Chapter 5: Eight Hundred Vigilant Eyes

...When meeting others, speak only a third of what you know; never reveal your whole heart. Each person should sweep the snow in front of their own door, and not concern themselves with the frost on another’s roof.

In the modern world, these words seem self-evident truths; indeed, many parents repeatedly teach their children these very principles from a young age.

This approach is both right and wrong.

It is right because the world has grown increasingly selfish and indifferent, and ignorance of this truth can lead to great misfortune.

Yet it is wrong because some matters cannot be measured solely by reason or self-interest.

By the time I came to understand this truth, I had witnessed too many brave men who, facing the perils of a fallen nation and the extinction of their people, laid down everything and stood firm, only to die before my eyes.

...Excerpted from Hu Biao’s Diary Collection, "Nonsense"...

Three days later, around one o’clock in the afternoon on August 22nd, beneath a large tree by the roadside in a certain part of Changshu.

Spitting out several mouthfuls of saliva, Hu Biao cleared his mouth of the remnants of a ‘San Pao Tai’ cigarette—one without a filter—and the scattered tobacco bits.

Only then did he turn to the four men before him and ask:

“Brothers, continuing like this isn’t going to work, is it? I reckon in about two days, the Third Supplementary Company will reach Modu. By then, it’ll be too late to run.”

For Hu Biao to voice such a question, it was clear these four were all unlucky souls from the modern world.

Among them was Zhou Kun, an elite overseas student; the others were Wang Peng, Gao Yi, and Zhang Wei.

Their backgrounds were as follows: Gao Yi, nearly forty, was a greasy middle-aged man.

In the modern world, he worked as a low-level employee in a company, burdened with elderly parents and young children—family pressures immense, yet his status at home was worse than a dog’s.

He often wore a worried, sour expression, likely fretting over what would happen to his many family members if he died here or never returned to the modern world.

Zhang Wei was a young man from Yangcheng, about twenty years old; a local figure of some influence, whose name carried weight when matters arose.

He once sported flashy blonde hair, adorned with earrings and a nose ring—fashionable accessories all.

But since crossing over, his hairstyle inexplicably became a crew cut, and all those trinkets vanished without a trace.

Frustrated, he often ranted about finding the bastard who dragged him here and vowed to bring brothers to kill him.

Wang Peng was a man in his late twenties, self-proclaimed salesman for a certain company.

He claimed to spend his days chatting and drinking tea with clients, easily earning two to three hundred thousand yuan annually.

It should be noted that all these details were based on their own introductions; whether they were true, or even if their names were genuine, remained uncertain.

Hu Biao always sensed that these fellows were hiding something.

For example, he was fairly certain that Zhang Wei’s boasts were at best half true; the man might just be a petty thug.

Wang Peng, the salesman, likely had military experience—his posture and gait occasionally betrayed traces of his service.

Still, Hu Biao never confronted them about these suspicions.

During daytime marches, veteran soldiers guarded the front and rear of the column, keeping watchful eyes even when nature called—permitting no one to stray beyond their sight.

At night, multiple sentries guarded the camp; there was simply no chance to escape.

As for Gao Yi’s grumbling, Hu Biao understood it well—otherwise, after so many days, they would have fled by now.

Asking such a question came from his own helplessness.

Frustrated, Hu Biao reached into his pocket for a cigarette pack.

He was grateful to the kind folk of northern Jiangsu, who had warmly supported the Third Supplementary Company on its way to Modu.

Though the enemy had yet to impose cruel rule on the occupied territories and the locals had yet to witness their brutalities, deep-seated hatred simmered between them.

Yet, driven by millennia of cultural heritage and an ingrained love for country and home, these villagers still did much for the soldiers—offering shelter, and sharing even the chicken, duck, and fish they could hardly bear to part with, ensuring the men were fed well.

They even sent supplies for the troops.

The pack of ‘San Pao Tai’ cigarettes in Hu Biao’s pocket was a gift from a basket seller, ensuring this chain-smoking veteran did not run dry.

That basket seller wore a coarse short cloth shirt and appeared to be smoking hand-rolled cigarettes himself.

Hu Biao felt a strange guilt every time he lit up.

But since the Third Supplementary Company crossed the Yangtze River yesterday afternoon and reached Changshu, the place felt chaotic, almost abandoned; the roadside was nearly deserted.

Naturally, no one had offered any supplies.

So when Hu Biao checked his pack, he found he had just smoked the last cigarette.

He turned to the others and asked, “Brothers, does anyone have a smoke to spare?”

Hearing this, Wang Peng and Zhou Kun both shook their heads vigorously.

Zhang Wei, the streetwise man, first pulled a plump flea from his collar and crushed it with a bloody squeeze before cursing:

“When you’re out here, loyalty is everything.

If I had a cigarette, you think I’d be waiting for you to ask, you damn punk?”

Gao Yi was more direct—he pulled out a cigarette pack, crushed it into a ball, and tossed it aside, grumbling, “I got a pack three days ago—where do you think the rest went?”

Seeing the crumpled pack on the ground, Hu Biao felt his mood darken.

Grinding his teeth, he swore bitterly:

“Heaven, open your eyes!

I don’t ask for miracles—just one chance to trade ten years of my life for an escape that actually succeeds.”

His words barely fell when the others echoed in agreement, their voices ringing with the desperate resolve to escape at any cost.

“Damn, Hu Biao, you’re ruthless—but count me in for that deal.”

“If we can run, I’ll gladly give up ten years.”

Before they could finish, the company commander, mounted on a warhorse, shouted at the top of his lungs:

“Company, assemble immediately and move out at once.

Make sure to keep up a good pace—if anyone misses the deadline, I’ll remember you, but the commanders at the front won’t.”

Amid the commander’s yelling, Zhang Wei muttered curses:

“That crazy bastard—I swear I’ll kill him one day.”

Though he cursed, the young man still had enough sense to follow Hu Biao and the others as they rose and gathered.

During this, Gao Yi, the honest-faced middle-aged man, lagged behind and quickly picked up the crumpled pack from the ground, slipping it into his pocket.

There were still three cigarettes inside.

Though crumpled, they were still smokeable.

Was this act unloyal? Not at all.

Just as he often told his son back in the modern world:

“When you’re out there, keep your wits about you; don’t give your heart away to everyone you meet—who knows what they’re really like?”

Zhou Kun discreetly felt his own pocket, where a pack with five remaining cigarettes lay.

He muttered softly, audible only to himself:

“There are just a few left—I’m saving them for when I squat to relieve myself.

These days, those filthy dry toilets are so foul that if you don’t smoke a cigarette to mask the smell, you might just die in there...”