Playing Outside the Rules

The autumn wind, carrying the chill of the northern lands, cut across faces like a knife.

A dozen military trucks formed a long dragon, churning up clouds of yellow dust on the bumpy dirt road as they drove deep into Jilin Province.

Inside the trucks, a group of young soldiers in crisp new Feng Army uniforms sat ramrod straight, holding rifles in their arms that had never seen battle.

This was the newly formed Independent Battalion of the Guard Brigade, overstrength in numbers and well-equipped—the foundation Zhang Yuting had painstakingly built up for Zhang Xueming.

"Second Young Master, look at this weather. I reckon it'll snow soon."

A square-faced officer leaned in, handing Zhang Xueming a canteen.

His name was Chu Shixin, formerly a seasoned company commander in the Feng Army who'd fought in many battles, now reassigned under Zhang Xueming.

Zhang Xueming didn't take the canteen. He lifted the truck curtain to glance at the overcast sky, then turned back and lazily eyed him.

"Chu Shixin."

"Sir!" Chu Shixin reflexively straightened his back.

"How many times have I told you?" Zhang Xueming's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable force. "In the army, don't call me Second Young Master."

"Call me Battalion Commander."

Chu Shixin froze for a moment, then nodded firmly. "Yes, sir! Battalion Commander!"

He felt a bit puzzled inside.

This Second Young Master had been notorious in Fengtian City as a reckless troublemaker, yet now that he was leading troops, it was like he'd become a different person.

Zhang Xueming ignored him, lowering his head to wipe the new rifle in his hands.

The rifle was pitch-black all over, with sleek lines, completely different from the standard weapons he'd bought from Japan.

Chu Shixin stared at the rifle, envy plain in his eyes. "Battalion Commander, this gun of yours... it's beautiful. Haven't given it a name yet?"

Zhang Xueming worked the bolt, the crisp click of the mechanism ringing pleasantly in the truck.

A mischievous grin curled at the corner of his mouth.

"The Japs' Type 38 Arisaka is pretty famous, isn't it?"

"Well, this one of ours—let's call it the Type 38 Rifle."

"I want to see whether their 'Type 38' works better, or if ours is tougher."

Chu Shixin listened, stunned, thinking to himself that this young master really did... play by his own rules.

Naming his prized creation after the enemy's gun—that was a blatant provocation.

The convoy rolled into a small town near Hunchun as evening fell.

As soon as they entered, a thick stench of burning and blood hit them.

On both sides of the street stood houses burned down to blackened frames, with dried blood and scattered debris everywhere on the ground.

A few civilians in tattered clothes numbly sifted through the ruins.

The entire town was eerily silent.

Zhang Xueming jumped down from the truck, his leather boots landing on the ash-covered ground.

His brows were tightly knit, his face dark enough to drip water.

"Dai Xiansheng!"

"Sir!" Adjutant Dai Xiansheng hurried over to him.

"Take the spare food and medicine from the trucks and distribute them to the townspeople."

"Yes, sir!"

Dai Xiansheng immediately went to carry out the order.

Chu Shixin followed behind Zhang Xueming, taking in the devastated scene, and couldn't help cursing, "Damn it, these bandits are worse than animals! They don't even spare the civilians!"

Zhang Xueming said nothing, just walked slowly through the town.

He saw a gray-haired old woman clutching a charred corpse, weeping silently.

He also saw a child of seven or eight, sitting hollow-eyed on a pile of rubble, clutching half a piece of hardtack tightly to his chest.

This scene hit him far harder than his father pointing at maps and discussing strategy.

Just then, a man in a Western suit with round-rimmed glasses was holding a camera, clicking away at the ruins.

In this lifeless town, he stood out like a sore thumb.

Zhang Xueming walked over.

"Who are you?"

The man flinched, turned around, and upon seeing Zhang Xueming and the soldiers behind him, quickly bowed and said in heavily accented Chinese, "Hello, I am a reporter from the Kyoto Asahi Shimbun. My name is Watanabe."

A Japanese reporter?

Zhang Xueming's eyes narrowed.

"Your newspaper sure gets news fast. Where are our Fengtian reporters?"

Watanabe adjusted his glasses and replied with some embarrassment: "I heard... heard that they... they're afraid of the bandits and don't dare to come over."

"Heh." Zhang Xueming let out a cold laugh, dripping with mockery. "A bunch of wastes."

He glanced at Watanabe and asked again: "Are there still Japanese Army soldiers from your country around here?"

Watanabe's expression shifted slightly, but he still nodded: "Yes, they... they say they're conducting exercises nearby to protect the safety of the South Manchuria Railway."

Exercises?

Zhang Xueming saw through it as clear as day.

His father was right—these Japs were indeed weasels paying a New Year's visit to the chickens, with no good intentions.

Just then, a woman's scream and a man's roar came from the street corner.

"Let go of my daughter! You beasts!"

Zhang Xueming's expression changed, and he immediately rushed over with his men.

At the street corner, an old man with graying hair was pinned to the ground by two Japanese Army soldiers, while another soldier was grabbing the arm of a teenage girl, dragging her into an alley.

The girl's clothes were already torn, and she struggled desperately, crying and screaming.