The third year and the eighth day—no, it should be the ninth day.
Clear.
Or…maybe still the eighth day?
Cao Wen stared at the white bed sheet, the smell of disinfectant heavy in his nose.
In his mind, he was calculating how many days and months had passed since he had been lying motionless like a piece of wood in this sanatorium bed.
Day after day passed in a daze.
Even his once-clear mind was growing dull—he could no longer even track time.
It was laughable, really.
Who would imagine that he was once a shining star in the Interstellar Alliance Army, who had led the Alliance to victory again and again?
But everything changed in the final battle that brought peace to the stars.
He fought valiantly, suffered grave injuries, and when they managed to save his life, he had already lost control of his limbs.
Now that peace had finally come, he could only spend his days in bed or in a wheelchair.
“Ah Wen, you’re awake!”
Just as Cao Wen was lost in thought, a middle-aged man in military uniform entered the room, eyes filled with emotion.
He placed a bouquet of lilies at the bedside and sat down, joy on his face.
“Good news from the Medical Research Institute—they’ve made progress. Ah Wen, there’s hope for your recovery!”
Hearing the word “recovery,” Cao Wen didn’t smile as expected.
His expression stiffened.
He’d heard this too many times over the past three years.
At first, he had been full of hope, grateful the Alliance hadn’t given up on soldiers like him.
He had cooperated with treatment earnestly.
But after three years of bitter therapy with minimal results…
Not long ago, he overheard a doctor scolding a nurse to take better care of “the research subject”—saying that if he deteriorated any further, it would hinder their research.
Only then did he realize: in that final battle, the Alliance had injected him with an experimental stimulant designed to push human performance beyond its limits—to secure victory.
“If you recover, we’ll have you back in the Alliance Army right away. Everyone misses fighting alongside you. The Alliance will even award you a new—”
“Colonel, if I weren’t a soldier of the Alliance, guess what I’d want to be?”
Cao Wen suddenly interrupted, his gaze distant as he looked out the window, tone calm.
“Hm?”
The man looked at him in surprise.
Cao Wen used to love hearing those words—about recovery and returning to service.
It was surprising to hear such thoughts from a soldier who had been groomed by the Alliance since childhood.
Cao Wen withdrew his gaze and smiled at the astonished man.
“There’s someone planting vegetables by the river outside the sanatorium. I see them every day. Their life is simple and poor, but they seem happy.”
The man gripped Cao Wen’s hand.
“Ah Wen, they live in peace because of your sacrifice. You’re a hero.”
“A hero? Wasn’t I just a tool trained by the Alliance for expansion and war?”
Cao Wen’s eyes held no warmth as he smiled.
“A machine that’s never lived a single day as a normal person.”
The colonel looked speechless, then sighed.
“I know. You’re hurt. It’s natural to feel disillusioned and blame the Alliance.”
Cao Wen laughed bitterly.
The greatest grief is numb despair.
He shook his head.
“I’m not blaming the Alliance.”
“I’m just…reflecting on fate.”
Taken from an orphanage as a child by the Alliance, subjected to endless training in the dark, wielding weapons in the name of galactic peace—only now realizing how laughable those beliefs were.
How could he not reflect on fate?
He was just a finely tuned machine forged for the Alliance’s victories—a disposable tool.
The man let out a breath and patted his hand.
“You’ll get better. Trust in the Alliance.”
Cao Wen said nothing.
His eyes were like a nearly dried-up pond.
Half an hour later, the man left the hospital room and stopped the attending physician.
“Has there been anything unusual with him lately?”
“Everything’s just like before—nothing out of the ordinary.”
The man mulled it over.
Something about Cao Wen today felt…off.
But a once-invincible soldier, now paralyzed and subjected to agonizing treatments for three years—it was no surprise if his emotions had changed.
Just as he warned the doctor to keep a close eye, a nurse ran out in a panic.
“Doctor! Doctor! The patient’s heart has stopped!”
The news stunned both the man and the doctor.
They looked at each other in shock, then rushed to the ward.
May 4th.
Start of Summer.
Clear skies.
The sky was washed clean, and the ground was heating up.
By noon, walking barefoot on the mud felt like stepping on hot coals.
Someone stepped on the cracked, sunbaked earth in thin cloth shoes.
Start of Summer was just a warning—it would be more than twenty days before the hottest time of year truly arrived.
What would the world look like then?
Carrying a small basket of weeds on her back, a young woman walked through the fields, brow furrowed as she looked at the receding water in the rice paddies.
This year’s drought had come early, drying the fields faster than usual.
The soil was turning to sand.
The rice seedlings were sparse, with yellowing leaves.
If the drought continued, the harvest would be bleak.
Tomorrow was the Dragon Boat Festival.
The village landowners had already prepared a pig’s head for a ritual to pray for rain.
Everyone hoped the rain would come and save the crops.
If not, with bad harvests and double taxes, they wouldn’t even have enough to eat, let alone pay off debts.
The thought of debt rolling over and over was suffocating.
But farmers relied on the heavens.
Worry alone couldn’t change things.
So, the woman trudged home, one foot sinking deeper than the other.
Her home was a thatched hut with mud-covered bamboo walls, already cracked with finger-wide gaps.
But this was common in these mountain valleys—nothing unusual.
“Mute! Mute! Ah Wen is back!”
Just as she reached the crooked wooden gate of the yard, wondering why it was wide open, a voice shouted from inside the house.
The woman didn’t reply.
As the voice said, she was mute.
But she could understand others well.
The urgency in the voice meant something must have happened.
She dropped her basket and went inside.
In the main room, on the bamboo couch used for midday rest, lay a tall man with long limbs.
His face and hands were covered in dried, dark blood.
Under the summer heat, it had crusted over.
He was barely alive.
The woman froze, staring at him blankly.
At first glance, she didn’t even recognize the man lying there—
After all, she’d only met him a few times before he left home.
But the man had been summoned by the landowner to help with preparations for the Dragon Boat Festival ritual.
He had gone with some pride, but in just a few days, he ended up in this wretched state.
“These heartless bastards! We can’t even afford to eat at home, and they still expect us to send them gifts—are they trying to kill us?”
“Poor Ah Wen. He only mumbled a few words, and they beat him like this. If anything happens to him, I swear I’ll—I’ll go report them to the yamen!”
Xuduo Yan watched the man, whom he was supposed to call “Uncle” like the man lying on the bed.
That uncle was switching back and forth between crying and cursing.
A man in his fifties wiping at his eyes like a grieving widow—he looked both pitiful and pathetic.
Something serious had happened, yet they didn’t call for a doctor.
As if crying and shouting here would somehow bring justice, or magically heal the man who had been beaten.
But then again, this was how it was for tenant farmers who relied on the landowner’s mercy just to survive.
Being beaten and scolded was normal.
Even when they were sick or hurt, the landowner wouldn’t go through the trouble of calling a doctor.
Herbalists knew well that tenant families often had empty rice jars—who would want to work for free?
He didn’t really blame them.
He just sighed over the suffering of poor commoners, who had become so numb to injustice that even their men could only cry to let it out.
Still, while he pitied them, he wasn’t at all concerned about whether the man on the bed lived or died.
But since the uncle was there, Xuduo Yan had to put on a show.
He silently fetched some water and a cloth, then went over to wipe the blood from the man’s face.
“If something really happens to him, what will we do? They’ve only just gotten married…”
While the uncle whimpered like a helpless woman, Xuduo Yan expressionlessly cleaned the man’s face and hands.
The smell of dried blood on the man made him frown—he didn’t want to be near him for even a moment longer.
Just as he finished wiping and was about to go out and pour the water, Uncle Cao stopped him.
“Nephew’s wife, could you check Ah Wen again? See if he’s broken any bones.”
Xuduo Yan’s hand twitched slightly, the veins on the back bulging for a second—but in the end, he said nothing.
He put down the basin obediently and walked back to examine the man.
His mother had been chronically ill for years, and the family had often dealt with herbalists.
He’d picked up some basic knowledge.
He could recognize external injuries and chills, and though the man looked bad, most people wouldn’t dare touch him out of fear of making it worse.
But Xuduo Yan wasn’t afraid—he avoided critical spots and began his exam.
“So? Will Ah Wen be alright?”
Uncle Cao leaned in anxiously.
As he spoke, tears welled up again.
“Those bastards really went all in—used sticks on him like he wasn’t even human. How’s a flesh-and-blood body supposed to take that kind of beating? Boohoo…it’s my fault for not stopping them…”
Xuduo Yan ignored him.
The middle-aged man’s sobbing was annoying.
He carefully pressed and prodded the man’s arms and legs, partly to assess the injuries, and partly hoping—
If he wasn’t dead but ended up paralyzed, well, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
He suddenly felt the muscles in the man’s body tense up for a split second.
But when he checked again, they were relaxed.
He frowned.
Was he imagining things because of Uncle Cao’s noisy rambling?
Then—unexpectedly—a chill ran down his spine.
Creak.
The old bamboo cot let out a sharp, muffled groan.
Before Xuduo Yan could react, a hand like an iron vice clamped down on his slender arm, digging deep into his flesh.
The next moment, the world spun—his cheek slammed down against the surface of the cot.
The man who had been lying there like he was half-dead now loomed over him like a shadow.
A cold, hard voice rang out: “What do you think you’re doing now? Haven’t you had enough of pretending to care?”
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Found something new to read, ya, thank you, great start