When he got angry, Paul Carter put on his usual cheeky grin, picked up some food for the teacher, and tried to comfort him: “Oh, Mr. Bennett, why are you still the same as when you were the discipline director? Back then, I just stole a few ears of corn, and you made me write several self-criticism letters. Some things just can’t be pursued to the bitter end.”

“Don’t give me that cheeky grin. I’ll just ask you one thing: is it a special assignment?” Principal Bennett said with a dark face, no longer polite. This question made Director Sullivan’s face fall, clearly startled. Looking at Paul Carter and Chief Grant, both of their expressions turned solemn, as if they had guessed something.

“Special” had a shared meaning in this group. Wearing a police uniform and carrying a gun was just following the rules—not special. Mentioning the word “special” meant dealing with heinous crimes like drug trafficking, murder, or cross-border criminals, or even the most dangerous job of all, according to legend: undercover work.

Criminals would stop at nothing, and police investigation and enforcement methods were constantly evolving. There were some police divisions that would never see the light of day, but the principal still knew about them. He put down his chopsticks, overcome by a sudden sadness, and sighed deeply. Paul Carter and Chief Grant exchanged a glance, knowing it wouldn’t be easy to hide things from this teacher of police officers. But because of the mission, they couldn’t say more. The dinner table instantly fell into an awkward silence, where much wanted to be said but couldn’t be.

“If it’s a mission, then I won’t ask.”

After a long while, Principal Bennett sighed and said, “Don’t laugh at me, I’m getting old, and my worldview is aging too—I can’t keep up with the times. No one looks into the history of this place anymore. In thirty years, we’ve sent off twenty-nine graduating classes, a total of 4,427 students. There’s no exact count of those injured, but those who died in the line of duty number 212. Including your class, and David Clark, who stole corn with you from the villagers—he died in the ’95 bombing case, taking the suspect with him… Now everyone says being a principal or in administration at the police academy is a cushy job, and every year, thousands and thousands of people want to send their kids here. Sometimes I feel lost, sometimes I even think that living a mediocre, unremarkable life is better than sending them off to glorious deaths…”

His gentle words highlighted the desolate mood of this aging principal. Paul Carter softly asked, “Teacher, just like you said when we graduated, someone in society has to take responsibility. If the first person to stand up against crime isn’t a police officer, then that’s a disgrace to the police. My classmates who died in the line of duty, your students—you should feel proud, not sad… Come, let’s drink to them.”

As he stood up, Paul Carter spilled half his drink, but finished the rest in one gulp. Principal Bennett also downed a large glass. When they sat down again, the topic of the current selection was dropped.

The mood at the first meal was so heavy that even Director Sullivan, who had been scheming to pull some strings, wisely kept his mouth shut. For this kind of police work, there was no need for backdoor connections—once people knew the truth, most wouldn’t dare go even if given the chance.

So, the real situation remained a mystery. That afternoon, Mr. Carter, who was resting at the police academy guesthouse, returned to his room and carefully reviewed the application forms. He assigned Chief Grant a task: pay special attention to those who hadn’t signed up, and conduct one-on-one interviews to find out why. Of course, first check their family backgrounds—if they’re the children of officials, the wealthy, or insiders, there’s no need to ask. Those young masters are only interested in collecting a paycheck, not taking on real assignments, so don’t expect them to do any real work.

As he looked through the forms, Paul Carter muttered about the decline of morals and the changing times. There were plenty of application forms, but most were filled with empty talk and clichés. He read them aloud with a smile: some wrote that they wanted to catch bad guys and maintain world peace—idealistic; others wrote about maintaining a harmonious society and protecting people’s lives and property—nonsense; still others wrote that they wanted a stable career, and of course, being a police officer was the best choice—realistic.

For this question with no right answer, Paul Carter didn’t find any response that convinced him. After so many years as a police officer, he knew that having passion, ideals, or knowledge alone wasn’t enough to make a good cop. What exactly was needed—he didn’t know either. As he was flipping through, he came across a page and suddenly burst out laughing, laughing so hard he fell back onto the bed.

When Chief Grant came over curiously, Paul Carter handed him a form. Chief Grant took one look and started laughing too. On it, a few lines read: his dream was to become a successful businessman, preferably as rich as Bill Gates. As for becoming a police officer, he had no choice. The reason—

My mom made me!

Chapter 05: Disputes Are Inevitable

“You really wrote that? Quit bragging,” Ethan said in disbelief, staring at Michael Bolton.

Michael Bolton, nicknamed “the Ox,” was a typical burly man from northern Yan—thick neck, broad shoulders, sturdy waist, every part of him looked strong. He often stripped off his shirt to show off his muscles, which is how he got the nickname. But he was an honest ox, and said decisively, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I wrote. If my mom hadn’t forced me to apply to the police academy, I wouldn’t have come. If I hadn’t come here, I’d almost have become a coal boss.”