Order of Transfer

If there was one thing Jos’s previous life had bestowed upon him—besides formidable resilience and martial talent—it was an unparalleled mastery of the art of mockery. His native tongue, one of the world’s most intricate languages, had reached heights of perfection when it came to the craft of insult. Compared to the language of the Neon Isles, which lacked any true words for cursing, or to the Eagle tongue, which despite its sophisticated vocabulary could only resort to a few hackneyed expletives when pressed, Jos was certain there were very few linguistic traditions in the world capable of delivering thirty minutes of uninterrupted invective without repetition. He couldn’t say he was proud of this skill; under normal circumstances, it didn’t serve much purpose. Yet, given his current predicament—and that maddening system—he had to admit it was an innate gift.

With just a single remark, Grant was instantly provoked. His body surged as he leapt from the platform, hands loosely clenched, lunging straight for Jos. Grant’s movements weren’t graceful, but those present were horrified to discover that the dazzling techniques taught by their gym and dojo coaches were utterly useless against Grant’s simple charge. His hands could form fists or palms, capable of striking from afar or grappling up close. His footwork balanced offense and defense alike. This gulf was only truly understood by those who had faced mortal combat.

“He’s done for! That kid’s finished!” Some in the crowd felt a chill of foreboding.

“Thank goodness I didn’t jump up earlier. Otherwise, I’d be half-dead from this psycho instructor…” Others realized the meaning behind Grant’s earlier actions, quietly relieved to have escaped unscathed.

No one believed the young man could withstand such an attack. Some even feared Grant’s personal vendetta would leave him with lasting trauma.

“Tsk, see, this is what happens when you people don’t listen,” Jos said, slapping Grant to the ground. “Next time, wear a damned hat.”

With the combined strength granted by the Flashfruit and the Symbiote, Jos’s combat prowess—even without going all out—was at least double that of any ordinary Eagle. A casual slap from him was more than Grant could endure. Had Jos not deliberately held back to avoid drawing too much attention, that single blow would have embedded Grant in the earth, impossible to extricate.

“I’ll kill you! You attacked a superior! I’ll have you in court! You won’t get away with this!” Grant lay on the ground, unable to rise, but still bellowing furiously.

Ignoring the terrified gazes of the recruits, Jos hooked Grant’s body with his foot, flipping him over, then crouched beside him. “Instructor, you clearly tripped on your own. How can you blame me?”

“Let—”

Grant exploded into curses, bracing himself to fight back. But Jos’s palm pressed lightly against his chest, halting him in place. Grant felt an overwhelming force pinning him down, his ribs cracking under the pressure, the air in his lungs forcibly expelled. As the slow suffocation set in, all his rage was trapped in his throat, unable to form words. After a long silence, something seemed to dawn on him, and he nodded furiously, like a chick pecking at seed.

“Yes, yes! I fell all by myself! It’s got nothing to do with you!”

[Received 146 points of Source of Self-Destruction.]

Hearing the system’s notification, Jos nodded inwardly and released his grip.

Clearly, Grant was plotting how to regain his dignity, which netted Jos some points. But the amount was mere drops in the ocean to him—desirable, but not essential. His ambitions reached far beyond this, and with Grant’s face practically begging to be trounced, Jos seized the opportunity.

Though the strength he displayed remained within human limits, it was already beyond the reach of ordinary soldiers. As long as the higher-ups here had any sense, deciding how to handle Jos would be their most pressing concern.

…

About two hundred meters beneath this base, in a place few knew existed—a true “base”—a spacious conference room stood.

“So… this is the kid? Let me see… Jos Big Dick, from a small town on the border of Tennessee. Physical condition estimated at peak human level. Extremely skilled in combat… Wait, what’s with that name?” A middle-aged man, inexplicably wearing sunglasses indoors, frowned as he reviewed the file.

“Hehe… He’s excellent material. If we hand him over to the Doctor, maybe research will make some progress,” said the gaunt man to his left, clearly a scientist. His eyes were fixed on Jos’s dossier, and he laughed like a bespectacled eccentric.

Across the room, a bald man rubbed his head and offered a different perspective: “Giving him to the Doctor is an option, but with such rare combat ability, we should let him contribute first. I recall there’s a troublesome battlefield in Egypt?”

“That’s right, it’s a real headache. Why not send him there first? If he sorts it out, we’ll award him a commendation, then let him get involved with our project,” suggested a corpulent man, gesturing with a greasy hand while munching on chips.

“Agreed.”

“Agreed.”

“Agreed.”

The other three pondered a moment, then nodded in succession. The man in sunglasses pressed a stamp down onto Jos’s photo.

“Why stamp it?” the bald man asked, puzzled.

“It’s just more atmospheric,” the sunglasses man replied, coolly.

…

“Jos, this is for you,” Grant said, plastering a smile onto his face as he handed Jos a paper. His jaw was clenched so tightly his words squeezed out through gritted teeth.

How could he be happy? After reporting Jos’s incident yesterday, he received orders today assigning Jos to an assault squad headed for a battlefield in Egypt.

In other words, Jos was doomed!

Though it was disappointing not to exact revenge personally, the thought of Jos’s imminent demise filled Grant with satisfaction.

“Oh,” Jos replied, his eyes dead and lifeless, taking the paper. Then he slapped Grant against the wall. “That’s for not wearing a hat.”