Instructor Thompson led me and the others back along a barely discernible path, passing through a gorge and over two not-so-high peaks. After about half an hour, a row of sparse houses appeared before my eyes. The low houses were all built from huge stones, three in front and eight behind, with a few more standing far away from the main buildings, over a hundred meters to the rear. On the left side of the whole cluster, two spaceships were parked, about the same size as the "Killer Bee." The entire base was surrounded by tall barbed wire. On the open square in front of the houses, under the afterglow of the Fide star, a group of fighters were running laps, sweat streaming down their necks, each bead of sweat sparkling as it reflected the starlight—I could see it even from afar. Was this the famous "Mallorca Planet Training Camp"? I looked at Instructor Thompson in confusion. Instructor Thompson noticed my doubt and gave a mocking smile, his eyes flashing with a cold light: "What did you think a black market fighter training camp would look like? Gilded and magnificent? Grand and imposing? This is already pretty good—the facilities here are considered complete among training camps across the universe. A fighter's life is the least valuable!"

I fell silent, lowered my head, and followed Instructor Thompson into the training camp. Instructor Thompson talked as he walked, arranging my future training: "You just arrived today, so rest for one night. Tomorrow morning, you'll train with everyone else. Get up at five a.m. for a 100-kilometer cross-country run. If you can't keep up, you won't get breakfast and will be punished with fifty lashes! Then, 500 squats with a 200-kilogram load, to be completed within two hours. Breakfast is at eight. After breakfast, rest for ten minutes. At eight-thirty, gather for the instructor's lesson on combat techniques, then split into groups for practice. Lunch is at twelve. After lunch, rest for half an hour. Training resumes at one. Veteran trainees will do field combat, new trainees will continue with physical and combat training. Your instructor will tell you the details." He turned to look at me: "I know new fighters often can't adapt, but..." Somehow, a whip had appeared in his hand. With a sharp crack, he snapped it through the air: "I'll make sure you get used to it—don't be late tomorrow morning!"

We walked past the first three houses. The fighters ran by us as if they hadn't seen us. I saw their developed muscles rhythmically flexing with each step, hiding terrifying explosive power. My head turned slowly, following their pace. Suddenly, a loud whip crack exploded by my ear, startling me. I quickly turned my head. Instructor Thompson glared at me and roared, "Idiot! I'm talking to you, where did your attention go? If today were a training day, you'd be dead! Focus! Do you understand? In the ring, even a moment's distraction will cost you your life. Are you looking to die?" I stood there stunned for a moment, then suddenly snapped to attention and shouted, "Sorry, Instructor!" Instructor Thompson looked at me, his anger seeming to subside a little. He snorted and continued walking: "Those three houses are for the instructors. The eight behind are yours—six people to a room. With you, they're now full. Come with me, I'll take you to your room."

I lived in the room on the far right. There were already five people inside. This was originally the residence for the best fighters. The previous occupant had just graduated and moved out to become a fighter, leaving the empty bed for me. Instructor Thompson took me into the room and pointed to the innermost empty bunk: "That spot is yours. The toilet is at the far left end of this row of houses." I went over, put down my things. Instructor Thompson said, "Take this chance to rest well. You won't have such leisure again!"

After Instructor Thompson left, I carefully examined the room: six meters long, four meters wide, just enough for three bunk beds and a freshwater synthesizer. I put away my things, made my bed, and lay down. The others were all out training on the field, so I was alone in the room. I looked around; the dorm was empty. The toilet was still the most primitive kind—an earthen latrine, with one urinal and three squat toilets. In this modern age, such toilets still existed—I had only seen them in historical films before coming here. I went back to the dorm, lay on my bed, stared at the ceiling, thinking about the hellish training ahead, about how I would enjoy life after making a fortune. Drowsily, I fell asleep. In my dream, I defeated my opponents and became the new king of the ring. I bought Uncle Brandon a villa on the most famous Bluewater Beach of Moonfall Star, where Uncle Brandon enjoyed his retirement. I had my own pirate ship, a hundred times more powerful than the "Killer Bee," its main cannon easily destroying the universe's top security company's best escort ship, the "Dragon Scale"...

I was in the middle of a sweet dream when a commotion woke me—my roommates had returned. They came in one by one. I reached out my hand: "Hi, I'm new here. My name is Hunter Reed." Each of them walked past me with their heads down, as if they hadn't heard me, leaving me awkwardly standing there. The last one, a black man, passed by me and, without looking up, said in a deep voice, "We don't need to know your name, because one day we'll meet in the ring, and then we'll kill you without mercy!" I was stunned!