Chapter Thirty-One: Charity and Aid (Part One)

The whole ordeal began when Zhao Li unexpectedly received an email from his mother. In this place, not only were there no ordinary forms of entertainment, but even communication was restricted to the military’s channels; there was absolutely no such thing as a civilian network.

Before his assignment here, Zhao Li had been given a military email address, which he had shared with his family. There was no way to video call face-to-face, nor even to make a direct phone call—this primitive method of communication was all he had. As a result, much information couldn't reach Zhao Li in a timely fashion.

After completing his first day of duty, Zhao Li checked his email on the terminal provided in his tiny quarters and immediately saw the letter from his mother.

She simply reminded him to serve well and take care of his health, nothing out of the ordinary. But at the end of the letter, with a tone that was almost casual, she informed him that his father had recently suffered a minor accident and was hospitalized.

A minor accident? Hospitalized? In Zhao Li’s eyes, that was almost unthinkable. His father, after all, was a seventh-level master among civilians; for him to be hospitalized, the incident must have been grave indeed. Yet his mother’s words were vague, and Zhao Li had no way to communicate directly for details. All he could do was wait for news.

Why did this wretched place have a rule that one could only leave after six years of service? Zhao Li couldn’t help but curse inwardly, though his resentment was less for the system itself and more for those who had sent him to this godforsaken place.

Was it Christine? Probably not. Christine now was just someone under protection—surely it was the people above her who had made this decision.

Not that their way of handling things was necessarily wrong. At the very least, this place allowed him to serve his term in peace and then return to society, in line with his own preference for keeping a low profile. That is, unless something like today happened—finding out something had happened at home but being utterly powerless to learn what.

It was undeniable that the accident was serious; otherwise, his mother wouldn’t have emailed him at all. Still, it couldn’t have been catastrophic, since she hadn’t blown the matter out of proportion. Having grown up with his mother, Zhao Li knew that even if she couldn't help but confide in him, his father would stop her from making too much of it.

He ate, he trained, but his mind could not settle; he couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stand at ease—his worry gnawed at him. What exactly had happened at home, and what would be the consequences? In the end, he could only seek help from the old warden. Here, the old warden enjoyed such luxurious privileges; surely helping with this small matter would be no trouble?

The warden's door was never locked. As Zhao Li raised his hand to knock, he heard the old warden call from within, “Kid, get in here and speak.”

Since he needed help, Zhao Li didn’t care about the warden’s attitude. He was the subordinate, after all; who in the military hadn’t heard worse? He entered as instructed, giving a crisp, regulation salute.

“What is it, kid?” The old warden lounged with both feet propped high on his broad metal desk, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth, savoring the smoke. Seeing Zhao Li salute, he merely waved a hand in return, a gesture so casual it could hardly be called a response.

Zhao Li was about to speak when the communicator on the desk chirped. The old warden raised a finger to silence him, then pressed the call button.

The screen beside them flickered to life, revealing a soldier in uniform. Zhao Li, though not directly facing the screen, could see clearly enough that the man bore the insignia of a lieutenant general.

The general appeared to be about a hundred years old, which, given the contemporary average lifespan approaching two centuries, was not old at all—still in his prime. He stood perfectly straight, his uniform immaculate and unwrinkled. As soon as the warden answered, the general said nothing, but raised his hand in a formal salute.

To Zhao Li’s astonishment, the old warden remained as he was: feet up, utterly at ease. He waved a nonchalant hand in return, and the general seemed not in the least surprised.

How could this be? The warden wore the rank of colonel—several grades below a lieutenant general—yet did not even bother to return a proper salute, while the general saluted first. Unless Zhao Li’s eyes deceived him, the military’s protocols must have changed dramatically very recently—far too recently for him to have been informed.

Zhao Li’s eyes widened in disbelief. He could hardly process what he was seeing. Dimly, he heard the warden, cigar still in his mouth, ask, “How’s that thing I asked you to investigate?” The rest of the conversation faded into the background.

Zhao Li was bewildered—was this really the military? He’d only been here a day, yet he’d witnessed so many things that defied all logic. The warden lived with the luxury of an emperor, albeit with some eccentric tastes one might find hard to accept, but there was no denying that the things he enjoyed could hardly be had even by real emperors in the most bustling of cities. Yet here, in a prison remote from civilization, he could indulge in such pastimes—a level of power Zhao Li could scarcely imagine.

What baffled Zhao Li even more was how, according to the prison management course he’d studied, he was expected to address the inmates as “sir.” What kind of world was this, where guards called prisoners “sir”? Aside from the prisoners being unable to order the guards around, it seemed that all their comforts and privileges were up to the standards of officers, while the guards themselves had the worst conditions.

The scene he had just witnessed utterly overturned the traditions instilled in him during basic training, where one instinctively saluted officers. Now, a lieutenant general saluted an old colonel first, and so naturally at that. The warden accepted it as his due, barely bothering to acknowledge it. Was the general perhaps a junior relative of the warden’s? Even so, shouldn’t military decorum be observed, no matter how close the relationship? Such informality—what was the world coming to?

Shocked, Zhao Li even began to wonder if he was hallucinating. He closed his eyes and performed a round of basic health exercises to clear his mind. When he looked again, he saw the warden just as the communicator switched off, the image on the screen vanishing into darkness.

“Well, kid, what did you want?” The warden’s manner suggested he had noticed Zhao Li’s reaction but got straight to the point.

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Third update—aiming for the rankings, please vote to support! Thank you, everyone!