Only Chi Yao looked utterly uninterested.

An hour later, simulation ended.

Li Bo’s team first, with ease. Chi Yao’s group had clawed only to the third page.

Next: marksmanship. Static, dynamic, and simulated combat.

First round, static. Li Bo’s team averaged 9.8 rings per shot.

“Impressive recruits from Canis Major.”
“With him training them, of course.”
“Wonder how Cygnus will do.”
“No comparison. With Jing Xi, maybe, but their rookies are too weak.”

The low murmurs pleased Li Bo. This was exactly what he wanted.

Then— “Whoa! All ten rings!”

“Seriously? That good? From the Cygnus squad?!”

Li Bo’s brows furrowed. He looked to the screen.

A baby‑faced alpha had just landed ten clean shots, high‑fived his teammate, grinning as he walked off.

Impossible.

Cygnus… impossible! Must be a fluke.

But ten minutes later, averages were calculated—Cygnus Squadron scored 9.8 rings, perfectly tied with Li Bo’s team.

“Strong!”
“Huge improvement! Last year they averaged 9.2.”
“Several perfect‑ten shooters. Impressive.”

A high team average meant every individual performed stably, no margin for mistakes.

As Cygnus climbed to second place, Li Bo’s smile vanished.

Static shooting ended with Cygnus and Canis Major tied for first.

Jolted awake by his vibrating terminal, Chi Yao sat up, glanced lazily at the screen.

Only the second event, dragging on slowly.

He felt a burning stare—meeting Li Bo’s across the room.

Snide, Li Bo said:
“Major General Jing truly amazing. To bring even this squad to such results.”

Chi Yao blinked.
“This result is good? Your standards are too low.”

The others frowned at the “boast.”

One officer said: “For a weaker batch like Cygnus, matching Canis Major is remarkable.”

“Tied counts as good?” Chi Yao reclined, drawling with a lazy smile. “We’re only just getting started.”

Just started?

They didn’t get it—

Until the second event, dynamic shooting began.

And then they understood—

---

Author’s note:

Chi Yao: “Xixi, if I lead the rookies to first place, how will you reward me?”
Jing Xi: “I’ll send you extra selfies of yourself.”
Chi Yao: “…”