Chapter Two: The Power of Card Drawing

Cards of abilities and items, and they can be drawn? So this is my cheat as a reborn—

Lu Ming didn’t dwell on it and immediately proceeded to extract "Fundamental English Mastery" from the young man beside him.

In reality, it was just a fleeting thought, and when the three seconds of extraction ended, the young man’s words were suddenly clear in his ears: "Are you really alright? You look terrible—do you want to go see the military doctor again?"

"Uh, I’m fine. I just hadn’t fully woken up yet," Lu Ming replied, testing his skills. English rolled off his tongue as naturally as his mother tongue, even with the local accent.

"As long as you’re fine," the young man sighed with relief, handing over a glass of water and some medicine with a smile. "Better take your medicine first."

Lu Ming nodded, swallowed the tablets, drank several gulps of water, and finally exhaled in relief. "Whew, I feel alive again. By the way, my head’s still a bit dizzy, so I want to confirm—who am I, and where am I?"

The young man stared at Lu Ming’s earnest expression, stunned for a moment before laughing it off as a joke. "Kyle, did you hit your head too hard? You’re at the US military training base!"

"Kyle, military training base?" Lu Ming pondered, realizing that his new body’s name was Kyle, and he accepted it as his own from now on.

From this moment, Lu Ming was gone; only Kyle remained.

The young man continued, "Yeah, the training base. We’re new recruits—this is just our first day of training. The weather’s been hot, and you collapsed from heatstroke during a high-intensity run."

Heatstroke—so the original body’s constitution wasn’t great.

As if remembering something, Kyle suddenly grabbed the young man’s thin shoulders and pressed urgently, "One more question: Do you know Captain America, the Hulk, or Iron Man? This is important—please tell me."

"Hey, Kyle, stop shaking me so hard," the young man rolled his eyes; his malnourished body seemed in danger of being shaken apart. When Kyle finally let go, he caught his breath and answered, "I don’t know anyone like that. Captain America? Is he one of the officers?"

"You don’t know?" Kyle frowned, then hesitated. "Wait—what year is it? I mean, what era?"

"Did you really hit your head?" the young man exclaimed.

"Just tell me."

"It’s February, 1943."

"1943—so it’s the time of the Second World War," Kyle realized. Even in the Marvel universe, there were no Avengers yet during World War II.

No—there was one.

"Last question," Kyle took a deep breath. "Is there someone named Steve in this camp?"

"Steve?" The young man’s expression grew odd.

"Yes, Steve Rogers," Kyle confirmed. In Marvel’s World War II era, the first Avenger made his debut.

Captain America; arguably the first superhero of Marvel.

"Kyle, what are you talking about? That person—we both know him," the young man replied, blinking and, under Kyle’s puzzled gaze, pointed to himself with a smile. "I’m Steve Rogers."

"Mhm, so you’re Steve… Wait, you’re Steve?!" Kyle’s eyes widened as he sized up the young man from head to toe.

Compared to a normal young man, he was thin and frail, with simple blond hair and a face that seemed gentle but resolute. No wonder he looked familiar—this was Captain America before the super-soldier serum.

If he was here, then this truly was the Marvel universe.

Kyle couldn’t decide whether to be thrilled or terrified—he was excited at the thought of encountering the super-tech and heroes he’d only seen in movies, but the powerful villains of the Marvel world made his head ache.

But this was the Marvel of World War II—whether he’d survive to see the 21st century was anyone’s guess. Worrying about Thanos’ snap was a bit premature.

"But Captain America himself is right next to me—that’s a golden opportunity," Kyle thought, and his gaze toward Steve changed, making Steve shiver and instinctively step back.

"By the way," Steve suddenly remembered something important. "Officer Bryant asked me to tell you that when you wake up, you’re to report to him."

"Oh, the officer in charge of training the recruits?" Kyle nodded. Having seen the first Captain America film, he had an impression of the training officer’s role.

He remembered that before Steve became Captain America, his frail physique made him the target of both the officer and his teammates.

Maybe the previous body had gotten into trouble—collapsing from heatstroke on the first day of training probably left a poor impression.

Kyle smiled calmly. "I can’t remember the way to the officer’s office—could you take me there?"

"Sure, follow me," Steve replied.

Steve led Kyle out of the barracks. Outside, the sunlight was blinding. On the vast training field, squads of young soldiers in white undershirts, bare muscular arms pumping, were running in formation.

"Hey, look—it’s Kyle and Steve!"

"Collapsed from heatstroke on the first day—what a pretty boy."

"One’s a pretty boy, the other’s a scrawny kid—they make quite the pair."

A squad of recruits ran past, whistling, clearly their barracks-mates.

"Ignore them, Kyle," Steve offered comfort, but saw Kyle’s face was unbothered, even carrying a faint, amused smile.

Kyle didn’t care about the other recruits. With his card-drawing cheat, only Steve, soon to become Captain America, was worthy of being his ally.

On the way to the officer’s office, Kyle kept testing his card abilities.

First, as long as someone was within three meters of him, he could obtain card data from them.

Currently, cards were simply divided into item cards and ability cards. Item cards couldn’t be extracted; ability cards could be freely drawn.

Ability cards included a person’s skills—common ones such as "Fundamental English" or "Driving" were white. When a skill reached a professional mastery, such as "English Mastery" or "Handgun Mastery," it became a green card.

"Green ability cards can be drawn too, but the extraction time…" Kyle was still experimenting when Steve patted him on the shoulder and led him into a room.

"Reporting! Private Steve, I’ve brought Kyle as ordered."

"Uh, reporting! Private Kyle."

Following Steve, Kyle stood at attention at the office door and saluted smartly.

"Come in!" A stern, composed voice called them in. The office, military-style, was simple and tidy, with only a desk in the center.

A middle-aged man in an officer’s uniform sat in the chair—clearly Officer Bryant. Next to him stood a female agent in a military skirt, holding a file.

"Private, how’s your health?" Bryant asked coldly, looking at Kyle, who replied immediately, "Sir, I’m fully recovered and ready to resume training."

"Oh?" Officer Bryant frowned. "No need for further training. Go pack your things—you’ll be sent home first thing tomorrow."

Steve’s face changed; this was essentially a death sentence for Kyle’s military career.

The female agent said nothing, her head down, recording in the file.

Only Kyle remained calm, as if the dismissal wasn’t about him. "Sir, I insist on remaining and continuing my training as a soldier."

Officer Bryant snorted. "Training? Training for what? Collapsed from heatstroke on the very first day—your willpower is lacking, a disgrace to our military!"

"And tell me—what makes you qualified to serve and defend this country?" Bryant’s gaze swept over Steve as well, clearly lumping him in with Kyle.

Faced with skepticism, Kyle drew a deep breath and stepped forward confidently. "Give me a chance, sir, and I’ll prove my skills and worth."

With that step, Kyle came within three meters of Officer Bryant, and focusing his mind, he saw over thirty cards of varying white and green shimmer into view.

Impressive—no less than nine green cards for the officer in charge of recruits!

"Handgun Mastery," "Rifle Mastery," "Military Equipment Mastery," "Military Unarmed Combat Mastery," "Soldier Training Instructor"…

"Big talk. So, how do you propose to prove yourself?" Bryant sneered. For someone truly talented, such confidence was self-assurance; for someone without, it was arrogance.

A new recruit who’d collapsed during a run on his first day—what talent could he possibly have?

The female agent shook her head, her impression of Kyle worsening. Though the young man’s looks could place him among the top three in camp, his willpower and self-awareness didn’t even compare to Steve.

"If you don’t believe me, sir, why not make a wager with this soldier," Kyle said, emboldened by what he’d seen in the officer’s cards. "If I win, I stay in camp. If I lose, you may discharge me on the spot."

"A wager? What, cards or coin tosses?" Bryant looked at him like an idiot.

"Of course not. I want to challenge you, sir—to the essential skills of a soldier!" Kyle declared.

"Enough, private! Don’t be insolent!" Bryant slammed the desk, his anger rising. "This is insubordination—I could have you court-martialed!"

But Kyle wasn’t cowed; he replied earnestly, "I mean no disrespect. I am serious—I want to demonstrate my ability as a soldier."

"You—" Bryant began, but the female agent suddenly interjected, "Private Kyle, what exactly do you want to challenge Officer Bryant in?"

"Shooting. Any firearm," Kyle answered firmly.

The agent’s beautiful eyes studied Kyle, as if searching his face for something. Eventually she said, "I think he deserves a chance," and fell silent again.

"You want to challenge me in marksmanship? I don’t know if you’re overconfident or just desperate," Bryant muttered, then took a breath and resumed his seat. "Fine. I’ll send you home with no regrets. Five o’clock this afternoon, at the range—fifty-meter rifle targets."

"Deal," Kyle replied, as if everything was unfolding as expected. His attention now shifted to the female agent.

Anyone who could interrupt an officer must be someone important. Perhaps she had an ability card that would come in handy.

Kyle followed his impulse and focused on her—then nearly gaped in astonishment.

Far beyond the officer’s thirty-plus, over seventy ability cards leapt into view, white and green intermingling, almost obscuring her slender frame.

"Psychology Mastery," "Medical Aid Mastery," "Morse Code Mastery," "Assassination Mastery," "Rifle Mastery," "Etiquette Mastery"…

There were at least twenty green ability cards! And among them, one card was greener, deeper, more radiant than the others.

"Since this is a wager, could this agent act as a witness? Preferably with a written record," Kyle suggested with a smile. He had no ulterior motive—drawing a green card required over three minutes and the target had to be within one meter.

Still, his air of assured victory left the three others in the office silent for a moment.