High Martial: I Use Everything as Swords

The dome spotlights of Hangar Seven were brightly lit all night.

After a low engine roar, the all-black X-01 Prototype glided into its bay like a Ghost and came to a steady stop.

The cockpit canopy popped open without a sound.

A scorching blast of air, a mixture of Spiritual Power and heated metal, rushed out to meet him.

Han Feng braced himself on the edge of the cockpit with one hand, then vaulted out and landed lightly on the floor.

THUD!

An incredibly dull, heavy thud resounded. The special high-strength alloy floor beneath his feet cracked, with several frightening, web-like fissures spreading out from the point of impact.

It was as if what had landed wasn’t a person, but a precisely calculated miniature battering ram.

Han Feng casually wiped away the last bead of sweat from his temple.

It was a sign that the impurities in his body had been completely refined, and his physical density had increased once again.

Under his Divine Sense Introspection, a brand-new energy pathway—the Kidney Meridian of Foot Shaoyin—had fully solidified, glowing with a gentle, jade-like luster.

The thirteenth Dao Vein was complete!

Cultivation: Meridian Passage Realm Seventh Layer!

Feeling the Sword Essence within him roaring and surging like a river breaking through a dam, the total amount having surpassed the twelve-hundred-drop mark, Han Feng couldn’t help but smile.

This feeling of watching the progress bar on his status panel skyrocket was more intoxicating than the strongest liquor in the world.

As long as he had enough resources, he could "grind" his way all the way to becoming an Immortal God.

"Boss, you’re finally down!"

Zhou Ming, clutching a digital notepad and sporting a pair of heavy, dark circles under his eyes, shuffled over with a pained expression.

"What is it?" Han Feng took the towel Zhou Ming offered and casually wiped his hands. "Is there a problem with the parts list for the X-02?"

"The parts are fine. The problem is with our accounts."

Zhou Ming shoved the notepad right in front of Han Feng’s face, his finger trembling as he pointed at the long, blindingly red string of deficits.

"Advisor, I understand you’re conducting ’extreme performance data collection,’ but this consumption is just... it’s burning through money!"

"This week alone, you’ve burned through four hundred and eighty sets of high-purity Spiritual Energy Blocks. That’s enough to supply a standard flight squadron of the Garrison Army for half a year!"

"And all that... ahem, I mean, the ’Tier Three Deep Sea Coolant’ you used for daily fighter maintenance... That stuff is measured by the drop! If we use too much, it’ll be difficult to report to the higher-ups!"

Han Feng’s gaze swept over the bill. It was indeed shocking.

But his expression didn’t change. Instead, he reached out, patted Zhou Ming’s shoulder, and said in a profound tone,

"Xiaozhou, you need to think bigger."

"This isn’t waste; it’s an investment. Every drop of coolant, every Spiritual Energy Block, is extending the life of human civilization by another ten years. When you file the report, just tell them that."

"Besides," Han Feng’s tone shifted, becoming righteously indignant, "without the data I risk my life to get up in the sky, could Lin Xue and the others just dream up the plans on the ground?"

Zhou Ming opened his mouth, but couldn’t squeeze out a single word.

The logic was sound, but watching the account funds get zeroed out line by line made his heart bleed.

"Alright, don’t fuss over such trivial amounts."

Han Feng waved his hand dismissively, changing the subject. "Have General Li’s men arrived?"

At the mention of official business, Zhou Ming immediately dropped his pained expression and became serious.

"They arrived. They entered the base half an hour ago and are waiting for you in Conference Room One."

"There are twenty-four ace pilots in total, all of them the absolute best elites from the Garrison Army’s air combat units."

"Let’s go. Time to see these ’favored sons of heaven’."

Han Feng tossed the towel to a service robot nearby and strode out.

...

「Conference Room One.」

The atmosphere in the conference room was oppressive.

Twenty-four soldiers in custom-made, deep blue flight suits sat as straight as a row of javelins.

A potent, iron-blooded Evil Qi emanated from them.

Most of them were around thirty years old, the prime age for a pilot.

On each of their chests was a "Thunder Falcon" flight insignia forged from pure gold—proof of their status as Third Level Pilots of East Sea City, a mark of honor.

Their gazes were unfocused, yet they seemed to be scrutinizing every speck of dust in the air.

There was no conversation, no fidgeting, only a powerful aura—a mixture of absolute confidence and professional pride—that made the temperature in the entire room seem to drop by several degrees.

At the head of the table, Li Tiecheng sat with a stern face, his fingers unconsciously tapping the tabletop. The TAP, TAP sound was the only noise in the room.

A man with a buzz cut and a sharp gaze finally broke the silence.

"General, with all due respect. We respect Advisor Han’s contributions in the technical field, but flying... that’s our profession."

"To have a theoretical expert serve as our Chief Instructor, isn’t that a bit..."

He didn’t finish his sentence, but the meaning was self-evident.

His name was Zhao Tianlan, captain of the Garrison Army’s "Hawk Team." His cultivation had reached the Enlightenment Realm Middle Stage, and he was the ace among these aces.

In the entire air combat circle of East Sea City, he was widely recognized as "Number One."

They revered Han Feng’s combat prowess. The terrifying feat of him slaying a Tier Four Grandmaster in the middle of the street had long since circulated among those of their rank.

But revering his combat prowess didn’t mean they acknowledged his piloting skills.

In the eyes of these kings of the sky, Han Feng was a powerful "land creature," a genius "equipment designer."

But he was definitely not a "great pilot."

"Shut up."

Li Tiecheng didn’t even raise an eyelid. "Here, he is the Chief Advisor, and you are the trainees. Follow your orders."

Zhao Tianlan’s lips moved, but he ultimately chose silence. The stubbornness in his eyes, however, did not diminish in the slightest.

Just then, the conference room door was pushed open silently.

Han Feng walked in, dressed in a somewhat casual training uniform, followed by an embarrassed-looking Zhou Ming.

In an instant, twenty-four gazes, sharp enough to feel tangible, focused on him in unison.

Scrutiny, doubt, curiosity, and a deeply hidden trace of provocation.

’Young. Too young.’

That was everyone’s first reaction.

"Sorry, I just finished a set of flight path tests. I’m late."

Han Feng walked straight to the chair next to the head of the table and sat down, his calm gaze sweeping over the room without a hint of awkwardness or unease.

"Good of you to come."

Li Tiecheng stood up. "Everyone’s here. This batch is the strongest force we could assemble. Every one of them is an expert at the Enlightenment Realm. How to choose is up to you."

Han Feng nodded, his gaze pausing for a second on Zhao Tianlan, the one with the sharpest eyes.

"I hear you’re all aces?"

Zhao Tianlan lifted his chin, his voice laced with deep-seated pride:

"Reporting to the Advisor! The top twenty Third Level Pilots in East Sea City, ranked by number of kills, are all here!"

"Oh."

Han Feng’s reaction was as flat as if he were listening to a weather report.

He pulled a USB drive from his pocket and casually tossed it onto the table.

"In that case, let’s skip all the nonsense physical and reflex tests."

"On here is a simulation program I just wrote, based on the data model for the mass-produced X-02."

"Everyone gets one run in the simulator."

"Anyone who can last three minutes without puking gets to stay."

"Anyone who lasts five minutes and can also complete a standard S-maneuver will be the captain of this ’Ghost Squad’."

The moment he finished speaking, the room fell dead silent, followed by a commotion that couldn’t be suppressed.

’Three minutes without puking? Who is he trying to humiliate?’

Even Li Tiecheng was stunned. "Han Feng, isn’t that standard... a little too low?"

"These men are tough as nails. They can withstand 30 Gs of overload and still crack jokes on the comms channel."

"Low?"

Han Feng gave a cold smile.

"General, I forgot to tell you, the control logic of the X-02 is different from all active-duty fighters."

He stood up, walked to the holographic projector, and tapped lightly in the air with his finger.

On the screen, an unusually complex, streamlined helmet model instantly appeared.

"No control stick, no rudder pedals, and certainly no dense cluster of instrument panels."

Han Feng pointed to the dense, web-like biosensor nodes inside the helmet.

"To pilot the ’Ghost,’ you don’t rely on hand speed or muscle memory."

"You use your brain."

He tapped his temple.

"Or, in the terminology of Martial Arts—Divine Thought."

"The ’Neural Resonance System.’ That’s what I named it."

"It directly reads your brain’s commands and converts them into flight control signals with zero delay."

"As fast as you can think, that’s how fast the plane will be."

The room fell silent once again.

Zhao Tianlan’s brow furrowed. "You’re saying... fly a plane with your mind? That kind of technology has only ever appeared in old-world science fiction!"

"It used to be science fiction. Now, it’s reality."

Han Feng couldn’t be bothered to explain further. "The simulators are next door. Who’s first?"

"I’ll go!"

Zhao Tianlan shot to his feet, a fighting spirit rising in his eyes.

"Reporting to the Advisor! Zhao Tianlan of the Hawk Team requests to be the first to test!"

「Ten minutes later.」

The door to the simulation training room opened.

Zhao Tianlan, the once-unbeatable "Number One of Air Combat," was now shuffling out, step by step, while leaning against the wall for support.

The last trace of color had drained from his face. His legs trembled uncontrollably, as if he were a sick chicken that had just been spun dry in a washing machine for half an hour.

"BLEGH—"

He had just opened his mouth to say something when his stomach churned violently. He lunged for a nearby alloy trash can and vomited up every last bit of the military-issue nutrient meal he had just eaten.

The other pilots waiting to be tested stared at each other in dismay, their eyes filled with utter shock.

’Captain Zhao is famous for his iron stomach! He’d even chew on expired Demon Beast Jerky as a snack, and now a simulator made him puke?’

"Next."

Han Feng sat at the monitoring console, holding a steaming cup of goji berry tea, his tone perfectly calm.

"And this is your ace?"

He shook his head gently. His voice wasn’t loud, but it pierced everyone’s ears like steel needles.

"Divine Soul Resilience Rating: D-minus. Neural reflex delay as high as 0.43 seconds."

"During the ’Ghost’s’ extreme maneuvers, that much of a delay is enough time for you to regret eating too much for breakfast before you crash into a mountain."

Li Tiecheng stood to the side, staring intently at the data playback on the large screen.

Onscreen, Zhao Tianlan’s simulated fighter had experienced a neural signal overload just twelve seconds after takeoff, caused by a thought to make a sharp turn that was too abrupt.

The fighter immediately traced a frantic figure "8" in the air, then spiraled upward before completely stalling and plummeting toward the ground.

The sight alone was enough to make one dizzy.

"Isn’t this a bit too difficult?" Li Tiecheng couldn’t help but exclaim in amazement.

"Difficult?"

Han Feng put down his teacup.

"To make it suitable for mass production, I’ve already nerfed the X-02’s maneuverability by forty percent and added three auxiliary stabilizing Rune Arrays."

"If they can’t even handle this..."

"Give them the X-01, and they’d be brain-dead the instant they took off."

The next hour became a collective day of suffering for the Garrison Army’s elite air combat pilots.

One ace pilot after another walked in full of confidence, only to crawl back out pale-faced, clinging to the wall, and expertly find an empty trash can.

The entire training room began to fill with an indescribable, acrid stench.

They had formed a glorious "Vomit Squad."

The best result was achieved by a young pilot named Wang Rui.

He lasted four minutes and twenty seconds.

Although he also ended up puking his guts out, he at least didn’t crash the simulator.

"Stop."

Han Feng looked at the disastrous data report in his hands and called a halt to the test.

Twenty-four men, a total wipeout.

Not a single one of them had met his minimum standard for "proficient piloting."

In the conference room now, the initial defiance and arrogance were completely gone.

Everyone was slumped and dejected. Their gazes toward Han Feng were filled with reverence, and even a hint of unconcealable fear.

’This isn’t flying a plane! This is fucking torture for both the brain and the soul!’

"What, given up already?"

Han Feng walked in front of the group. His gaze was placid, yet it felt more oppressive than ever.

Zhao Tianlan wiped the filth from the corner of his mouth, forced himself to stand straight, and said through gritted teeth:

"Advisor Han, I admit we’re not good enough!"

"But this isn’t a reaction speed achievable by humans!"

"That terrifying torrent of information rushes straight into your brain like a tsunami! Who the fuck can handle that?"