Chapter Thirty: Mutual Observation (Part Two)

The first patrol went rather well; at least, in the prison management course, Zhao Li had learned that as long as nothing went wrong during supervision, it was considered a job well done. On ordinary days, there was no need to strive for some ideal prison atmosphere—that was a concern for the old warden, not for Zhao Li. For him, the best result was simply that no problems arose during his shift.

This philosophy, as the old warden had said, was essentially getting by as best one could. It was a reflection of Zhao Li’s life these past years, spent concealing his secret; as long as he could protect it and avoid the life of a laboratory rat, he could endure almost anything as long as it wasn’t too extreme.

During new recruit training, Li Xiuyuan had made it clear more than once that he wanted to ostracize Zhao Li, but Zhao Li always acted as if he hadn’t noticed. Only the last time, when the bullying became blatant, did Zhao Li finally retaliate, unable to endure any longer.

The old warden’s gaze was like a microscope; just one meeting was enough for him to see through Zhao Li’s character. To the old warden, Zhao Li was merely a negligible pawn, lucky enough to land under his jurisdiction. Yet, he noticed many unusual things about Zhao Li—that was what truly piqued his interest.

Zhao Li’s temperament was exceedingly steady; simple provocations were useless against him. He wasn’t especially cunning—his thoughts could often be read on his face—but at his age, he shouldn't have been so composed.

The prisoners had long grown restless in confinement. When a fresh face appeared—a young recruit, seemingly naïve and clueless—it wasn’t just the prisoners, pent up for so long, who felt an itch; even the old warden sensed one.

Strictly speaking, this was a military prison, and all those locked up here were high-ranking officers guilty of grave offenses. Ordinary offenders weren’t qualified to be held here. The military, as an institution, held hierarchy in the highest regard; even as prisoners, unless stripped of their rank, every guard had to address them as “sir.”

Only the old warden could command genuine respect from these men; the other guards were not so fortunate. Naturally, playing tricks on newcomers was a tradition among the bored inmates. It didn’t matter if you’d served in the special forces or some critical military department; you couldn’t escape this ritual. Among the prisoners were even two who had been legendary instructors of the special forces themselves.

Zhao Li’s predecessor was Jiang Hao. Though he held the rank of lieutenant, it meant little to the inmates—his authority was not recognized. For a whole year, he endured endless torment, powerless against their games.

Finally, when Zhao Li arrived to take his place, Jiang Hao couldn’t have been more relieved. It was why he eagerly took the initiative to introduce Zhao Li, presenting him before the crowd of imprisoned officers as their new plaything and signaling that they could leave him alone from now on.

To everyone’s surprise, Zhao Li’s performance shattered expectations. Though it seemed at first he would lose control, he steadied himself in just a few breaths. He proceeded through the patrol with the composure of a seasoned soldier, ignoring provocations and betraying nothing out of the ordinary.

His calm was impressive, but for these bored men, the arrival of a newcomer who seemed ripe for prolonged entertainment was a delight. Especially since he appeared to be a blank slate, freshly graduated from the training center—making him all the more fun.

While Zhao Li surveyed the prison, the inmates watched him closely. Jiang Hao was immensely grateful for Zhao Li’s arrival; after three years in the military police, he thought he’d be able to assert himself here, only to be swiftly put in his place. Had someone not explained that this was a tradition, a rite reserved for these prisoners, he might have been so mortified as to jump into the sea.

Now, with Zhao Li in the spotlight, Jiang Hao could observe from the sidelines and come to understand the mindset of his colleagues. The better Zhao Li performed, the more determined the prisoners would be to challenge him, making future spectacles ever more dramatic—a feeling Jiang Hao found oddly satisfying.

Yet, out of a sense of shared hardship, Jiang Hao felt obliged to warn Zhao Li, hoping he could endure whatever came his way. Otherwise, a new recruit barely a year into service would be toyed with until he wished for death. Still, the warning couldn’t be too explicit, lest it spoil the entertainment.

It seemed that with Zhao Li’s arrival, both prisoners and guards were as jubilant as if celebrating a festival. On the first day, no one pressed him too hard; everyone tacitly agreed to let Zhao Li soak in the opening atmosphere, stopping at a certain distance to observe his boundaries. They couldn’t afford to break their new toy so quickly—it wouldn’t be any fun later.

That day, Zhao Li was under constant scrutiny, as if everyone was watching a performance. Fortunately, he used basic physical training techniques to steady himself. Whenever he grew angry, he would pause and circulate his energy, quickly regaining composure, which helped him gain clarity about the environment.

It wasn’t a pleasant day, but neither was it unbearable. Aside from the infuriating attitudes of those men, everything else was in order. As for their demeanor, Zhao Li was mentally prepared; ordinary prisoners might bow to guards, but these men were no pushovers. Their attitude was only to be expected—if they weren’t so unruly, they wouldn’t be in a prison of this caliber.

Just as Zhao Li resolved to gradually familiarize himself with the place, a sudden event threw his mind into chaos.

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