Chapter Forty-Five: Living in Compromise

This was a cave with three chambers in succession, extending only several dozen meters deep. The walls had clearly been shaped by human hands, smooth and immaculate. As Moxika carried Chen Cao into the cave, he noticed a wavering glow from a fire deeper within, flickering in and out of sight.

Not far from the entrance, Moxika set Chen Cao down gently against the wall, checked his breathing, and was relieved to find his vital force still strong—it was remarkable he had made it this far.

At this moment, Moxika saw Kokoli stride over to the fire and speak rapidly to an elderly man with white hair, then lead him over with a kerosene lamp in hand. Pointing at Chen Cao, Kokoli said, “It’s him!”

The old man crouched, straightened Chen Cao’s body, pulled from his person a dagger the length of a finger, and cut open Chen Cao’s shirt and the bandages on his back. With a flashlight, he examined the wound, then stood up and said, “Bring him further inside the cave!” Without another word, he turned and walked into the depths.

Moxika was momentarily stunned. Kokoli waited impatiently. “What are you staring at? Do you really want him to rot at the entrance?”

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it right away!” Moxika hurriedly draped one of Chen Cao’s arms over his own shoulder, supported his waist with the other hand, and slowly carried him inside. With the bandages loosened, Chen Cao’s wound began to bleed again, droplets falling to the ground.

Turning through the left passage, several square meters of space opened up before them. A stone platform had been built out of rocks. The old man was working vigorously at a stone bowl, a cigarette dangling from his lips, while several bloodstained knives lay on the platform.

As Moxika brought Chen Cao in, the old man, his face deeply wrinkled and expressionless, said, “Put him on the stone platform, face down.” He then took out a lighter and lit an oil lamp on the table.

Moxika, anxious to save Chen Cao, obeyed without further thought, gently laying him on the stone platform, back exposed.

Seeing this, the old man tossed a dagger to Moxika. “Open up the back of his wound!” Without waiting for a reply, he took another knife and began heating it over the lamp’s flame.

Following orders, Moxika used the dagger to carefully cut away Chen Cao’s shirt, exposing his muscular back and the wound. By the faint light of the lamp, he saw that without timely treatment, the edges of the wound had already begun to turn dark and bruised—a sign of inflammation.

“Step aside!” The old man lit a cigarette on the oil lamp, took a deep drag, and with the knife now glowing red, exhaled smoke and instructed, “Hold his arms and legs—don’t let him move. It’ll be over soon!”

He gently set the cigarette on the stone table, took out a small flashlight and clenched it in his teeth, directing the beam at Chen Cao’s wound. With thumb and forefinger, he pried open the flesh, then deftly inserted the red-hot knife. As the blade met flesh, a sizzling sound filled the small space, and the stench of burning flesh grew thick.

Moxika held Chen Cao tightly and felt his body convulse violently, yet not a sound escaped Chen Cao’s lips.

Moxika closed his eyes; anyone undergoing such a procedure without anesthesia would find it indistinguishable from torture.

Fortunately, the bone was untouched. With a flick of the knife, the old man dislodged a bloodied object, then took a bottle of liquor from his belt, took a swig, and spat the alcohol onto the wound as a crude form of disinfection.

He picked up his cigarette, took a drag, and scooped some thick, black substance from the stone bowl. Using the bloodied bandage from earlier, he turned it inside out, smeared on the salve, and pressed it to the wound, tying it off.

The operation was thus complete.

“All done. If he doesn’t wake by sunset tomorrow, throw him out,” the old man said, turning off his flashlight and leaving with the oil lamp.

Though Moxika knew nothing of medicine, he understood that Chen Cao couldn’t be turned over and must remain face down. Checking Chen Cao’s breathing and finding it stronger than before, he finally relaxed. He took off his jacket and gently covered Chen Cao, then, exhausted from the day’s ordeal, slumped against the stone platform and drifted into a hazy sleep.

The cave air was damp and cold. Moxika hugged himself tight, and in his dream, he lay in a warm embrace. When he opened his eyes, he saw Chen Cao’s healthy, sunlit face and deep, clear eyes. In his sleep, Moxika smiled sweetly.

No telling how long he slept; a sudden shiver woke Moxika to the savory aroma of meat, which made his hungry stomach rumble. It seemed ages since he’d last eaten. He checked on Chen Cao; by the dim light, Chen Cao’s face was less pale than before. Moxika’s stomach growled as he slowly walked out.

Dawn light filtered in from outside. Warriors sat in clusters around campfires, blackened iron pots steaming gently above the flames.

“It’s chicken soup!” Moxika swallowed hard, approaching a fire where a bearded man gnawed a drumstick. “Hello, may the Sun God bless you, great warrior. Please, can you spare me some food? I’m starving.”

The man, seeing a boy come begging for food, rolled his eyes. “Get lost!”

“Please, have pity. I’m truly starving, and I have an injured man to care for!” Moxika pleaded, squatting and reaching for a drumstick in the steaming pot.

Smack! The man slapped him to the ground for reaching into the pot. Moxika quickly scrambled up, still begging, “Please, I beg you. You’ve hit me already, just give me a piece of chicken and a bowl of soup!”

“Ugh, bad luck!” the man spat, then filled a tin bowl with soup, tossed a chicken bone from his mouth into it, and shoved it at Moxika. “Now scram!”

Thankful for the man’s change of heart, Moxika carefully took the steaming soup, bowing repeatedly. “Thank you, thank you, you are truly a great man!”

For Chen Cao, weak and in desperate need of nourishment, this soup was a godsend.

Back in the cave, Moxika had managed to light a fire in the corner, warming the air considerably.

When he brought half a bowl of chicken soup to Chen Cao’s lips, the aroma stirred his lips and throat. Chen Cao drank every drop, then slipped into a deep sleep.

Watching Chen Cao gulp down the soup, Moxika grinned, then licked the bowl clean of every last drop and crumb.

...

The battle code-named “Demon Hunt” had seen victory after victory for the Justice League and their bribed local militias. The conflict, once spread across the broad desert, was now shrinking to the hilly regions. Under the command of their supreme leader, the holy warriors fought a desperate resistance.

Yet the morale of the guerrillas was low—not only from the Justice League’s relentless assault, but also as supplies began to run perilously short.

In the cave where Chen Cao and Moxika stayed, people came and went daily—some off to battle, new faces arriving, a constant revolving door. Kokoli, for example, had left a few days ago and never returned. Even the white-haired man who had removed Chen Cao’s bullet left yesterday with his rifle and had not been seen since; likely he had not survived the Justice League’s elite commandos.

After more than ten days of recovery, Chen Cao had regained consciousness and, thanks to Moxika’s foraged scraps, struggled back to life. He could move his upper body, and knew his unusual vitality was the reason for his survival. With so little food, it was only his body’s resilience that kept him going—his legs, however, remained immobile.

Most crucially, the pilot had used a miniature pistol rather than anything more powerful. Had it been an MP2S and shattered his spine, he would have lost his body’s ability to produce blood, and not even a god could have saved him.

“Matsumoto, can you guess what treats I’ve got for us today?” Moxika entered, smiling, holding a grimy piece of frozen fat no bigger than his palm. After these harsh days, his once-plump cheeks had sunken deeply, his face gaunt and drawn.

Chen Cao’s gaze darkened as he saw the bruises on Moxika’s face. “Did they beat you again?”

“N-no…” Moxika hurriedly turned his face to the shadows, threading the lump of fat onto a bit of wire and roasting it over the fire, mumbling his denial.

“These bastards… If I have to wait another week, I’ll make them pay double for what they did to you!” Chen Cao fumed inwardly, but said nothing more.

He knew all too well that empty words were useless. Only action mattered. For now, he was unable to move freely, powerless against the fierce warriors outside. He could only bury his guilt towards Moxika in his heart, holding fast to the creed he had always lived by: “A gentleman’s vengeance, even after ten years, is not too late.”