The administrative building of the border defense station.
Lu Zhao stood in the corridor smoking, waiting for Zhang Like to finish his meeting.
Compared with his own minor mountain-patrol assignment, Zhang Like, a major, was effectively the station's second-in-command.
The meeting room doors opened.
A somewhat soft, fleshy middle-aged man came out first. Catching sight of Lu Zhao, he smiled broadly and praised him: "Little Lu won glory again today."
Lu Zhao stubbed out his cigarette butt, stood at attention, and saluted—but couldn't be bothered to say a single word of flattery.
His name was Lü Jinshan, and he was the station chief of the border defense station.
"Keep it up. One of these days I'll claim credit for you with the higher-ups and push for your promotion."
Lü Jinshan's face stayed cheerful, as though he were not the very man who had been blocking Lu Zhao's promotions all along.
In Lu Zhao's first year, just after he arrived, Lü Jinshan had him transferred off the front-line company on the grounds that he "needed experience in more posts."
The second year, Lu Zhao finally got into a company and earned a second-class merit in a shootout with drug traffickers—and Lü Jinshan cited "work performance still under review" and dragged the matter out to the minimum service period before processing the promotion.
The third year, it could no longer be held back, and Lu Zhao made first lieutenant—but battalion-level posts were sealed off, and he was handed an empty title.
This year, with Zhang Like's help, Lu Zhao had finally made first lieutenant and become platoon leader of the outpost company.
All of it should have come a year earlier.
After a few words of encouragement, Lü Jinshan clasped his hands behind his back and left, putting on all the airs of an important man.
People began filing out of the meeting room. Zhang Like came through the door and walked over to Lu Zhao, who came straight to the point:
"Lend me some money again."
"What for?" Zhang Like was wary. "Didn't I just lend you money to treat your mother?"
"My phone's broken."
Lu Zhao produced a dual-folding phone.
Zhang Like hesitated for a long while. "I'll just buy one for you."
"A measly thousand yuan and you drag your feet—afraid I won't pay you back?" Lu Zhao was speechless. "If you're short, I'll go borrow from your nephew."
"I already told him not to lend you money."
Seeing that everyone around had dispersed, Zhang Like put an arm around Lu Zhao's shoulders and, lowering his voice, told him frankly: "It's not that I'm afraid you won't pay me back. I'm afraid you'll use my money to buy a ticket to Cangwu City. If they dare to squeeze you this hard, they'll be ready for you. Listen to me—worst comes to worst, just quit."
That was what he was wary of. A thousand yuan was enough to get from Nanhai to Cangwu City.
Since ancient times there had been the saying that a common man's rage can spill blood five paces, and modern times were no different. As a superhuman, Lu Zhao had it in him to fight to the death and take others with him.
The armory had been under heavy guard these past few days because of Lu Zhao; the station chief feared he would seize it. If Lu Zhao got hold of a sniper rifle, the consequences would be unthinkable—the station chief would probably flee in the night.
Whether the whole station could stop Lu Zhao came down to how many rounds were in his gun.
Lu Zhao said, "I'm from good red stock. Would I do something like that?"
"Hard to say."
Even after Lu Zhao's repeated assurances, Zhang Like still wouldn't hand over cash, so he took him out and bought him a phone instead.
Afterward they went to a restaurant together.
Three rounds of drinks in, Zhang Like said, "The fugitive you killed today was one of the Greenwood."
Greenwood meant bandits who gathered in the mountains and forests; since the '30s it had come to mean one bandit power in particular.
In its early years the Greenwood roamed all over the country, burning, killing, and looting without restraint. Many of the major crimes had been theirs.
"Then I've done a good deed." Lu Zhao smiled, unconcerned, and added with a trace of contempt: "A rabble of clay chickens and earthen dogs—you think they can turn the world upside down?"
"Back then the times were unstable, and beast tides on the outside pinned down the army—that's the only reason they got to run wild. Now, in peacetime, anyone who tries to gather in the mountains will only get wiped out."
These so-called righteous outlaws were gangsters at bottom; all they did was bully men and abuse women, burn, kill, and loot.
Zhang Like was noncommittal. "That may be, but you still need to watch your own safety. The leadership says they'll give you paid leave for a while. What do you think?"
He hoped Lu Zhao would cool off for a time.
Lu Zhao said, "Afraid I'll run off with a gun?"
"Afraid." Zhang Like poured him more wine. "In private, Lü Jinshan said you can't stay in a front-line post any longer. But with a record and merits like yours, demotion is out of the question, and promotion runs into the Chen family."
"The station chief says he can arrange a deputy regimental rank for you: assistant director of the convalescent home."
Lu Zhao fell silent, and for a moment even Zhang Like's breathing slowed.
He understood Zhang Like's subtext perfectly well: the higher-ups still meant to hold him back, but they were afraid of provoking him completely.
Hence this maneuver that looked like a two-step promotion, jumping straight from first lieutenant to deputy regimental rank, when in fact it was meant to dump him in a retirement home.
A post's worth lay not in its rank but in how much power came with it.
Once, Lu Zhao would never have agreed; off the front line, he would truly have no chance to turn things around.
But now, with refining essence into qi, he was absolutely certain he could reach fifty points of life force in a short time and thereby qualify to transfer to civilian work at will.
A Martial Marquis was a colossus to any individual, but the Yan Federation was not her Chen family's property. Different trades were as far apart as mountains: the Chen family had pull in the border defense system, but other places were another matter.
He mused, 'I can get a deputy regimental rank on my record, then transfer out.'
A lightness he had never felt before rose in him. Perhaps this was freedom.
As long as his life-force development kept climbing steadily, he would never have to bow to anyone.
Lu Zhao asked, "The rainy season makes the demon beasts more active. If I leave, who takes charge of Ant Ridge Outpost?"
Zhang Like answered, "Not settled yet, but it'll most likely be Qin Ze or Liang Fei."
"Qin Ze muddles through every assignment; he can't shoulder that. Liang Fei is smooth, but too much of a snob to be entrusted with it. Zhang Yanfeng has only ever done clerical work—no front-line experience."
Lu Zhao shook his head, rejecting them out of hand. He didn't believe any of the three could hold Ant Ridge.
The three were old hands at the border defense who had put in over a decade doing nothing but coasting until retirement.
Zhang Like laughed. "You really think everyone's you? The way I see it, they're capable enough—and if they could do the job better than you, Dijing University might as well shut its doors."
There had long been a saying in the Yan Federation: "The Hall of Martial Virtue's men come from Dijing; the generals are made at Chishui."
These were the two giants of education. The overwhelming majority of the big names in military and political circles had come out of these two places.
Everyone at the station, Lü Jinshan included, was a clerk or a soldier, their ceilings nailed down; Lu Zhao, by contrast, had been groomed to be a future ruler.
His ability was beyond question; holding everyone else to his standard was simply too harsh.
Lu Zhao frowned and shook his head. "I still don't think much of them."
"Lü Jinshan is being sincere this time. In another two years he'll likely be promoted and gone; there's no need to keep feuding with him." Zhang Like tried to talk him around. "Just endure it for two years. Do it for my sake..."
Lu Zhao cut him off: "The rainy season starts in a month. Mountain floods will carry demon beasts across the border—can those men do the job? I can go, but it has to be after the rainy season."
Zhang Like was taken aback. He had assumed Lu Zhao clung to the front line for the power.
But that was in keeping with his style; a little more smoothness and he might not have ended up in this position.
Yet no one could fault Lu Zhao. He was only holding to what was right.
He sighed. "Lü Jinshan will just think you don't know what's good for you. I'll go talk to him for you."
Lu Zhao knew it was a hard spot for him and promised, "I don't want to stay here my whole life either. After the rainy season I'll accept the promotion."
He wouldn't spend his life in this little place, but he could spare that one month. One more month here meant a few fewer deaths across the three counties and eight townships nearby.
Honestly, if Lu Zhao set his mind on staying, the leadership could only promote him. Procedurally, as long as Lu Zhao committed no error of principle, even the highest official had no way to touch him.
With the matter settled, Zhang Like finally let himself go, eating and drinking freely, and when he was a little tipsy he said:
"You should still keep an eye out for the Greenwood. The crimes that one committed are no small matter—at the meeting just now they said a special investigation team is coming from the commandery."
"The man's dead. What's there to investigate? You think they can make a dead man talk?"
Lu Zhao, though, was somewhat more sober-minded. He had seen something of the world and had come across a great many things at Dijing University.
For instance, the state did have the means to make the dead talk.
He remembered his university mentor.
One course had been called "The Relationship Between Mind and Memory," which taught that psychic power developed inward could read minds—even the minds of the dead.
Such things couldn't be publicized, or people would be spreading rumors again that the authorities were brainwashing everyone.
The "mind" of a dead person, having lost its subjective consciousness, was easier to read than a living person's—but the brain had to be fresh and intact.
Chapter 6