Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Warden's Pleasure (Part One)

The phrase "the military's most dangerous criminals" was enough to make Zhao Li snap to full alert. The prison management he had studied before was nothing more than ordinary correctional facilities; it seemed the skills he had learned were of little use in this fortress-like special prison, sealed to the extreme.

This tightly guarded area was just the outer perimeter of the prison. Zhao Li could hardly imagine what lay within.

"You’re a newcomer, so remember this well: every person here is extremely dangerous," the lieutenant repeated, stressing the peril of the inmates. "Unless necessary, do not initiate contact with them." He glanced at Zhao Li’s slightly slender build, worry evident in his eyes as he admonished, "Especially when they try to provoke you—do not lose your temper!"

Zhao Li mentally noted each word. The lieutenant’s advice was for his own good—a kindness he dared not disregard.

"Come, the warden wants to see you." After passing through countless doors and checkpoints, they finally entered the interior. Zhao Li had no time to observe the prison’s inner workings; the lieutenant immediately led him in another direction.

As a newcomer, meeting his direct superior was important. Without a word, Zhao Li followed the lieutenant up a staircase.

Though still within the prison, this route to the warden’s office was less fortified—only two simple iron doors, then a vast office space. Yet the warden was not present. The lieutenant escorted him toward a nearby iron ladder.

"The warden is upstairs—be careful!" With these words, the lieutenant left Zhao Li standing there, bewildered and somewhat at a loss.

Be careful? Of what? The inmates, or the warden? He was here to see the warden, not some infamous criminal, right? But to manage such dangerous men, the warden must be formidable—perhaps the warning was about him.

Standing beside the iron ladder, Zhao Li closed his eyes, activating his basic body-strengthening technique. Three minutes sufficed for a complete cycle, calming his nerves. He straightened his uniform, ensured his appearance was proper, and then began to climb.

At the top was a sealed metal door. Zhao Li gently grasped the handle, turned it, pushed—before he saw anything, a peculiar scent drifted through.

First, a breath of fresh sea air. The wind was clean, lacking the fishy tang—this was a freshwater sea, after all. Amidst the metallic odors, it was a remarkable contrast.

But the other scent was even more striking—something Zhao Li had never encountered. It was as if dried salted fish were tossed in a pile of fermented dough, soaked with who-knows-how-old slops, and steeped with a long-dead cat. In this era, such revolting smells were rare.

Unable to help himself, Zhao Li wrinkled his nose, hesitating at the doorway. Was this some sort of traditional "welcome ritual" for newcomers? He still vividly recalled that roller-coaster ride in outer space not long ago. No sounds came from beyond the door—should he go out or not?

He gritted his teeth, deciding to face it head-on. If it was tradition, there was no escaping. Trying to avoid it might earn him a reputation for slyness among future comrades, making life less pleasant. With that thought, Zhao Li pushed the door wide open and strode out boldly.

"Reporting, sir! Sergeant Zhao Li, ordered to report for duty!" Regardless of the circumstances, since he’d been sent here under the warden’s name, Zhao Li followed protocol, saluting and announcing himself loudly.

To his surprise, there was indeed someone here—a man in military uniform, elderly. The uniform fit him well, clean and neat, but his rank was only major. His hair and beard were white, trimmed with care, and he exuded a certain vitality, though Zhao Li couldn’t quite name the quality.

In front of the old man was a metal dining table, apparently bolted to the metal platform beneath. A large sunshade stood behind him, casting a shadow over both the man and the table. The old man reclined comfortably in a lounge chair, gazing out over the boundless sea, gently rocking in leisure.

A refreshing sea breeze swept by, bringing a pleasant coolness. If not for the foul stench emanating from the table, it would be impossible to imagine this was a special prison; it felt more like a beach resort.

The only thing Zhao Li couldn’t understand was how, with such beautifully presented food and a bottle of chilled wine on the table, the air could be so unbearable.

Zhao Li’s loud report drew the old man’s gaze from the sea. His eyes were unchanged, still cloudy, as he scrutinized Zhao Li from head to toe. He pointed to a metal chair nearby and said softly, "Sit."

"Yes, sir!" This must be the warden—his words were orders. Zhao Li, suppressing the pungent odor, took his seat in the indicated chair.

The moment he sat, he realized something was amiss. The metal chair, also affixed to the platform, had been baking in the sun for who knows how long, with no shade from the umbrella. It was scorching hot, and as he sat, it felt as though his backside might be cooked on an iron skillet.

The old man seemed not to notice. He reached for a slice of golden toasted bread, took a dining knife in his right hand, and scooped a large chunk of something dark gray from a crystal-clear jar, spreading it over the bread as if it were butter.

As he spread it, an even stronger stench wafted over. Zhao Li’s nostrils flared twice, but he held his tongue, watching the old man’s every move intently.

The old man spread the substance carefully, evenly covering one side of the bread. Setting the knife down, he picked up the bread and, almost boastfully, asked Zhao Li, "Sergeant, this is a rare, limited-edition premium Wang Zhihong stinky tofu. Would you like to try it?"

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