The morning air in northern Manchuria was sharp in his lungs, carrying the scent of wet pine and frozen earth that seemed never to have completely thawed. He Xiang held the letter in his hand, feeling the thinness of the paper contrasting with the weight of the words. The letter had come from Lee Junshan, brought by an old ginseng merchant whose wrinkles held more secrets than any map. Lee Junshan's secret courier network operated with a silent, admirable efficiency.
He Xiang had read it many times by the dim light of the lamp in his barracks. Each sentence was written with Lee Junshan's characteristic calm, but his tone was urgent. Lee did not dismiss He Xiang's report of possible Japanese arms smuggling; instead, he confirmed it and urged him to be more careful. Gather more details if possible—names, delivery routes, frequencies—but put your personal safety first. It was the last sentence that caught He Xiang's attention most: Your findings may be related to the "bigger problem" I am dealing with in Nanjing.
bigger problem. He Xiang folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his uniform. He knew Lee Junshan was not one to exaggerate. If he called it "big trouble," it meant that there was something very rotten in the heart of the Republic. His sense of isolation in this remote outpost suddenly felt heavier. He was not just fighting bandits or border infiltrators; he was on the fringes of a conspiracy that reached all the way to the capital.
His conviction was strengthened the next day when he was summoned to Major Feng's office. The major, a potbellied man with a face that always seemed to be sweating despite the cold, was studying a map at his desk. He did not look at He Xiang as he spoke.
"Captain He," he said, his voice tinged with irritation. "I have received reports of your 'unofficial' patrols at night. Enough of these 'wild forays.' They are unsettling the locals and wasting resources."
"With all due respect, Major, I believe there is significant smuggling activity in this sector. I am merely following a lead," He Xiang replied calmly, keeping his voice neutral.
Major Feng finally raised his head, his small, beady eyes glaring. "Your clues have yielded nothing but rumors. Your job is to guard the designated patrol routes, not play detective. Starting tomorrow, I want your unit to take over patrols in the Southwest Sector. There have been reports of wolves harassing livestock there."
He Xiang could barely suppress a sneer. The Southwest Sector was the quietest and furthest from any suspicious borders or trade routes. Major Feng had not only stopped him; he had actively sent him to the wrong place. This was no longer negligence; this was deliberate obstruction. Someone had told Major Feng to keep He Xiang away. Probably Second Lieutenant Wang Deshan, who had given him an "unofficial warning" a few days earlier.
"Understood, Major," He Xiang said, giving a stiff salute before turning and leaving.
The order only served to light a fire under his composure. The official chain of command was dead to him. He could trust no one in this garrison, save for a handful of men in his own unit. That night, he gathered them in a dimly lit corner of the barracks. There was Sergeant Liu, a hard-faced veteran who had served in Manchuria for a decade and knew every inch of the jungle. There were also Corporals Chen and Zhang, two young men from his hometown who had followed him north out of loyalty.
"Official orders are for us to patrol the southwest tomorrow morning," He Xiang said in a low voice. "But tonight, we have other business. We'll do one last patrol near the border. This is unofficial. If we get caught, I'll take all the blame."
Sergeant Liu grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "It's been a long time since I've had this much fun, Captain. Where are we going?"
"I have a feeling there's an old trail used by loggers, near the Ussuri River," He Xiang replied, unfurling a rough map he had drawn himself based on conversations with local hunters. "It goes through swamps and avoids all checkpoints. If I wanted to smuggle something, I'd use it."
They set off an hour after curfew, slipping out of the garrison like ghosts. They weren't wearing full uniforms, only practical dark clothing and light weapons. They moved in studied silence, communicating with hand signals. The night air was heavy with humidity, and the sounds of insects and frogs from the nearby marshes created a veil of sound that masked their steps.
For hours, they followed the barely visible path, through pale birch trees and dense pine forests. He Xiang felt the familiar tension, the cold adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was his element—a game of shadows, where wit and patience were more valuable than brute strength. They stopped several times, crouching in the darkness as they heard the distant sound of an official patrol, their heartbeats thumping in unison with the rhythm of the crickets.
After nearly three hours of walking, Sergeant Liu, who was in front, suddenly raised his hand. Everyone froze. Liu pointed ahead, at a dim light flickering through the trees. It was not the light of a campfire. Too steady, too sheltered. It was the light of a lantern inside a building.
At He Xiang's signal, they spread out, moving forward in a loose fan formation, from tree to tree, taking advantage of every shadow. Soon, they could see the source of the light: an old, weathered wooden warehouse, hidden in a small valley surrounded by dense forest. It was a perfect location for a covert operation.
He Xiang motioned for his men to stay put, while he crept closer, his belly pressed to the cool, damp ground. He stopped behind a thick undergrowth, only about fifty meters from the warehouse. From there, he had a clear view.
His heart was pounding. Luck was on his side tonight.
An unloading operation was underway. Two large Soviet-style trucks, model ZIS-5s, were parked with their rears facing the wide-open doors of the warehouse. Several men worked quickly but silently, moving long wooden crates from the trucks into the warehouse.
But there was something odd. He Xiang, who had expected to find Japanese weapons, frowned. The crates had Cyrillic letters stenciled on their sides. The guards manning the perimeter were also an odd mix. Most were local Han, dressed like hired thugs, but there were a few tall men with pale skin and blond hair, speaking to each other in thick, raspy Russian.
This was not a Japanese operation. This was a Soviet weapon.
He Xiang felt a wave of confusion. Crates of Mosin-Nagant rifles and Degtyaryov DP-27 light machine guns—the standard Soviet infantry weapon. What did this mean? Were the Japanese and Soviets working together in Manchuria? Or was this a separate separatist operation, playing both sides, accepting help from whoever would give it? The situation was far more complicated than he had expected.
With great caution, he took out his small Leica camera. It was a luxury, the last thing he had bought with his father's remaining money before he left for the north. He viewed it as an investment, a tool to document the truth. He held his breath, steadied his hand, and began to shoot. The soft click of the camera's shutter was barely audible over the sound of the night insects.
He took pictures of the crates, revealing the Cyrillic script. He took pictures of the Russian guards. He took pictures of the trucks, trying to get a clear shot of the hull numbers painted on the sides of the cabs. Each photo was a piece of evidence.
Then, a man stepped out of the warehouse, shouting orders in a sharp, authoritative voice. He was a Chinese officer, his uniform neat even in the middle of the jungle. He walked into the light of the lantern, and He Xiang felt his blood run cold.
The face was so familiar.
It was Second Lieutenant Wang Deshan. The same man on Major Feng's staff who had given him an "informal warning" not to meddle in matters that were none of his business. The same man who had most likely convinced Major Feng to send him on a fruitless wolf-hunting mission. Here he was, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the jungle, overseeing an illegal Soviet arms shipment. The smug smile on his face as he patted one of the crates was undeniable evidence of betrayal.
A cold, controlled rage coursed through He Xiang. This wasn't just corruption. This was betrayal from within. Wang Deshan, an officer in the National Revolutionary Army, was working with the Russians to arm whoever was on Chinese soil.
His first instinct was to attack. His unit was small, but they had the element of surprise. However, he quickly suppressed the urge. He counted the enemy: There were at least fifteen guards inside the warehouse. The four of them didn't stand a chance. A direct confrontation would be suicide, and all evidence would die with it.
No. The smarter path was the shadow path.
He snapped one last photo, the clearest shot of Wang Deshan's face in the lantern light. Then, as cautiously as he had come, he began to back away, motioning for his men to follow.
They slipped away from the scene, their hearts pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and the horror of their discovery. They didn't speak until they were several kilometers away, back on the safe side of the road.
"Captain… it's Lieutenant Wang," Corporal Chen whispered, his voice shaking.
"I know," He Xiang replied. He stopped and leaned against a tree, letting the reality of the night sink in. He now had hard evidence. Photos. Names. Direct links to his own garrison. He couldn't report this to Major Feng, who was clearly complicit or at least willfully blind. To do so would be to sign his own death warrant.
He thought about Lee Junshan's letter. The bigger problem… in Nanjing.
Now he understood. This betrayal was not confined to this remote outpost. Wang Deshan was just a small pawn, a tiny thread in a much larger web. A web that might connect the Soviet smuggling in the north to whatever Lee Junshan was investigating in the south.
He gripped his Leica tightly. This cold, heavy little thing was now his most powerful weapon. He had to get this information to Nanjing, straight into Lee Junshan's hands, bypassing the corrupt chain of command.
That night, Captain He Xiang had changed. He was no longer just a loyal officer trying to do his job. He had become a counterintelligence agent in enemy territory, and his enemy was wearing the same uniform as him. The ghostly trail he had followed through the Manchurian wilderness had led him to the poisonous roots of betrayal. And he knew this was only the beginning.
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***to be continued chapter 5