Chapter Two: The Enigmatic Fish

After making the comparison, I suddenly realized that the perch in my hand was indeed rather unusual. The peculiarity lay in its eyes.

Prompted by the old squad leader, I carefully compared the fish I was holding with the other four, and abruptly discovered that the eyes of my fish were blood red. Most striking of all were its pupils, a chilling crimson, glowing like two tiny red lanterns, or perhaps like the legendary scarlet elixir pills.

Experience told me that no matter what color or variety a fish is, once it’s cooked and served, its eyes always turn a lovely milky white. But these red eyes—I had never seen anything like them before.

At the time, I didn’t understand what this meant, so I could only point at the fish’s eyes and jest with the old squad leader, “These eyes look pretty creepy. How about… I just dig them out before serving it? No one would notice!”

“Hey!” The old squad leader seemed both amused and exasperated by my little scheme. He waved his hand at me and said, “Xiao Tian, if the fish eyes are still bloodshot even after being steamed… do you know what that means?”

Faced with his questioning, I could only shake my head helplessly and admit, “I don’t know… Squad leader, why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Yeah! Why can’t we eat the fish just because its eyes turned red?” Zhao Hong, who stood beside me, echoed my question. He, too, awaited the answer with anticipation.

But the old squad leader’s reply left the two of us dumbfounded and utterly at a loss. He told us, “Xiao Tian… there are some things a soldier like me shouldn’t say. Don’t make me cross the line… Just do as I say, don’t ask so many questions.”

His tone grew firmer, becoming almost a command by the end.

The cheerful atmosphere of New Year’s Eve was instantly stifled by his words. Zhao Hong and I exchanged glances, suddenly aware of the seriousness and oddness of the situation. Since the leader had spoken so unequivocally, we had no choice but to comply.

With mixed feelings, I nodded, though I still hadn’t grasped the gravity of the matter. All I could think was that now we couldn’t present the perch to the company commander, and making another would take hours.

Perhaps noticing my reluctance, the squad leader pointed to the back door of the mess hall and said, “You two go together. Toss the fish, then come back for dinner. Leave the rest to me. No perch? There’s still carp. If the company commander asks, I’ll take responsibility. Ah, and one more thing…”

Lowering his voice, he added with particular emphasis, “Don’t just throw the fish anywhere, and don’t bury it in the barracks. Take it far away—dig a three-foot-deep pit at the shooting range behind the mountain. Don’t attract those ‘black-faced fellows’…”

“Ah?” I replied, deeply disappointed and exasperated by this final instruction.

The so-called “black-faced fellows” referred to wild boars.

Our barracks were located deep in the mountains of Guizhou, surrounded on three sides by bamboo-covered hills, with only the southern side opening onto a road. Thanks to the environment, golden cats and wild boars would occasionally pass through the forest, and some especially bold ones even snuck into the camp to steal vegetables.

That’s why, when disposing of pungent kitchen waste, we always took it far from the barracks—to avoid attracting the wild boars.

The squad leader’s instructions made sense, but the key issue was—it was New Year’s Eve! Who would want to trek to the shooting range in the dead of night?

Besides, the shooting range was hardly a “clean” place.

I’d heard from old soldiers and locals that the range behind the barracks was an old burial ground even before liberation, and during the revolution, counterrevolutionaries had been executed there! We avoided it even by daylight, let alone venturing there on New Year’s night. The very thought gave me a headache.

Looking back now, my dread of the night back then was less true fear than a sense of psychological imbalance. But misgivings aside, once the squad leader had given an order, we had to see it through. That’s the way of the army: the three great disciplines and eight points of attention, the first being to obey orders and follow commands. As soldiers, there was no room for complaining—fear or not, the mission had to be completed.

So, Zhao Hong and I took our entrenching tools and headed for the shooting range.

The walk from the kitchen to the range behind the hill took nearly ten minutes, but halfway there, Zhao Hong and I could barely keep moving.

Hungry and exhausted, the two of us new recruits had lost all the vigor we usually displayed. Stumbling through the darkness of New Year’s night, our patience wore thin with each step.

The worst part was, we were carrying a steaming, fragrant perch and couldn’t even eat it! How could we not feel tormented?

At last, neither of us could go on. We paused in the vegetable garden just outside the barracks and decided that instead of burying the fish at the range for the wild boars and stray cats to scavenge, we might as well dispose of it right here. As long as we dug the hole deep enough in the barracks flowerbed, nothing would happen.

In this way, we’d save ourselves a long walk and even contribute a bit of “fertilizer” to the barracks greenery—what could be wrong with that?

So, having reached this conclusion, we hurriedly set to work, digging a deep pit with our entrenching tools and finally burying the troublesome fish. Supporting each other in the darkness, we made our way back.

As we walked, a strange feeling welled up inside me. I felt wronged.

Ever since joining the army, nothing had gone smoothly for me. I had barely made it to the New Year, only to be sent out on a bizarre errand to bury a dead fish. While my comrades feasted, I was shivering in the cold night air—how could I not be moved to self-pity?

In that moment, I felt more wronged than Dou E herself. And the hunger gnawed at me more fiercely with every step, my stomach protesting with loud growls.

Just as my mind began to drift in a haze of hunger, I suddenly caught a whiff of an indescribable meaty aroma.

Instinctively, I glanced down at my hand, following the source of the smell.

It was then I noticed my right hand—the one that had held the perch—was slick with rich, oily fish grease. At that moment, I remembered that the fish we’d just buried was the plumpest and most succulent of the five, its silvery flesh and glistening broth having tempted me even before it left the pot.

Assailed by hunger, I was almost overcome by the urge to taste the flavor lingering on my fingers.

Thankfully, at the last moment, I managed to resist. The squad leader’s stern expression had made it clear that there was something seriously wrong with that fish.

A soldier does not lie.

So I wiped my hand clean and hurried back to the mess hall, just in time for the tail end of the New Year’s feast. Though the dishes were already cooling, I still made it in time for the company commander’s toast.

During the meal, I made a point of checking the table set for the families of the fallen and veterans. To my surprise, the missing perch had been replaced by the squad leader’s steamed carp. I tasted it, and to my astonishment, the flavor rivaled that of the finest perch!

Life soon returned to normal, and the matter of the buried fish faded from memory.

I had no inkling that disaster was about to befall me.

In the days after the New Year, we went about our usual drills, cooking, and duties. No one mentioned the events of New Year’s Eve again.

Until the seventh day…

That day, I wasn’t on duty, so I joined the morning drills as usual.

According to mess hall rules, we rose at six thirty, ran five kilometers with the company commander, then had free time. After breakfast, the kitchen crew would start preparing lunch.

But that morning, the moment I awoke, I felt unwell all over—my throat in particular was parched and sticky, and a peculiar itch gnawed at it.

It’s hard to describe the sensation—almost as if something was trying to crawl out of my throat.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. The kitchen’s workload had been heavy since the New Year, and a touch of dryness or discomfort was normal. I took some medicine and joined the drills.

But to my surprise, my condition rapidly worsened. As we began our run, the pain in my throat and stomach intensified, deteriorating quickly.

I couldn’t go on. Less than a kilometer in, I collapsed beside a bamboo stalk, vomiting violently.

A pungent, fishy stench surged from my throat as I retched, my vision swimming, legs weak, sweat pouring down my face in beads, the world blurring before my eyes.

My comrades rushed to support me, catching me just in time to prevent a fall.

They helped me sit beneath the bamboo, and gradually I regained my senses.

But as my mind cleared, I noticed the peculiar expressions on my comrades’ faces—their eyes fixed on me with an unease that prickled my skin.

Zhao Hong nudged me, stammering, “Tian Buer, did… did you eat something bad recently?”

Too weak to speak, I could only shake my head dully.

Then he pointed to the puddle of vomit before me, his eyes wide with fear. “Then look… what did you throw up?”

Startled by his expression, I instinctively looked down.

The moment I saw what lay there, my heart leapt in terror. If not for the deputy company commander holding me up, I surely would have fainted again.