"It's over, you have nothing to do with elites anymore. Since when is an elite born from their mother forcing them?" Mouse joined in the fun, mocking Livestock. Michael Bolton, not very eloquent, felt something was off with that comment, but before he could think of a retort, the even trickier Eric Foster spoke up. He smiled and asked, "Livestock, are you about to embarrass yourself?"

"What embarrassment? I'm just telling the truth, how is that embarrassing?" Michael Bolton protested.

"When the recruiter sees you and asks, 'Why did you become a police officer?' and your answer is: 'Because your mom forced you.'" Eric Foster said with a straight face. That was it—everyone burst out laughing. Mouse laughed the hardest, his cheeks quivering, and accidentally bumped heads with Ethan. The two started playfully punching each other, making the onlookers laugh even harder. Michael Bolton turned red with embarrassment, jumped up, and while grabbing at Eric Foster, shouted fiercely, "Eric Foster, I'm gonna strangle you!"

Eric Foster grinned, leaned back, and with a cross-arm police move, blocked Michael Bolton's big hand. Then, slipping out of his seat like an eel, he darted down the classroom aisle and ran outside. Michael Bolton, furious, chased after him. The rest of the class went about their business, not paying any attention to this all-too-common scuffle. Some even egged them on, clapping and stomping as they shouted:

"Hey, Livestock, get him!"

After circling the podium once, Michael Bolton tried several times to grab the slippery Eric Foster, but either Eric Foster dodged or deflected him with a light touch. The two were sparring partners in combat training, and the tall, strong Michael Bolton usually lost to Eric Foster, never quite accepting it. As the chase heated up, Eric Foster twisted Michael Bolton's wrist away again, then, taking the opportunity, pinched his face, grinned mischievously, and dashed out the classroom door—only to crash into someone with a bang.

"Ouch..." a girl cried out, startled like a frightened deer, arms curling up to protect her chest.

"Ouch..." Eric Foster echoed deliberately, ready to act like the victim first. But when he saw it was Emily Brooks he'd bumped into, her flustered, defensive reaction made his heart flutter. He, too, curled his arms up like a startled deer and asked, "Does it hurt?"

Actually, Eric Foster didn't hurt at all. Rubbing his elbow, he recalled the soft, springy sensation from the collision, which left him a little dazed.

Wow, so shameless—even Michael Bolton, known as Livestock, blushed. The students in the front row saw it and burst out laughing. Emily Brooks was furious, her pretty face turning cold as she scolded, "Eric Foster, did you do that on purpose? Believe it or not, I'll get someone to take you out."

"I believe you." Eric Foster nodded solemnly, momentarily stunned by her almond-shaped eyes flashing with anger and her frosty, beautiful face. He said decisively, "Why get someone else? Wouldn't it be better if you did it yourself? Then I'd die at the hands of the police academy's belle."

"Hmph, just you wait." Emily Brooks knew that the more you scolded this shameless guy, the more excited he got. She snorted and tossed her head as she walked back into the classroom. The two girls with her—her close friends, trained by the beauty herself—glared at Eric Foster. Grace Howard shot him a look and scolded, "Eric Foster, your skin is so thick! You could use it as a target, bullets wouldn't get through."

"Thick? He doesn't even have any shame," added Sarah Morgan.

"Hey, wait." Eric Foster reached out to stop the two girls. They weren't from the same class, but police academy girls had a natural advantage. As he blocked them, the two girls glared back defiantly, "What, you want to spar?"

"No, no, I just want to know how you know skin can be used as a target," Eric Foster suddenly asked. The two girls were stunned, and Eric Foster grinned, "No wonder your faces look like they've been shot—tragic."

Before the girls could react, he took off running. The two girls stomped their feet and cursed after him, their composure gone, faces flushed with anger. With nowhere to vent, they turned on the innocent Michael Bolton, scolding him:

"There's not a single decent guy in your criminal investigation class."

You never know how these arguments between classmates start, but every time it happens, it's enough to make everyone laugh for a good while. Michael Bolton's skin wasn't as thick as Eric Foster's, so he was too embarrassed to go back to the classroom and decided to go downstairs to chase after Eric Foster. But just as he reached the stairwell, Eric Foster came running up, pulling Michael Bolton along as he said, "Hurry, the instructor's coming. Damn, it's so annoying—they keep delaying the holiday, and now they're recruiting elites."

"What's wrong with recruiting elites? It's a good thing," Michael Bolton disagreed.

"Good, my ass. Girls from Shanda, guys from Gongda, and police academy hooligans running wild in the streets. You think a place like this can produce elites? What a joke," Eric Foster said.

"Just because you have no shame doesn't mean everyone else in the world is despicable, right? You even bully the girls," Michael Bolton said, giving up on fighting and seeming to want to reason with Eric Foster. But Eric Foster turned around, his expression suddenly serious, and lowered his voice, "Livestock, I say what I have to say out in the open, unlike some people who dream about Emily Brooks. What, I accidentally bumped into her and now you're heartbroken?"

"Who... who's heartbroken?" Michael Bolton tried to cover it up, but it was obvious. Eric Foster grinned, curled his arms and rubbed his chest, whispering, "Oh, not heartbroken, huh... Then do you want to know what it felt like when I bumped into that spot? Ouch, it was so soft, really springy."