Two months later, upon returning from the mission world, Zhao Weiguo couldn't resist lecturing Li Ziming the moment he saw him: ‘My dear apprentice, why did you let them slip away so easily? A horse doesn't grow fat without night feed, nor does a man grow rich without a windfall. Wasn't the next mission already planned? Did you just let that sure thing slip through your fingers?’

  Li Ziming knew he was in the wrong and bowed his head to endure the scolding. It turned out Zhao Weiguo had already made his calculations: having spent nearly all his liquid assets in pursuit of promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, he had intended to launch a full-scale battalion assault during the next mission, bringing Renyu and Li Ziming along to rake in a tidy windfall.

  In Evolution Battlefield, officers employed all manner of methods to earn extra income. A battalion-level engagement needn't be a fight to the death; more often, it involved overwhelming force laid to the city gates, compelling the enemy to surrender purple gold for their lives. Another common tactic was to intervene in the mission world when friendly forces faced imminent defeat, offering rescue while demanding ‘protection money’—the infamous ‘plunder tactic’.

  Zhao Weiguo had precisely this scheme in mind. He planned to bring along Renyu, the missile specialist, to bombard enemy bases with missiles during the latter stages of missions, thereby extorting a hefty sum. Although Zhao Weiguo had recorded some missile data, a crucial concept exists in the realm of technology: independent research and development. Merely obtaining finished product data only allows for production based on templates, whereas true independent R&D means possessing a complete computational process and set of functional relationships behind each piece of data.

  The fundamental distinction between independent development and imported technology lies in this: the former establishes a comprehensive data function system and technological framework. When adjusting a core parameter, established functional relationships enable automatic, coordinated system adjustments. The latter, however, exposes structural flaws across the entire technological system whenever any parameter is altered.

  Consider China's fighter jet development journey: early J-11 variants were exact replicas of the Su-27 design. For years, the Shenyang Aircraft Corporation dared not modify any detail. The entire aerodynamic layout, engine power delivery system, and electronic control system formed a finely coupled whole—where even minor alterations risked triggering a chain reaction of technical catastrophe. It took China's aviation industry nearly fifteen years of reverse engineering and iterative testing to fully master every technical detail of this fighter. Only in the latter part of the first decade of the 21st century did incremental improvements to the J-11 gradually materialise, ultimately yielding new variants – a systematic engineering feat achieved under the relatively favourable conditions of having complete prototypes available for repeated dissection and study.

  By contrast, certain nations jokingly dubbed ‘permanent members of the cyber-board’ face far more severe technological predicaments. Take India's Tejas fighter programme: lacking experience in indigenous fighter development, with a weak industrial base and insufficient reserves of critical technologies (such as fly-by-wire systems, composite structures, advanced radar and avionics), it has been forced into prolonged reliance on international cooperation. The entire development process has陷入 a vicious cycle: issues exposed during test flights require Western technical support to resolve, while Western defence contractors exploit this dependency to demand exorbitant prices. This predicament of dependence has resulted in the light fighter remaining unfinished after over three decades of development, with project costs spiralling like a bottomless pit.

  Japan's aviation industry, meanwhile, faced a different yet equally typical predicament: whilst able to obtain technical specifications for core components like engines from the United States, it consistently failed to overcome the technical barriers of system integration. When the Americans refused to provide critical interface data, Japanese engineers found themselves confronting fragments without a puzzle guide – possessing high-quality parts yet unable to integrate them organically into a fully functional, efficient system. This model of technology transfer, where one knows the what but not the why, inevitably confines efforts to tinkering within established frameworks, forever precluding genuine technological innovation.

  During the mission, Zhao Weiguo had only managed to record the critical data of the ballistic missile. The underlying functional relationships and computational processes behind those figures were fully grasped only by Renyu, who had participated throughout, including the key parameters of that abandoned second-stage medium-range missile.

  Wang Leming, observing Zhao Weiguo's sullen demeanour, couldn't resist a sarcastic remark: ‘Come now, Old Zhao, that reserve lieutenant isn't gone for good. Is there really such cause for such despondency?’

  Zhao Weiguo retorted curtly: ‘You'll have cause for regret later!’

  Meanwhile, Renyu found himself in another vast sector. The Evolution Battlefield was partitioned into countless hexagonal zones, each one million kilometres on a side. Towering light barriers encircled these sectors, sealing them into isolated worlds like the bottoms of wells. But how many such zones comprised the entire Evolution Battlefield? Renyu had no way of knowing, only that the territory held by the Son of Heaven Covenant was immense. His original novice zone belonged solely to the Xinhua News Agency's sphere of influence, while the Azure Dragon Society possessed its own independent areas for junior officers and senior officers.

  At this moment, Renyu was wholly absorbed in two tasks: recalling and organising the knowledge system from his previous world, and creating people. More precisely, he was using Purple Gold to redeem all his conscription quotas. With hundreds of tonnes of purple gold at his disposal, Renyu was spending lavishly this time. He resolved to convert all 2,700 slots into the highest-grade conscripts.

  Upon seeing the price for top-tier conscripts, Renyu's mouth twitched involuntarily: each required tens of thousands of grams of purple gold (equivalent to ten kilograms). By comparison, the lowest-tier recruits required merely one gram of purple gold; those of substandard intelligence (85-95) cost ten grams each; those of average intelligence (105-115) cost one hundred grams each; while the clever ones (120-130) demanded a full kilogram each.

  This price curve reminded Renyu of his own early days on the battlefield, when the advanced education package had cost merely a few kilograms of purple gold. Now, a single top-tier conscript demanded tens of thousands of grams – the loss of even one on the battlefield would be excruciatingly painful.

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  Yet Renyu had no alternative. He must invest this purple gold here, for the vast knowledge acquired from the previous world required sufficiently exceptional vessels to preserve it. As over twenty tonnes of purple gold vanished, the original 186 surviving recruits swiftly transformed into an elite force of 2,700—comprising 2,400 males and 300 females. The inclusion of female recruits stemmed from their distinct advantages in meticulous reasoning and precision operations.

  Consider this: even at the least efficient conversion rate, ten kilograms of purple gold yields one hundred kilograms of gold. Yet Purple Gold's true worth lay in exchanging it for rare materials and specialised units. Truly, every strand of hair on these recruits forged by Renyu was worth its weight in gold.

  Evolution Battlefield's human fabrication technology proved every penny's worth: the men stood tall and imposing, while the women bore the grace of roses when standing and the poise of peonies when seated. Yet Renyu couldn't resist venting his frustration. Summoning the guidance system's holographic interface, he grumbled, ‘Bloody hell, after raking in all that cash, they can't even spare a set of clothes?’ The system promptly displayed a range of attire options—from basic armour to silk robes—even including a question-mark-tagged power suit. Clearly, Renyu's current rank didn't grant access to that upgrade.

  Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Renyu dismissed the interface and muttered, ‘Bloody stingy system.’ Ultimately, he could only exchange for 2,700 sets of coarse linen garments—not for lack of desire to provide better attire, but because his rank still didn't permit cotton clothing. Renyu felt deeply uneasy about outfitting these conscripts, whose value rivalled that of gold of equal weight, in such meagre attire.

  After summoning the conscripts, Renyu reclined in his command chair, eyes half-closed, and began systematically organising the industrial technology knowledge acquired from the previous mission world into modules to be uploaded into the conscripts' minds.

  ‘120 to Heavy Metal Smelting, 200 to Power and Water Resources, 180 to Petrochemicals...’ He divided the 2,700 conscripts into groups. Though each possessed top-tier intelligence, no single individual could bear the full weight of Renyu's knowledge reserves. Thus, he adopted a distributed memory injection approach—deconstructing the complete industrial knowledge system into hundreds of specialised modules, each implanted into different groups of recruits.

  This process was not merely knowledge transfer; it constituted a systematic reorganisation and reconstruction of Renyu's own memory. Like a precision engineer, he reassembled fragmented knowledge points into operational industrial workflows. With each completed module, a flicker of comprehension would light the conscript's eyes.

  Beyond specialised skills, every recruit received standard military training. This elite force combined officers' command abilities with engineers' technical expertise. Such a luxurious talent pool was virtually unheard of among junior officers; even some senior colonels' core legions might not match this level of comprehensive capability.

  As the final knowledge module completed its integration, Renyu rose to his feet, surveying the ranks of conscripts arrayed before him. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his eyes: ‘Provided the mission world supplies sufficient manpower, combined with my innate talents, within two years this force will be capable of initiating the industrialisation of a nation starting from absolute poverty.’

  This was a born-to-serve force—the conscripts regarded the officers' will as their supreme code, fearing neither sacrifice nor peril, existing solely to fulfil their mission. Yet they were not truly human. Though possessing advanced intelligence, they felt no joy in life. Incapable of independent innovation, all their abilities stemmed from the knowledge imprinted by their officers. Like precision tools, they eternally awaited their user's command.

  Within the one-square-kilometre training ground allocated by the Azure Dragon Society, Renyu commenced testing this specialised force's combat capabilities. Observing the conscripts charging in perfect skirmish line formation, he gave a slight nod of approval. Over the subsequent three months, Renyu devoted his entire focus to refining the knowledge framework—encompassing not only military command systems but also labour organisation structures, production management processes, and every related aspect.

  Leveraging the conscripts' high intelligence, Renyu implemented a redundancy design: critical skills were mastered by multiple conscripts. This ensured the entire system remained operational even if individual units were lost. Like a precision machine, each component had a backup, never ceasing to function due to a single part's failure.

  Beyond the battlefield, Combat Evolution Officers also required appropriate relaxation. Yun Chenhe led Renyu to the leisure district of the high-tier zone, where facilities were comprehensive—from bustling food stalls to exclusive clubs, public pools to private hot springs. All were constructed by conscripts using materials purchased with Purple Gold, meticulously built by the officers.

  Yun Chenhe surveyed the rows of exquisitely dressed female conscripts before turning to Renyu with a smile. ‘Truly not interested in trying the special services?’

  Renyu's gaze swept calmly over the figures preening and flirtatiously gesturing, before he shook his head gently. ‘No need. I'm not some creature driven by hormones.’ These female conscripts deliberately flaunting their charms stirred not a ripple within him. His bodily awareness had now sharpened to the point where he could detect any uncontrolled physiological reaction—even the fleeting acceleration of his heartbeat or rush of blood upon glimpsing a beautiful form could cause a subtle disruption to his precise bodily control. He deliberately kept his distance even from the female conscripts within his own ranks who possessed striking features and figures.

  Having undergone the trials of this mission world, Renyu's self-restraint had ascended to a new level. Any behaviour that might bring negative consequences, no matter how great the temptation or how minor the damage, he would resolutely suppress.

  Yun Chenhe smiled apologetically at this: ‘I was being presumptuous. To be honest, I was far too indulgent back then.’

  ‘Is the mortality rate among reserve officers high?’ Renyu inquired.

  Yun Chenhe sighed. ‘Yes, but often it's self-inflicted. Unchecked desires ultimately lead to their downfall. I truly owe you this time.’

  Renyu swirled the coconut milk in his glass, replying calmly, ‘No need to thank me. I have no clear objectives at present anyway. If I can be of assistance, so much the better.’ He drained his drink. ‘Adding flowers to brocade is easy; lending a hand in times of need is far harder, wouldn't you agree?’

  ‘With your strength, I fear I may never have the chance to repay this favour,’ Yun Chenhe remarked wryly.

  Renyu offered a meaningful smile. ‘Who can predict the future? In the Evolution Battlefield, seizing opportunities when they present themselves is the wise course.’

  Yun Chenhe nodded. ‘I'm learning. Had I possessed half your foresight back then, I wouldn't have ended up in this predicament.’

  Within the Evolution Battlefield, personal networks were paramount. Officers operating in isolation were rare, for an individual's access to resources could never match that of a collective. When a crisis struck, a robust network could swiftly mobilise the finest assets to weather the storm. Each officer's attribute allocation differs—those with high agility require high intellect to climb the tech tree, while high intellect demands high agility for precision operations. Certain extreme environments necessitate officers with high strength to venture into perilous conditions for data collection. This complementarity makes teamwork inevitable.

  ‘How much do you know about the specific mission?’ Renyu asked abruptly.

  Yun Chenhe shook his head. ‘Top-level secrecy is extremely tight. However, I suspect this might be a chain-triggered mission—a special mission type where lower-ranking officers, upon completing their tasks, trigger higher-level scenarios requiring the involvement of higher-ranking officers.’