Eating Meat

Four hundred and thirty recruits, men and women alike, stood at attention before the dining tables. On the tabletops, white porcelain bowls paired with hefty slabs of bloody raw beef created a stark visual contrast. It churned the stomachs of quite a few recruits, bringing on waves of nausea and furrowed brows. At this time, most people in the country were not accustomed to eating raw meat, let alone chunks still dripping with blood. "Actually, beef can be eaten raw. If it's chilled properly at low temperatures, it's quite safe, and having it once in a while tastes pretty good." Liu Shiheng, who hailed from Gangcheng, muttered under his breath. He then frowned at the pair of daggers set on either side of the porcelain bowl, feeling that a Western knife and fork would have looked far more respectable. "Well, I still think it'd be better boiled into beef noodles. Or beef glass noodles..." Wen Jifei chimed in. Fearing he might actually try to order off a menu right there on the spot, Han Qingyu gave him a quick tug, gesturing for him to keep quiet. The recruit camp maintained an absolute high-pressure policy toward them. Han Qingyu had already figured this out the night before: anyone who couldn't endure ferocity and intense pressure would never be able to stand before a Great Spike. That psychological oppression and terror, that brutal violence of life-or-death slaughter, was simply too immense, too horrifying. "How are we supposed to eat this?! Even dogs wouldn't eat it raw, would they?" A few rows over, a recruit who had probably lived a pampered life complained a bit too loudly. The recruits around him, sharing the same resentment, immediately nodded in agreement. Just as murmurs were about to swell— "Then don't fucking eat it!" At the kitchen door, an old man who looked around sixty years old, with short-cropped gray hair and wearing a military chef's uniform, suddenly charged out. His right leg was lame, yet he walked with urgent, rapid strides. With furious swagger, the old man strode up to that recruit, snatched the meat from his bowl, and bit off a huge chunk. He chewed it aggressively, swallowed it down, then raised the bowl and gulped down the bloody water pooling at the bottom in one swig. Then, the old man shouted toward the door, "34473!" A yellow mongrel yipped in response and came bounding inside. The old man tossed the remaining beef to it. 34473 snapped it out of the air with its jaws, wagged its tail, and trotted back out with happy whines. "Feeding you useless trash isn't half as good as feeding a dog," the old man grumbled as he limped his way back. Halfway across the hall, he suddenly looked up, swung an arm, and barked, "Eat if you want, or get the fuck out!" In the cavernous dining hall, not a single person dared utter a sound. Only the veterans watching from outside the dining hall whispered among themselves: "Today's the first meal, no wonder... this is fun." "Master Geng is just as hated as ever, haha." "Yeah, I remember hating him back then too." "34473 again. Sigh, just went from a black dog to a yellow one... By the way, I heard people say Master Geng has had three dogs, and all three were called by that weird number." "Shh," someone beside him tugged his sleeve and whispered, "Watch your mouth. Haven't you figured it out? That's actually a service number... Do you know whose number that is?" The group turned to look at him. The man glanced left and right, then said: "Someone in our intake happened to see it later on. That string of numbers is actually... Instructor Zhang Dao'an's official service number from back when he enlisted and donned the armor. "Surprising, isn't it? What's more, even though there's quite an age gap between Master Geng and Instructor Zhang, they actually served in the same squad back in the day... Shh." The veterans actually had their own mess hall, but some of them just loved drifting over to the recruits whenever they had time to kill. Probably because they were bored out of their minds and came here to find some amusement—or perhaps because everything here reminded them of the past and the companions they had lost along the way. "Master Geng, Master Geng, hold on!" The veterans jostled through the doors, grinning ear to ear as they strolled past the ranks of recruits up to the limping old man. "Master Geng, got any beef left? Whip up a bowl of beef soup for me, will you?" "Master Geng, I'm craving your beef noodles." "Me too, Master Geng." Like mischievous grandsons who had grown up, left home, and returned, they crowded around the old man, laughing, badgering him, and making brazen demands. "Eat, eat, eat! Go suck on your mothers' tits, you bunch of bastards!" The old man cursed as usual, gruff and ill-tempered, but turned around and snapped, "Wait here." With that, the old man headed into the kitchen. The veterans took their seats, laughing and joking. "If this were the regular military, this would never happen. That damn old geezer acts like a lackey in front of the veterans, but he lords it over us like a tyrant," someone in the row behind grumbled resentfully. "None of them treat us like human beings." From the sound of his voice, he seemed on the verge of crying tears of grievance. Wen Jifei still felt a bit like ordering food... But turning his head, he saw Han Qingyu had already sat down beside him. Holding a dagger in each hand, Han Qingyu carved off a piece of raw beef and flicked it into his mouth on the blade's tip. Chewing earnestly for a few moments, he looked up and said, "Not bad. Eat up, or you won't have the strength for training." Having said that, Han Qingyu lowered his head and kept cutting meat, popping it into his mouth, chewing, and swallowing—unhurried, unpaused, repeating the motions steadily. "Doesn't it make you sick, Qingzi?" Wen Jifei asked after trying a bite. Even as he asked, dry heaves and genuine retching—especially from the female recruits—rose and fell throughout the dining hall... After all, they weren't used to this. Someone asked if they could get some hot water, but no one paid them any mind. "A little," Han Qingyu replied, immediately clamping his mouth shut. "I can't stomach it." "No, you have to eat." In truth, the blend of raw meat and blood was indeed nauseating, but Han Qingyu at least believed the military surely had its reasons for this. It was just that to torture the recruits' nerves, they refused to offer any explanation. In the end, the vast majority made an attempt at this breakfast, and quite a few managed to finish their entire slab of raw beef, just like Han Qingyu and Wen Jifei. Naturally, those who ultimately didn't eat, or only took a bite, or threw it up after eating, still made up the majority. They figured they would tough it out and wait for lunch. In any case, the morning training notice hadn't summoned them to the grounds, but to the military auditorium, so it shouldn't be very physically demanding. On the way to the auditorium, Wen Jifei suddenly sidled over and gestured for Han Qingyu to pat his pocket. Han Qingyu gave it a pat and guessed what it was: half a slab of beef. Turns out he hadn't finished it after all; he had secretly sliced off a large piece and stashed it away. Han Qingyu asked, somewhat at a loss, "What are you doing?" "It's August anyway, and the sun is blazing. Later I'll find a spot and cook it on a rock," Wen Jifei said. The military didn't allow recruits to have fire. Yesterday, right after finishing the welcoming noodles, repeated warnings had been issued, and everything that shouldn't be kept had been confiscated. If you were addicted to cigarettes and wanted to smoke... fine, go borrow a light from the veterans. ... "Borrow, my ass," Wen Jifei said in the auditorium, squeezing his cigarette pack. "I just saw two guys go ask for a light, and the veterans toyed with them like dogs. Forget it, I'm not smoking. It's not like I'm addicted anyway." Inside the auditorium, four hundred and thirty people were clamoring in a noisy uproar. Then, a figure walked in. Instant silence fell. Zhang Dao'an's burly frame sat in the front row, conspicuous as an oval marble boulder perched in place. Taking the stage was a young officer, around twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old.