# 90
**Chapter 90: Steamed Buns and Raw Meat**
"Are they messing with me?"
Baili Pangpang ran toward the training ground with a tear-streaked face, somehow finding strength from nowhere. Just moments ago, he’d been a puddle of goo in bed; now, he was sprinting like the wind!
With the night gone, Lin Qiye had to rely on his own speed. Fortunately, he wasn’t slow—he reached the training ground in under three minutes again.
This time, far more people arrived on time.
A few who’d just finished their 20 laps either lagged behind or collapsed the moment they stepped onto the field, eyes rolling back.
The instant someone fainted, medics charged over with stretchers, hoisting them like sandbags and whisking them away with practiced, almost cheerful efficiency.
Instructor Hong glanced at his stopwatch and nodded approvingly.
"Good. Most of you made it on time—improvement."
Then he added, "You’ve got twenty minutes to eat. Anyone not back here in twenty knows what happens."
He left with the other two instructors without a backward glance.
The recruits looked at each other, then bolted for the canteen like stampeding bulls.
Even half-dead Baili Pangpang revived, eyes shining as he shot to the front, looking ready to swallow the canteen whole.
They burst in like starving tigers—then froze.
The hall was lined with square tables. On each: two big basins. One brimmed with plain white steamed buns; the other held meat.
Raw meat, still streaked with blood.
The recruits shuffled in, bewildered, glancing around.
"Where’s the rice? The dishes?"
"No idea."
"What’s this? Raw beef? How do we eat it?"
"Maybe they’ll bring hotpots…"
"Doesn’t look like it."
"…"
Lin Qiye and Baili Pangpang stood at one table. Baili lifted both basins, peering underneath as if rice might be hiding.
"Qiye, what’s this about?"
"Simple. We eat."
"How? No water, no flavor—give me a spoon of Lao Gan Ma at least!"
Lin Qiye pointed to the next table.
There, former-special-forces Zheng Zhong expressionlessly tore into the raw meat with his teeth, wiping blood with a bun and stuffing it in.
"…" Baili gaped, speechless.
"Anyone there? Get out here!" Shen Qingzhu slammed his bun back into the basin and barked.
An old man with a ladle stalked out of the kitchen, scowling. "Who’s yelling?"
"You call this food? Insulting us?" Shen Qingzhu narrowed his eyes.
"Eat or get lost!" the old man snapped.
"Oh?" Shen Qingzhu raised an eyebrow—then more people entered.
Seven figures in gray cloaks, masks in hand, strode through the hall and sat at the inner round table.
Silence fell.
They weren’t wearing masks, but everyone knew who they were.
"Well, if it isn’t you little brats," the old man chuckled.
"Grandpa Sun, still cooking for rookies?" Wang Mian stood politely.
The rest of Mask Squad rose and bowed.
"Old bones, can’t fight—only cook," Sun waved it off.
"Missed your cooking. Sorry to trouble you."
"Sit tight. I’ll whip up something." Sun turned back to the kitchen, ignoring the recruits entirely.
With Mask Squad present, no one dared stop him. They stared at the buns and raw meat, unmoving.
"Eat." Lin Qiye took a bun and bit. It was hard, tasteless—like chewing wax.
"I… can’t," Baili gagged at the meat.
"Skip it and you won’t last today. On the battlefield, there’s no guarantee of hot meals. Learn or starve." Lin Qiye grabbed a slab of raw meat, closed his eyes, and tore off a chunk.
Baili gritted his teeth and bit into a bun.
Molly, after long hesitation, hugged a piece of meat and gnawed. Across from her, Cao Yuan had already finished an entire slab without blinking, stunning onlookers.
Shen Qingzhu scowled, snorted, and started eating.
More recruits followed, but many still refused, choosing hunger over the food.
Upstairs, Instructor Hong watched and nodded.
"Better than last year. A few good seeds."
"Zheng Zhong—special-forces, no surprise. Lin Qiye—solid. Didn’t expect Shen Qingzhu…"
"Just a barrack-room lawyer."
"Don’t judge by cover. Prickly, but not rotten. A year here changes everything."
Hong shrugged.
"Is this strictness still necessary?" a new instructor asked. "Raw meat, in this day and age?"
Hong closed his eyes, remembering. "Eighty years ago, Night Watch was born in famine.前辈们 gnawed bark, ate roots, fought horrors with blades in hand. Even now, some things can’t be forgotten. Every rookie’s first meal is raw meat. We don’t make them eat bark—count yourselves lucky. It’s tradition. Past, present, future… until the day this country no longer needs Night Watch, and these rites sink into history with all the secrets we carry."