Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

Chapter 993 Five bags of rice, two cans of food

The military police sergeant turned to the still-shaken Li Shouren and asked in broken but barely understandable Chinese, "You, tell the truth. They," he pointed to the three trembling soldiers, "robbed you?"

The three soldiers hurriedly pointed to the pile of cans on the ground, waving their hands repeatedly and explaining in rapid Japanese, as if they were saying "transaction" or "buying and selling".

The sergeant frowned suspiciously, staring at Li Shouren again, his tone becoming more forceful: "You, tell me! They sold you food? Was that right?" His eyes were scrutinizing, as if judging whether Li Shouren was trustworthy, or assessing how to handle the matter in accordance with some kind of "rule".

Li Shouren's heart was about to leap out of his chest.

He glanced at the menacing soldiers, then at the expressionless military police, then at the pile of damned cans in his arms and the pocket watch clutched tightly in his hand.

Identifying robbery? These soldiers might be severely punished, but what about the potential retaliation against themselves later?

Admitting it was a "transaction"? That pocket watch...

He was breathing heavily, and finally, a mixture of fear, anger, and a sliver of hope made him speak hoarsely: "They...forced me to buy... these canned goods...and then tried to steal my watch..."

He raised his hand and opened his palm.

After hearing this, the sergeant's face flashed with an inscrutable expression.

Suddenly, he grabbed Li Shouren's hand, snatched the old pocket watch before he could react, tossed it to the short, stout soldier, and said something coldly in Japanese.

Then, he turned to Li Shouren, his tone leaving no room for argument: "The value is unequal!!"

Just as Li Shouren was about to snatch back the pocket watch, the sound of the bolt being pulled back on a military police rifle made him freeze in place.

Immediately afterwards, the military police sergeant took out a small notebook and a pen from his pocket, knelt down, scribbled a few lines of Japanese, tore off a piece of paper, and stuffed it into Li Shouren's hand: "These three are soldiers from the 4th Division! Take this! This is proof!"

Tomorrow, take it to the military police station!

Here are five more bags of rice and twenty cans of food for the three of them!

"If they won't give it to you, come to me!" He pointed to his sergeant's collar insignia.

After saying this, he signaled his military police subordinates to escort the three relieved yet dejected soldiers away from the scene.

Li Shouren stood blankly at the street corner, holding more than a dozen cold cans of beef.

The area on my palm where the watch chain had cut me raw burned with pain; it felt empty, as if a piece of my heart had been ripped out.

Xiu'e's watch was gone; that last thought, under the sergeant's so-called "fair" judgment, had turned into this pile of tin cans in her arms.

He bent down and picked up the note that had fallen to the ground.

The paper was written in incomprehensible Japanese and stamped with a red seal.

This light piece of paper felt heavier than the pocket watch at that moment.

It represents five bags of rice and twenty cans of food; it's the hope of survival.

Or is it yet another trap? Is it a manifestation of Japan's "appeasement" policy? Or is it merely another performance to maintain a facade of "order"?

In the distance, laborers clearing the ruins continued their mechanical work under the watchful eyes of the Japanese soldiers, the large cauldron still emitting faint steam. The outline of the refugee camp appeared blurred and sinister in the twilight.

Li Shouren finally carried the can of food and walked back step by step, heavily.

He gave most of the canned food to the few orphans and widows in his room who were almost starving, keeping only two for himself.

Old Zhang looked at him, sighed, and said nothing more.

Mr. Chen cast a complicated glance at him, his eyes filled with sympathy, helplessness, and perhaps a barely perceptible "I told you so" tone.

As night deepened, Li Shouren lay on his straw mat, unable to fall asleep.

Should he go to the military police station tomorrow, or not?

Will that fluttering note bring a chance for survival, or lead to another abyss?

The cold wind seeped in through the cracks in the wall, making a whistling sound.

This Spring Festival in Nanjing was devoid of family reunions and celebrations, replaced only by endless ruins, profound humiliation, and incredibly heavy choices made with difficulty, caught between survival and dignity.

Li Shouren closed his eyes, and the faces of Xiu'e and Xiao Juan appeared in the darkness, so clear, yet so distant.

Survival felt like a long and painful ordeal.

Early morning of the third day of the Lunar New Year.

Frost covered the ruins of Nanjing, and a bone-chilling cold permeated the air.

Li Shouren woke up in a corner of the refugee camp, and the first thing he did was reach for the neatly folded piece of paper in his pocket.

The cold face of the Japanese military police sergeant and his words, "Five bags of rice and twenty cans of food," still echoed in his ears. However, his fingers only lingered on the rough paper for a moment before resolutely withdrawing.

"I'm not going," he told himself.

Xiu'e's watch was already gone; he couldn't offer up his last shred of dignity to be trampled on.

More importantly, today he is going to continue searching for Xiu'e and Xiao Juan.

This thought is the only light in his heart right now.

He tucked the two cold cans into his coat, glanced at the emaciated refugees in his room, and quietly left the refugee area.

He decided to wait at the silk shop for half a day to see if Xiu'e would come back to find him, and then start searching from the south of the city and gradually move towards the north, leaving no corner unchecked.

In early February, the harsh winter still stubbornly lingered over Nanjing, a city already ravaged by the cold.

For several days in a row, the sky was leaden gray, with no sunlight. Only the biting, damp, and cold wind blew endlessly across the broken walls and ruins, stirring up ashes and scraps of paper on the ground, making a wailing sound.

Following the route etched into his very being, Li Shouren walked toward the place inside Zhonghua Gate, a place once known as "home".

His "Ruifuxiang" silk and cloth shop was located on a fairly bustling street not far from the city gate.

Along the way, the so-called "streets" had long since disappeared. As far as the eye could see, there were collapsed houses, charred beams and pillars, and scattered rubble, piled up like mountains, often blocking the way.

He had to trudge through the broken bricks and tiles, his shoes making a cracking sound as they stepped on the charred wood and broken porcelain, which sounded particularly jarring in the deathly silence.

The cold wind whistled through the empty window frames where the panes had been removed, producing different pitches of mournful howls, as if they were the collective wails of countless wronged souls in this city of death.

The air was filled with a complex and terrifying smell, and occasionally, a pungent whiff of gunpowder smoke would drift by, reminding people of the fierce battle that had just taken place.

These smells mixed together to form a nauseating, deathly odor unique to post-war ruins, clinging to clothes, hair, and even seeping into the lungs, impossible to wash away.