Western Border – Day of Departure
The order came through the most secret communication channel Lanzhou headquarters had, an electronic whisper that traveled hundreds of miles of desert to reach Old Sergeant Major Qian, who then delivered it personally to Hu Yanzhen. The message was short and matter-of-fact: Hand over temporary command of the "Desert Wolf" unit. Report to Nanjing. Immediately. Alpha priority.
Hu Yanzhen stood atop the ruined fortress wall, letting the dry desert wind blow against his face. Below, the remnants of his troops gathered. Only a handful remained of his once proud cavalry unit. Faces that had once been full of youthful pride and vigor now looked old, streaked with dust and sorrow. He descended the worn stone steps, his steps heavy.
He pointed to a young lieutenant named Ma, a tough soldier whose eyes still held a hint of fire. "Lieutenant Ma, you are in charge until a replacement officer arrives from Lanzhou. Take care of them."
Then, he turned to his men. Silence fell over the courtyard as all eyes turned to him. He wanted to speak some grand speech, some rousing speech, but all that came out was a hoarse voice full of suppressed emotion.
"I must go," he said. "Orders from Nanjing. I don't know why, but I know it has something to do with what happened in the valley." He paused, swallowing. "Listen to me. Trust no one from headquarters until I return. Take care of each other. I swear… I swear by every one of our fallen brothers, I will return. And I will bring justice with me."
He didn't wait for a response. With one final, stiff nod, he turned and walked toward the two horses that had been prepared. Sergeant Major Qian had arranged for two of his most trusted bodyguards from his intelligence unit to accompany him—two quiet men with scars on their faces that showed they had fought more with knives than with words.
They traveled east, leaving behind the fortress that had been a silent witness to his struggle. They moved quickly, avoiding the main roads and choosing the winding salt trade routes. But Hu Yanzhen had a nagging feeling. The Oda network had tried to kill him once. They would try again.
His suspicions were confirmed the second night. They stopped at a small, remote train station in Shaanxi Province, a place seemingly forgotten by time. The plan was to catch a freight train heading east to speed up the journey. The station was deserted, lit only by a few oil lanterns swaying in the wind.
As they waited on the dark platform, Hu Yanzhen sensed something was wrong. The silence was too deep. Even the stray dogs that usually roamed the streets were nowhere to be seen. "Get ready," he whispered to his two guards.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the cargo piles, three figures emerged. They wore no uniforms. They moved with deadly efficiency, daggers gleaming in their hands. Assassins.
The fight was fast and brutal. There were no screams, just the sound of metal clashing with metal, the grunts of breath, and the sound of bodies falling. One of Hu Yanzhen's bodyguards fell with a knife in his neck, but he managed to shoot one of the attackers before he died. Hu Yanzhen and the remaining bodyguards fought shoulder to shoulder. Hu Yanzhen, driven by a burning rage, moved like a demon. He parried the knife blow, broke his attacker's wrist, and finished him off with a single muffled Mauser shot.
The last attacker, seeing his two comrades dead, tried to flee into the darkness. But Hu Yanzhen's remaining bodyguard was faster. He threw his knife with terrifying precision, and the man fell to his knees.
In the silence that followed, Hu Yanzhen examined the bodies. There was no identification, no identification. Just plain black clothing and high-quality weapons. Their hands were callused from gun training, not from working in the fields. These were professionals, sent to make sure he never reached Nanjing.
"They know we're coming," the remaining bodyguard said, his voice strained.
"Yes," Hu Yanzhen replied, wiping blood from his pistol. "That means whatever awaits us in Nanjing… is very important."
They left the bodies on the platform and boarded the first passing freight train, hiding among the sacks of grain. For the rest of the journey, Hu Yanzhen could not sleep.
He sat in the crackling darkness, thinking back to the ambush. He stared at Lieutenant Zhou's coded notes in the moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the carriage. "…INSIDER N… ODA… DANGER…" The danger was now real, following him like a shadow. And his internal conflict about Lee Junshan grew stronger. Could Lee have sent these assassins? Or was the fake telegram really a ploy to divide them, as his instincts suggested? He didn't know, but he knew he had to get answers in Nanjing, or die trying.
Northern Manchuria – Heading South
In the cold north, He Xiang's departure was much quieter, but no less thrilling. Secret orders from General Zhang had come via a courier from Harbin, a "watch importer" whose eyes were too sharp for a mere merchant. The code was correct. The message was simple: Return to Nanjing. Immediately. Maintain absolute secrecy.
He Xiang knew he couldn't just disappear. Major Feng and, more importantly, the cunning Second Lieutenant Wang Deshan, would soon become suspicious. He needed to create a story, a disguise that would not raise questions.
The night before his "departure," he summoned Sergeant Liu to his barracks. He did not tell the old sergeant everything, only what he needed to know. "Sergeant, I have been called on special duty. I will be away for a while. You are in charge of our boys. Keep a low profile, do routine patrols, do not attract attention. Understand?"
Sergeant Liu looked at his captain, his experienced eyes seeing something more than routine duty. "Take care, Captain," was all he said, a sentence that carried years of loyalty.
The next morning, He Xiang officially took a few days off, citing "urgent family matters" in Harbin—a story he had been cultivating for the past few weeks. He left the garrison on horseback, heading north toward Harbin for all to see.
However, once he was out of sight of the garrison, he made a sharp turn into a remote forest where a contact was waiting for him. There, he took off his uniform. Captain He Xiang of the National Revolutionary Army disappeared. In his place was Mr. Chen, a weary-looking fur trader from the hinterland, wearing a thick sheepskin cloak and a fur hat that covered most of his face. A thin false mustache and a slightly rougher manner of speaking completed the disguise.
His journey south was a lesson in the conditions of his country. He did not ride first-class; he traveled by wagon, on crowded riverboats, and sometimes on foot. He slept in cheap inns that smelled of wine and sweat, sharing stories with fellow merchants, laborers, and farmers.
At a small town near the Korean border, he had to pass through a military checkpoint manned by troops who looked more like uniformed thugs than soldiers. The sergeant on duty, with a greedy face, tried to extort money from him.
"A fine fox fur," the sergeant said, caressing He Xiang's wares. "The transit tax on such a luxury item is very high."
He Xiang, in the persona of Mr. Chen, bowed respectfully and smiled resignedly. "Of course, Sir Sergeant. Our country needs every penny to fight the bandits." As he spoke, he deftly slipped a few bills into the sergeant's hand, along with a small bottle of wine he always carried for such purposes. The sergeant grinned smugly and waved him on. He Xiang continued on his way, his heart cold. It was this kind of corruption that allowed people like Wang Deshan to thrive.
A few days later, in a teahouse in Mukden, he happened to sit next to two Japanese men who were talking quietly. Their clothes were those of ordinary merchants, but their postures were too straight, and their way of scanning the room was too alert. They were intelligence agents, he was sure of it. He pretended to be asleep on his desk, his ears catching bits of their conversation about "assets in Nanjing" and "problems with the northern supply lines." His heart pounded, but he remained silent, his persona as a weary merchant protecting him.
This trip had been an eye-opener. As an officer, he had viewed the war from a strategic perspective. As Lord Chen, he had viewed it from below. He saw the poverty, the fear in the eyes of the common people, and the instability that was eating away at the country from within. This was no longer just about stopping a conspiracy; it was about saving the soul of a nation. This experience tempered his already strong resolve into even harder steel.
Nanjing – Waiting in a Teahouse
In Nanjing, Lee Junshan waited. He was the first to arrive at the appointed meeting point: a quiet old teahouse called the "Quiet Bamboo Pavilion" in the Fuzimiao district, far from the bustling government center. The place had been chosen by General Zhang for its quaint atmosphere and its clientele, who were mostly old scholars and artists, not politicians or spies.
He sat alone in a private room on the second floor, the window overlooking a small, beautiful garden where bamboo groves rustled gently in the breeze and moss grew on the rocks. The aroma of brewing Longjing tea filled the air. It was all designed to be calming, but Lee Junshan's nerves were as taut as a violin string.
General Zhang had told him that He Xiang and Hu Yanzhen were on their way. Waiting for them felt like waiting for an inevitable storm. He had arranged everything with General Zhang: securing the teahouse, placing invisible guards around the area, and reviewing every scrap of intelligence they had gathered.
To pass the time, he took an early stroll around the district. He passed over the arched stone bridges over the Qinhuai Canal, where sightseeing boats glided gracefully by. He stopped in front of an old bookstore where he, Hu Yanzhen, and He Xiang had once spent afternoons as cadets, debating the strategies of Sun Tzu. The memories felt like they were from another life.
The three of them had taken very different paths. He had treaded the path of intelligence and politics in the capital. He Xiang had faced betrayal in the cold wilderness. And Hu Yanzhen… Hu Yanzhen had faced hell in the hot desert. How had war and loss changed them? Would their complicated friendship survive the pressures to come?
He returned to the teahouse, his mind full of questions.
He Xiang was the first to arrive. She emerged several hours later, no longer in her fur trader disguise. She was dressed in a simple navy qipao, her hair tied back neatly. Her face looked thinner, and there was a deep weariness in her eyes, but her determination shone brighter than ever.
When she saw Lee Junshan, a look of genuine relief crossed her face. The tension of her long, perilous journey seemed to ease a little.
"Junshan," she said softly, her voice slightly hoarse.
"He Xiang. Welcome back," Lee Junshan replied, standing to greet her. There were a million things he wanted to ask—about her journey, about the dangers she had faced, about how she was feeling—but he knew this was not the time. Their presence here was about duty, not personal sentiment. "You look tired. Please sit down."
They waited in slightly awkward silence for nearly an hour. He Xiang ordered Longjing tea, and its gentle aroma helped soothe their nerves. They didn't need to speak. They had been friends long enough to understand each other's thoughts in silence.
Finally, the sound they had been waiting for came. Heavy military boots thudded up the wooden stairs, each step firm and purposeful. The sliding door of the room swung open roughly, and Hu Yanzhen stepped inside, bringing with it the chill of the desert and the ozone scent of an approaching storm.
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*****to be continued chapter 8