The moment Yaoting saw his brother stomped flat by the platoon leader’s boot, he leapt down from the cot in a fury. "What kind of bullshit officer are you? Can’t tell ass from elbow before kicking men around?"

　　Platoon Leader Zhong Fang—his face porcelain-fair, almost scholarly—whirled around at the insult. Knuckles cracked toward Yaoting’s jaw. San-Shao, still clambering up from the floor, saw Zhong’s fist flying at his Young Master. Like a sprung wolf-trap, he lunged and locked arms around Zhong’s waist, bulldozing him backward.

　　Zhong choked on his own shock—this runt actually lifted him clear off the ground! His boots scrabbled like upturned beetles in midair. Yaoting barked a hard laugh: "Ha! Some platoon leader! Free yourself if you've got the grit—huh?!"

　　Furious, Zhong Fang rammed his elbow sideways into San-Shao's skull. "Aiii!" San-Shao screamed, hands springing open as he crashed down. He curled into a ball, howling into the floorboards.

　　Yaoting roared, charging blindly: "Spawn of a whore! That’s how officers break men?" Zhong Fang spun to kick his chest—but San-Shao bulled up again, locking arms around his waist. This time, San-Shao didn’t hold back. Heaving with feral strength, he hoisted Zhong bodily upward—then pile-drove him earthward.

　　THUD-CRACK!

　　Zhong Fang hit the planks like a felled ox.

　　Even while howling on the planks, San-Shao never took his eyes off Zhong Fang. When the officer’s boot swung toward Yaoting, raw fury blasted him upright. He hooked arms around Zhong’s waist—and spiked him to the ground with vengeance-fueled might.

　　Yaoting chuckled, dusting his sleeves. "Still in one piece?"

　　"Right as rain." San-Shao grinned through wincing, hands rubbing his backside. "Just needs rubbing."

　　Before their words faded, three squad leaders lunged like rabid dogs. "Fuck your ancestors! Beat an officer—you death-wish shitworm!" Both Dongs froze. Yaoting saw Zhong Fang rise, eyes shooting blades of rage, and understood: their insubordination had unleashed this.

　　Zhong Fang bored his glare into Yaoting while the squad leaders pummeled San-Shao into the dirt. San-Shao’s howls tore the air. Yaoting stayed rooted—Zhong’s eyes nailed him in place.

　　San-Shao couldn’t match six fists. Bruises bloomed across his face. Enraged, he hoisted a stone mounting block, hurling it at a squad leader. The man dodged. Tears mixing with blood, San-Shao heaved the block again: "Screw your forefathers! Three on one—you jackal-hearted cowards! Face me alone!"

　　As chaos raged, a voice split the air like artillery: "WHO IN HELL'S NAME GAVE THE BRAWL ORDER? CEASE!" Simultaneously, a squad leader yelped "Ow! My ass!", crumpling to clutch his buttocks.

　　Battalion Commander Zhou Zhidao stood framed in the doorway. Yaoting saw Zhong Fang snap rigid under that gaze. The other two squad leaders bolted to parade rest.

　　Still manhandling the mounting block, San-Shao roared: "Dog-piss hellhole! Beat a man before he unpacks his kit?"

　　Zhou Zhidao’s eyes locked on him. "Dong San-Shao! State your purpose!"

　　"Your lieutenant here kicks first, asks never!" San-Shao’s shout cracked hoarse. "Pure... pure goddamn tyranny!"

　　Zhou’s pupils flared. That 110-pound stone sat in San-Shao’s arms like a sack of rice chaff. His gaze swung to Zhong Fang. The lieutenant, unwilling to justify himself before recruits, jaw set, swept out without a word.

　　Zhou turned back. "Does that block weigh heavy, Dong San-Shao?"

　　San-Shao swelled, mistaking it for praise. "Featherlight! Our village millstone dwarfs this!"

　　A barked laugh escaped Zhou. "Splendid. Keep embracing it. Prove your steel by holding it till your arms fail. You carry that grit?"

　　San-Shao’s pride ignited. "Then watch close!" He locked arms around the stone block, rooted like a statue. Yaoting wheeled to Zhou Zhidao: "Sir! Spare him this once! We’re green to camp rules—ignorance pardons the sin, eh?"

　　San-Shao stiffened—a trap? His grip loosened—

　　"What’s this?" Zhou’s laugh cracked whip-sharp. "Guts evaporate already? Not one minute in—you white-livered?"

　　San-Shao’s arms clamped the block with renewed fury. "Leave it, Young Master! I’m standing my ground with the commander!"

　　Yaoting choked down frustration. Part of him marveled at Zhou’s cunning punishment—unprecedented, diabolical. Yet rage surged too—this mulish fool! Proving what? Only his own suffering!

　　Zhou’s eyes flicked to Yaoting. "He calls you brother? You’re chalk and cheese."

　　Yaoting scanned the ring of soldiers. "How so, sir?"

　　"San-Shao’s spirit scrapes the clouds..." Zhou’s smile thinned. "...while you’d faint at a mouse squeak."

　　Yaoting flushed, tongue-tied.

　　Zhou turned back: "Still standing ground, Dong San-Shao?"

　　Pins and needles shot through San-Shao’s arms. "Set the clock, sir! I’ll outlast it!"

　　"Witnesses!" Zhou bellowed to the barracks. "He drops it—he breaks!" He strode out.

　　Yaoting closed in, voice raw: "You mulish oaf! Why swallow the bait?"

　　San-Shao bared teeth in a grin. "Not bait, Young Master. We claw back face." His shoulders burned, but the words rang clear: "Our village millstone’s heavier. This? Kindling."

　　Yaoting nodded slowly. "For face? Then I stand with you. When your arms fail... I take my turn."

　　San-Shao didn’t catch the tension. "Young Master, best catch some rest if you’re free," he managed a thin smile. "Drills this afternoon’ll suck the soul from your boots."

　　Yaoting’s sigh deepened. "How’s the grip? Legs locking up?"

　　Sweat beaded on San-Shao’s temples. "A-Arms gone numb, sir… knees startin’ to knock… might buckle soon."

　　"To hell with pride—drop the damn stone!"

　　San-Shao’s head shook stubbornly. "Won’t let that officer laugh at us. Still holdin’."

　　As Yaoting sighed, boots thudded past toward drill grounds. Alone now, Yaoting’s eyelids grew heavy. He slumped onto a bunk—out cold.

　　When Lieutenant Zhong shook him awake, the barracks hummed with napping soldiers. And there stood San-Shao—still clutching the stone.

　　"Rise and shine!" Zhong’s voice cut like broken glass. "Or skip lunch too?"

　　Yaoting scrambled upright. "Lieutenant! My bad—slept like the dead."

　　Zhong’s lip curled. "What a pair. Stone-mule here stood guard while Sleeping Beauty snored through mess call."

　　Heat climbed Yaoting’s neck. His eyes flew to San-Shao. Salt streaks painted the man’s dust-caked face. "San Shao! Drop it—chow time!"

　　"Only when Commander sees." The words slurred thick as mud.

　　Zhong spun toward HQ—but Zhou Zhidao’s shadow already filled the door. Seeing the stone still hoisted, something sharp and bright flickered in the commander’s eyes.

　　He stepped close, voice a low rumble:

　　"You outlasted the stone, boy. You are win"

　　San-Shao’s voice rasped raw. "Commander... truly won?"

　　Zhou Zhidao dipped his chin. Beckoning Yaoting closer, his command fell low: "Help him unload it. Watch his feet."

　　Yaoting threw a grateful glance, surging forward. Hands braced the stone—

　　"Can't hold it, Young Master!" San-Shao warned. "Wreck your back!"

　　"Release. Now."

　　San-Shao’s grip stayed iron.

　　Zhou Zhidao shouldered in. Arms locking under the stone, he waited as San-Shao peeled back finger by finger. Blood surged crimson across the commander’s face as deadweight settled into his arms.

　　Stone grounded at last, Zhou sucked air. "Chow. Then afternoon drills."

　　The moment the weight passed, San-Shao folded like cut string, collapsing to the planks—sapped beyond speech or motion.