Chapter 30: Injured
When Tang Heng returned that evening, Zhao Man noticed him limping and hurried over to meet him.
“What happened to your leg?”
“A brawl broke out at the emergency relief shelter. Caught a stray strike during the scuffle. Nothing serious.”
Zhao Man supported Tang Heng as he sat down, only to see a blood-soaked slash running down his trouser leg. Peeling back the fabric, the wound beneath was deep enough to expose bone.
Fetching the household medical kit, Zhao Man disinfected the gash, dusted it with styptic powder, and waited for the bleeding to staunch before misting it generously with the base’s restorative trauma spray.
Settling Tang Heng’s leg comfortably, Zhao Man poured him a glass of warm water and headed to the stove to boil noodles.
Ever since the base issued the warning for the third major cold wave, Tang Heng had been returning later with each passing day. Anticipating this, Zhao Man had drawn on his memories to fry up a savory meat mince for topping, spending his idle daylight hours rolling out fresh noodles.
When he set the steaming bowl before Tang Heng, the man was clearly famished. Too starved to speak, he shoveled down great mouthfuls of noodles. Seeing his ravenous state, Zhao Man reignited the burner and cooked a second bowl.
Because Tang Heng was an Alpha and couldn’t stomach the base’s free municipal tap water, Zhao Man had specially installed a secondary supply line. Medium-radiation water cost one point per cubic meter. With two separate lines running into the house now, all potable water came from the medium-radiation tap, while routine washing used the free supply.
Two hearty bowls of noodles—thick broth packed with comforting carbs—instantly washed away the day’s bone-deep exhaustion. Watching Tang Heng finish the last drop and nurse a cup of hot water, Zhao Man asked, “You’re hurt like that—do you still have to report for duty tomorrow?”
“I do. The cold snap hits any day now, and the howling blizzards will follow right behind it. Right now, every squad except mine and Brigade 7 is on mandatory stand-down. Our two units are pulling double shifts mentoring the reserves, and we’re stretched thin.”
Seeing the deep worry etched across Zhao Man’s face, Tang Heng smiled faintly. “Don’t fret. With the medicine applied, it’ll seal up overnight. Once we get through these few days, I’ll have an extended leave coming.”
After helping him clean up, Zhao Man returned to the bedroom and helped him lie down, tucking a folded cloth beneath his injured leg. Settling in on the other side of the bed, Zhao Man asked, “Why are only your two squads on active duty?”
“When the gale-force storms hit, we need boots on the ground reinforcing the structural weak points along the base’s energy shield. If the men don’t bank their rest now, they won’t hold out through the storm.”
Zhao Man wanted to press further, but catching the thick layer of exhaustion weighing down Tang Heng’s voice, he held his tongue. “Get some sleep then. Rest up properly.”
“Mm.” A drowsy hum slipped past his lips, and within moments, Tang Heng had drifted off.
In the dead of night, Zhao Man slipped out from under the covers and used his terminal’s light to inspect Tang Heng’s leg. The wound hadn’t fully knitted together. Retrieving the spray, he misted it with another layer.
“A-Man?” a sleep-laden voice murmured. The cool prickle of the medicinal mist had roused Tang Heng from his slumber.
“Yeah. The cut hasn’t completely closed, so I put on more medicine. It’s fine—go back to sleep.”
“Mm. Come lie down too.”
“Coming.”
Setting the medicine aside, Zhao Man slipped beneath the covers. Tang Heng’s fingers sought his out in the dark, clasping his hand tight before his breathing leveled off into sleep once more.
By morning, the wound had shrunk to a shallow, thin line, though it hadn’t fully sealed. Zhao Man gave it another thorough spritz with the spray.
Watching Zhao Man fuss over him, Tang Heng caught his hand and said, “It’s fine. Most of the logistical assignments are already locked in. Today won’t be nearly as hectic, so I’ll be home early.”
After Tang Heng departed, the four worker ants were busy securing the final stretch of the planting platform overhead. Zhao Man resumed drilling his marksmanship to the side. Seeing that his scores had actually regressed compared to last week, he lowered the weapon in defeat and pulled up his terminal to browse.
The moment he opened Dome 87, a post detailing yesterday’s incident at the emergency relief shelter caught his eye.
Two members from the Flying Tiger and Steel Fang hunting squads had been housed at the relief facility, throwing their weight around and terrorizing the shelter under the banner of their outfits.
Usually, each man extorted a corner of the hall, shaking people down for small scraps here and there. Between the crowded conditions and fear of retaliation, the refugees had swallowed their grievances in silence. But over time, their territorial borders had crept closer together, until they finally collided head-on a few days ago.
Just yesterday, an elderly member of a refugee family had starved themselves to the brink of death to hoard a handful of rations for their child. When both predators tried to snatch those hoarded scraps at the exact same moment, the homeowner snapped, drawing a blade and slashing both men.
Wounded, the two retreated home feeling thoroughly humiliated. Gathering a posse of their squad mates, they marched back to take violent retribution, only to trigger base-level intervention. Tang Heng’s injury had been sustained in the ensuing chaos.
Scrolling to the bottom of the dossier, Zhao Man found the disciplinary actions handed down by the administration: Under base regulations, looting food carries a tenfold punitive fine. Injuries sustained during the commission of a robbery must be treated entirely at the perpetrators’ personal expense. Furthermore, Flying Tiger and Steel Fang are assessed an administrative penalty of twenty points each for harboring undisciplined personnel.
Looking at the two youthful faces attached to the report, Zhao Man couldn’t help but think back to his childhood companions from his past life.
Both had been raised by their grandparents. Come middle school, however, a lack of supervision saw them running with local hooligans. By their third year, an ugly street brawl landed them at the local police precinct. Thankfully, they skirted formal criminal records. The next time Zhao Man saw them, they were sporting bleach-blonde hair, leaning against souped-up motorbikes and exhaling thick clouds of cigarette smoke. Years later, after Zhao Man entered the workforce, word reached him that their parents had pulled strings to secure them jobs as auxiliary police officers back in town.
Reflecting on that past, Zhao Man looked at the two mugshots on his screen and wondered: Did these two also have someone in their corner willing to bail them out of trouble?
After skimming the forums for a while, Zhao Man pulled a cut of pork from the outdoor bamboo trough and set it in water to thaw. Two-thirds of the pork remained, the first sack of potatoes was nearly cashed, three sand yams were left, the dried water dropwort was gone, a small bowl of bracken pickles remained, half the water bamboo was left, and the dried fish was fully devoured. His largest reserve was the salted bamboo shoots; because they were so intensely salty, he only tossed them in when simmering potato or sand yam puree.
Their food was disappearing fast, but fortunately Tang Heng carted fresh supplies home every day—sometimes half a sack of potatoes, sometimes a pouch of flour, sometimes a bag of rice—leaving them well-stocked for the time being.
He soaked a bowl of dried water bamboo, shredded the salted bamboo shoots into fine strips, and rinsed them several times. Hauling out the brazier stove, Zhao Man built a fire, mounted the heavy pot Tang Heng had brought home, and filled it with water.
During his childhood in his past life, the countryside had no electric rice cookers. His grandmother had always simmered rice in an iron pot over firewood, slow-roasting a fragrant, golden crust of crispy scorched rice along the bottom. Whether eaten plain or drenched in rich broth, it was an absolute delicacy.
Once the water came to a rolling boil, he scooped a bowl of white rice from the large bedroom chest, washed it clean, dumped it into the pot, and brought it back to a bubbling simmer. Ladling out the excess starchy water, he seated the lid securely, wrapped a damp cloth around the rim to trap the steam, and knocked the fire down to two or three burning logs. The gentle simmer steamed off the remaining water, while the lingering embers roasted the crisp crust beneath.
With the rice left to do its work, Zhao Man returned to the kitchen. He heated a pan and tossed in the pork, rendering out the rich fat before adding sliced potatoes for a quick stir-fry. Pouring in water, he tossed in the salted bamboo shoots and brought the stew to a boil.
Seeing the brazier’s fire dying down, Zhao Man added more kindling, blew it into life, set the rice pot aside to rest, and transferred the soup pot over the flame to continue simmering.
By the time everything was cooked through, Tang Heng still hadn’t returned. Zhao Man switched off the courtyard heater, moved the pot of rice into the kitchen, turned on the indoor heating unit, and settled back down to read forums in quiet solitude.
Nearly an hour drifted by before Tang Heng stepped through the door, lugging a massive duffel. While the man washed up, Zhao Man stoked the embers in the stove. The rice sitting in the kitchen was still pleasantly warm.
Once the soup came back to a rolling boil, Zhao Man gave it a taste—the salt was spot on. He tossed in a handful of rehydrated water bamboo, seasoned it with dashes of umami and chili powder, and the two sat by the glowing fire to eat dinner.
There wasn’t a mountain of rice—just a bowl apiece. Even though they had rice and flour stockpiled, the undisputed staple of their daily diet remained potatoes.
“The cold front is projected to hit tomorrow evening. I probably won’t be able to come home for three days or so. A-Man, keep everything I told you in mind,” Tang Heng reminded him.
“Got it.” Zhao Man kept his focus on his bowl. In the nearly six months since arriving in this world, he had eaten white rice a grand total of three times; each occasion was savored slowly, chewing every grain with deliberate care.
The rice had successfully formed a golden crust, though letting it sit had left it somewhat soft. Ladling a spoonful of savory broth over it and letting it soak, the puffed grains released an increasingly nutty aroma with every chew.
Tang Heng wondered if Zhao Man had even absorbed a word he said, but seeing him eating with such quiet devotion, he dug in with gusto as well. Pure white rice was hardly a regular treat for him either; at the garrison mess hall, rice was strictly stretched into congee, where a giant ladleful would yield barely a mouthful of grains, and even that was considered rich broth.
Dinner finished, Zhao Man checked Tang Heng’s wound again. It had completely closed. The two set to work unpacking the heavy duffel.
Inside was roughly ten catties of meat, a sack of flour, and a sack of potatoes.
“What I brought back today is the patrol team’s annual food ration subsidy, with two more bags of potatoes still to come. Combined with what we already have stored, our winter provisions should be more than covered,” Tang Heng said.
Zhao Man ran the tally in his head. Of the two giant sacks of potatoes Tang Heng had brought before their wedding, one had already been eaten. The subsequent deliveries of flour and rice had been ten catties each; about two catties of flour remained, while the rice had barely been touched. Since their wedding, Tang Heng had steadily ferried food back. They now had a sack and a half of potatoes, about fifteen catties of flour including today’s haul, roughly eleven catties of rice, and plenty of nutrient solutions—he still had twenty vials left, while Tang Heng’s reserves were anyone’s guess.
“How much longer until the snow season ends?” Zhao Man asked.
“Once this cold snap passes, we’ll face about half a month of violent gales. When the storm clears, temperatures will slowly climb and the thaw will begin. That’s actually the coldest stretch. It takes over twenty days for the snowpack to melt before residents can move freely outside, and heading out into the wild to scavenge will take another half a month beyond that.”
Adding it up in his mind, Zhao Man calculated roughly two months remaining. Their current food stores were more than sufficient.
With grain in hand, the heart stays calm. Zhao Man neatly stowed away the fresh rations, climbed into bed, and drifted off to sleep in absolute peace.
