Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Chapter 1065 A Different Way of Trading?

Prince Asaka Yasuhiko, who had been quietly observing, nodded almost imperceptibly, pausing for half a second as he fiddled with the sake cup in his hand.

The way he looked at Zhou Zhengqing was less scrutinizing than before, and more profound and indescribable.

Upon hearing this, Terauchi Hisaichi's facial features seemed to soften slightly.

He stared at Zhou Zhengqing for a few seconds. A complex light flashed in his eyes, which could see through the fog of battle and discern the wickedness of people's hearts. There was admiration, understanding, and perhaps a faint sense of awe at the young man's quick and skillful handling of the situation.

He suddenly laughed again, but this time the laughter was not loud. Instead, it carried a sense of "just as I expected," as if Zhou Zhengqing's reaction was exactly what he had anticipated.

"Haha, yoshi!" Terauchi Hisaichi's laughter broke the brief silence. He picked up the sake bottle and personally filled the empty cup in front of Zhou Zhengqing with sake. The amber-colored liquid rippled slightly in the cup.

"Tuoren, it's good that you understand this principle. The future of the empire ultimately belongs to you young people."

One should not lose one's edge, but one must learn to conceal it. Sometimes, a knife hidden in its sheath is more fearsome than one held aloft.

He raised his wine glass, pointing it towards Zhou Zhengqing, as well as towards Prince Jiuyan and the foolish Jingren standing to the side.

"Come, for the long-lasting military fortune of the empire."

"For the long-lasting prosperity of the military." Zhou Zhengqing, Prince Jiuyan, and Jingren raised their glasses simultaneously.

Four exquisite white porcelain wine cups gently clinked together, producing a crisp, brief sound that was quickly drowned out by the increasingly mournful sound of wind and snow outside the window.

Three rounds of wine had been drunk, and five dishes had been served.

Thinly sliced ​​sea bream with chrysanthemum tofu, tuna belly with botan shrimp sashimi, salt-grilled sweetfish, and matsutake mushroom steamed in a dobin.

Each dish was a work of art, but the four people at the table were clearly not focused on the food.

The conversation gradually shifted away from heavy topics such as Nanjing, the imperial army, and power.

"General Terauchi, please have another drink." Zhou Zhengqing tilted his wrist slightly, and the clear, fine wine was poured into the cup in front of Terauchi Hisaichi.

"Good, good!" Terauchi Hisaichi laughed loudly. His face was slightly flushed, clearly indicating that he was somewhat intoxicated, but his eyes were unusually bright, like an old owl searching for its prey in the night.

He unbuttoned the top button of his military uniform, leaned back in his chair, his left hand casually resting on his bent knee, while his right hand fiddled with a small porcelain cup.

The cup is decorated with a design of a red Fuji apple, which you can slowly rotate on your fingertips.

"Takuto," Terauchi Hisaichi suddenly spoke, his tone tinged with a mix of reminiscence and nonchalance, as if he had suddenly remembered something trivial: "Speaking of which, I heard... your morphine factory seems to have increased its production quite a bit?"

The moment the words left his mouth, the air in the room seemed to freeze for half a second.

Zhou Zhengqing's fingers, which were holding the wine glass, paused slightly, and a very fine ripple spread across the surface of the wine.

He looked up and met Terauchi Hisaichi's eyes, which seemed hazy with drunkenness but were actually sharp as knives.

King Kyohiko, who was sitting in the main seat, slowly raised his eyelids.

Jing Ren, sitting opposite Zhou Zhengqing, gently picked up a slice of sashimi, dipped it in a little wasabi, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly, as if what he had just heard was just an insignificant anecdote.

morphine.

In this era, these two words mean so much.

For the tens of thousands of wounded soldiers on the front lines, it was a miraculous medicine that could temporarily numb the excruciating pain and bring them back from the brink of hell.

The excruciating pain of amputation surgery, the agonizing agony of shrapnel tearing through internal organs—in a rudimentary field hospital, a single injection of morphine often proved more effective than any doctor's skill in saving a soldier on the verge of collapse.

For the entire Imperial Japanese Army, it was a strictly controlled strategic material.

From production and procurement to distribution, everything was monopolized by the military's directly affiliated health department and a few designated large pharmaceutical factories.

Every morphine injection, once it comes off the production line, undergoes multiple registrations and verifications before being packed into boxes sealed with "military supplies" labels and escorted by armed military police to the field hospitals of various divisions.

The unauthorized production and sale of morphine is absolutely prohibited under military law, although this only applies to other people.

"Where did you hear about the general?" Zhou Zhengqing's expression was as calm as a still lake, and his voice was completely undisturbed.

"Hey, you little brat, trying to fool me?" Terauchi Hisaichi grinned, revealing two rows of teeth yellowed from tobacco smoke.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the food counter, his weathered face etched with deep lines under the light: "My medical director just submitted a report last month."

After the Battle of Taiyuan alone, the divisions reported a shortage of more than 200 kilograms of analgesics.

Morphine supplies were insufficient, and the frontline medics had no choice but to sometimes have them bite on wooden sticks while performing surgery—it was truly horrific…

These words were spoken with such sincerity, and coupled with Terauchi Hisaichi's somber expression, it almost made one forget that he was one of the commanders who created these wounded soldiers.

But Zhou Zhengqing understood the underlying meaning: the veteran was complaining, laying the groundwork, and creating a rationale for the upcoming transaction.

“Apply to the military through official channels.” Terauchi Hisaichi sighed, a sigh so heavy it seemed to bend a candle flame: “Not only are the procedures cumbersome, but the quotas are also strictly limited.”

Those officials in Kyoto, sitting in their offices enjoying the high quality of life provided by the empire, have no idea of ​​the suffering of the soldiers on the front lines.

Once an application is submitted, it must first be reviewed by the Military Affairs Bureau, then transferred to the Preparation Bureau for further review, and finally sent to the Accounting Bureau for budget calculation.

"It takes at least three months, and sometimes as long as six months, for the approval to be issued. That's too slow."

With that, Terauchi Hisaichi picked up his sake cup, downed it in one gulp, and made a "gulp" sound.

When he put down his wine glass, there was no trace of drunkenness in his eyes: "Moreover, these procurement costs must be clearly recorded in the accounts."

If military spending is increased, the people in the Ministry of Finance will start nagging again, saying things like "wartime finances are already stretched thin" and "army spending needs to be strictly controlled."

"The war has only been going on for a short while, and they're already making such a fuss! Humph! What do they know!"

At this point, Terauchi Hisaichi suddenly lowered his voice. His voice was deep and hoarse, with the guttural quality characteristic of a long-term smoker, yet it was exceptionally clear in the quiet room.

"Although the 'extra rations' you provided to us before were slightly cheaper in price, could you please increase the quantity? Also, our North China Front Army's military budget is somewhat tight."

So, I was thinking, could we... try a different trading method?

He stared at Zhou Zhengqing, his eyes gleaming: "I've heard that, Tuoren, you not only have a morphine factory, but it seems... you also have some special channels that can 'digest' certain special 'things'?"

"Something special?" Zhou Zhengqing raised an eyebrow, revealing just the right amount of doubt.

He had practiced this expression countless times: the angle of his raised eyebrows, the ratio of confusion to wariness in his eyes, and the faint, bitter smile at the corner of his mouth.

Every detail should be natural, like the reaction of someone who has actually heard a strange question.