Cipher

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket did not reply immediately.

He held the terrain sketch drawn by Zhao Weiguo with one hand and a machete in the other, but his eyes were fixed on the wisp of smoke behind the eastern ridge, past Zhao Weiguo's shoulder.

The smoke was very faint.

The fire would scatter in a gust of wind, but it would rise again, like someone hiding in a sheltered spot trying to extinguish a spark. That's not how firewood is burned in the mountains. Villagers need warmth, so the smoke rises straight up; guerrillas need concealment, so they don't make any smoke at all. This slow, gradual rise is most like someone taking a temporary rest, afraid of being seen, yet unwilling to completely extinguish the fire.

How many people are there over there?

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket asked very softly.

Zhao Weiguo did not turn around; his gaze remained fixed on Zhao Weiguo's face.

"At least two. One was wearing rubber-soled shoes, his footprints were heavy, like he was carrying a gun. The other had short, uneven steps, probably leading the way. I didn't see a third one."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket gripped the paper tightly, crumpling the edges.

When did you see it?

"To the charcoal kiln."

Why didn't you say so earlier?

"You didn't answer with the password." Zhao Weiguo moved his hand slightly away from the gun handle, then stopped, making sure the other person saw he wasn't going to draw his gun first. "I don't know who you are."

This sentence silenced the person in the gray cotton-padded jacket.

The wind from the ravine swept between the two men, swirling snowflakes that stung their faces. The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket looked at the twelve-year-old boy before him, his face devoid of passion or pleading, only displaying the calm composure of a veteran: "If you don't establish the rules, I won't entrust my life to you."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket gritted his back teeth.

"Taihang Mountains."

The two words were spoken very softly.

Zhao Weiguo's eyes flickered slightly, but his tense shoulders did not completely relax.

Say it again.

The gray cotton-padded jacket made his eyebrows stand up immediately.

"You still want to verify me?"

"It was windy just now, I didn't hear you clearly," Zhao Weiguo said.

The woman in the gray cotton-padded jacket glared at him, as if she wanted to curse, but she swallowed her words back. He took half a step forward and, close to the wind, spat out two more words.

"Taihang Mountains."

This time, Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"Zhao Weiguo is from Beiping. He's following Old Fantou's route in Laiyuan. Mr. Zhang arranged for me to go into the mountains."

"Mr. Zhang?"

"Zhang Kexia."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket's expression changed slightly, though not by much, but Zhao Weiguo still noticed it.

This name shouldn't be casually called out on the transportation line. The fewer people who know it, the better; knowing too much detail is actually more dangerous. The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket didn't take it; he folded up the sketch and returned it to Zhao Weiguo.

"Keep the paper safe."

Zhao Weiguo took the paper and tucked it back into his cotton-padded coat, without taking the "Jin Cha" paper roll sewn into his sleeve.

The person in the gray cotton-padded jacket saw this action.

"You still have something on you that you haven't taken out."

"have."

Why don't you take it?

"You're not the one in question."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket chuckled in exasperation, but the sound was abruptly cut off by the wind.

"I've been driving this route for over three years, and this is the first time I've been blocked like this by a kid."

"I've been away from Beiping for over six months, and I've seen far too many fake 'our own people'," Zhao Weiguo said. "You don't trust me, and I can't trust you right away either."

That may sound harsh, but it makes sense.

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket slammed his wood-chopping knife into the ground, the tip sinking half an inch into the frozen earth. He stared at the pistol slung over Zhao Weiguo's waist, then at the old scar on his collar, before finally looking back at the man's thin, almost fleshless face.

"Even if the code is correct, and Mr. Zhang is right, I still don't trust him." The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket held up five short, thick fingers in front of Zhao Weiguo. "Twelve years old, came from Beiping, a gun on his waist, wounded, and still able to draw mountain maps. If you were me, would you dare to let him go?"

"I dare not."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket paused for a moment.

Zhao Weiguo spoke very calmly.

"So you ask, I answer. If you're satisfied with the answers, then take me away. If not, I'll take a detour."

"You can't get out of this," the man in the gray cotton-padded jacket said coldly.

"That's still better than following the wrong person."

The gray cotton-padded jacket fell silent.

Behind the eastern ridge, the wisp of smoke rose again, lower than before, like fire being crushed by a shoe sole. The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket's eyes darkened. He knew he couldn't linger here too long, but letting a child of unknown origin into the line was even more dangerous.

Which unit is responsible for garrisoning Wanping City?

"Jin Zhenzhong, battalion commander of the 110th Brigade, 37th Division, 29th Army, responsible for defending the city."

"What excuse did the Japanese use to cause trouble on the night of July 7th?"

"They said they lost a soldier, Kikujiro Shimura. He later returned home, but they still wanted to search the city."

The woman in the gray cotton-padded jacket pursed her lips.

These names aren't known to everyone in the mountains. But just knowing the names isn't enough.

"Talk about things happening on the city walls. Don't just repeat what's been passed down from above."

Zhao Weiguo raised his hand and touched the scar on his collarbone.

"First, sweep the southeast corner with a searchlight. Once the light shines, the shadows of the bricks in the gap in the city wall will be chaotic. People will have to bend over to pass by, hugging the wall. If they don't bend low enough, their heads will stick out."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket didn't say a word.

"When evacuating the wounded near the south gate, there was a section of brickwork that had collapsed badly, making it impossible for stretchers to pass. They had to dismantle door panels. Han Fucheng cursed, saying that the city's pampered soldiers couldn't even run as fast as the wounded. Later, when he saw me carrying a box of ammunition, he stopped cursing at me."

"Han Fucheng?"

"The people from the 29th Army who escorted me out."

What does he look like?

"He has an old knife scar behind his left ear, and he likes to push his hat brim back when he swears. He doesn't light a whole cigarette, but smokes it halfway through, afraid of wasting it."

The woman in the gray cotton-padded jacket looked at Zhao Weiguo, and the hardness in her eyes lessened a bit.

These details don't seem fabricated.

Storytellers tend to exaggerate, embellishing tales of gunfire, enemy battles, and officers' praise. Those who actually walked alongside piles of corpses, however, remember the worthless things like half-smoked cigarettes, collapsed bricks, and stretchers stuck in gaps.

"So what did you do in Wanping?"

"Delivering ammunition, repairing broken guns, and evacuating the wounded." Zhao Weiguo paused, "and also fought the Japanese."

"Killed?"

"I've killed."

The woman in the gray cotton-padded jacket stared into his eyes.

Zhao Weiguo neither dodged nor showed any sign of trying to prove himself.

"How many did you kill?"

"I can't remember."

"How could you not remember that?"

"When chaos erupts on the city walls, it's a life-or-death situation. Who cares about counting how many they've killed? Battles that can be counted are usually not truly chaotic to the point of being fatal." Zhao Weiguo glanced eastward. "If you want to hear the count, I can make one up for you."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket let out a groan.

This actually made him believe it even more.

A short, sharp sound of stone striking the ground suddenly came from afar.

The two of them stopped at the same time.

The sound was very faint, like a pebble scraping against the sole of a shoe. An ordinary person might not have heard it through the wind, but both the man in the gray cotton-padded jacket and Zhao Weiguo heard it.

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket lowered his body, his expression suddenly changing.

"They got closer."

"We haven't reached the mouth of the ravine yet," Zhao Weiguo whispered. "The sound is rolling down from behind the ridge; we're still at least thirty or forty zhang away."

The woman in the gray cotton-padded jacket glanced at him.

This judgment was made too quickly.

He stopped questioning Wanping and instead asked a more practical question.

"You marked three blockade points on your map. How did you find them?"

"The first one was at the mountain pass east of Baishi Mountain. The puppet troops changed shifts every two hours. There were two layers of footprints on the snow; the old footprints were hard, and the new footprints were soft. I passed by when the old post was being withdrawn and the new post hadn't arrived yet."

"The second one?"

"The river valley ferry crossing. A light machine gun is mounted on the top of the watchtower. An old locust tree on the left blocks the line of fire, and there's a blind spot along the riverbank where the tree roots run close to the ditch. Only one person can cross at a time; any more than that and they're easily spotted."

"Is this the third one?"

"Two miles east of the charcoal kiln. There are tobacco ash and rubber-soled shoe prints on the back of the large bluestone. The shoe prints are deep, indicating the load on his back is heavy. He's not a local courier, nor does he seem like an ordinary villager."

He took a deep breath, and white mist came out of his nostrils.

He could no longer see Zhao Weiguo as an ordinary child.

But the more unusual the doll, the more dangerous it is.

"Let me see the gun."

"You can look, but you can't take."

"You've got a lot of rules, kid."

"People who don't follow the rules don't survive here."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket twitched at the corner of his mouth but didn't argue further.

Zhao Weiguo slowly drew his pistol, the muzzle touching the ground, his finger leaving the trigger. The magazine slipped open halfway, revealing the gleaming yellow bullets, which he then pushed back in. His movements were practiced beyond a child's comprehension, yet without a trace of ostentation.

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket's gaze lingered on the gun for two seconds before sweeping over Zhao Weiguo's cracked shoes.

How much ammunition do you have?

"Enough to hold out through one blockade line."

The man in the gray cotton-padded jacket understood.

It's not that I don't trust him, it's just that this child has held onto every possible lifeline. Such a person is difficult to manage, but if he really goes into the mountains, it might not be a bad thing.

There was another sound from the east.

This time it's even closer.

He pulled out his wood-chopping knife from his gray cotton-padded coat and rubbed the back of the blade against his trouser leg to remove the frozen mud.

"My surname is Wei, I drive for transportation. Just call me Lao Wei. We'll talk about my real name once we're in the mountains."

Zhao Weiguo nodded.

"Old Wei."

"Don't call me that so readily," Old Wei glared at him. "I haven't even said I believe you yet."

"I know."

"I can only take you along the back roads to the next location. There will be more people interrogating you there. Keep that proper piece of paper you have to show them. If you move around, reach for anything, or point the gun in the wrong direction on the way, I'll chop you down first."

"Can."

"Also, those two behind us might not be Japanese soldiers. They could be puppet troops, or even a traitor leading the way. If you run into them, don't rush to shoot. If you do, the Japanese soldiers in the pillbox across the ditch will wake up."

Zhao Weiguo looked at him.

"Is there a pillbox ahead?"

Old Wei tilted his chin towards the southwest.

"It wasn't just the pillboxes. Last autumn, the Japanese dug a new blockade trench, over three feet wide and six feet deep, with barbed wire along the edges, and possibly earth mines buried in several shallow openings. A pillbox stood every few hundred paces on the opposite side of the trench, with puppet troops standing guard during the day and searching the trench entrance with searchlights at night."

Zhao Weiguo frowned.

"These trenches aren't temporary outposts; they're used to blockade base areas."

"You know this too?"

"I've seen similar things outside of Beiping, but none as ruthless as those in the mountains."

Old Wei looked at him, then suddenly took the bag of dry rations off his shoulder and tossed it over.

Zhao Weiguo caught it but didn't open it immediately.

"The cornbread is cold," Old Wei said. "Don't look at me like that, I'm not worried about you. If you freeze halfway there, I'll have to carry you, which will delay things."

Zhao Weiguo took half a cornbread out of the bag, broke off a small piece, tied the rest up, and returned it.

Old Wei frowned as he watched him eat only that small piece.

"Afraid I'll drug you?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to run if I eat too much."

Old Wei cursed in a low, unintelligible Shanxi dialect. He slung the bag back over his shoulder and turned to feel his way towards the back wall of the charcoal kiln.

"Walk."

"Not taking the main ditch?"

"Leave the main ditch to the two at the back. We'll go down Huangya Gully. The path is narrow, so don't complain if you're slow."

Zhao Weiguo followed.

Old Wei walked strangely, his left foot landing harder than his right, as if an old injury hadn't healed. Yet he chose his path with remarkable steadiness, his toes always landing on cracks in the rocks and roots of the grass, never stepping on the loose snow. At each turn, he would pause for three breaths, listening for human voices, the sound of metal, or the crunch of snow in the wind.

Zhao Weiguo did not ask.

He followed Old Wei's footsteps, occasionally veering off by half an inch, his shoes crunching through the frozen snow with a soft sound. The first time, Old Wei turned and glared at him; the second time, he didn't; the third time, he simply slowed down.

The two of them went into the depths of the ravine, one after the other.

On the eastern ridge, it seemed as if someone uttered a low shout, which was quickly swallowed up by the wind.

Old Wei didn't turn around, but kept his words almost unspoken.

Did you hear that?

"I heard you."

"Your line of work has probably been exposed."

How many people?

"At least three."

Old Wei said, "You just said there were at least two, but now there's one more, which means they weren't lost; they found their way along the route."

Zhao Weiguo's hand rested on the gun handle.

Old Wei seems to have eyes in the back of his head.

"Don't draw it. Drawing your gun now is useless. We can't get across the blockade ditch; even if the gun fires quickly, it'll only give the Japanese a chance to hear it."

"Is that ditch passable?"

"We can get through." Old Wei paused for a moment, "but not now. We have to wait until dark, until the shift change, and feel our way through the blind spots where the searchlights can't reach. Once we get to the edge of the ditch, I won't let you move; you'll have to be as solid as a rock."

Zhao Weiguo glanced at the western sky.

The gray light was sinking behind the mountain, and the wind blew up from the bottom of the ravine, carrying the smell of frozen earth and gunpowder ash. He couldn't see the blockade ditch ahead, but he could already draw the line in his mind: ditch, barbed wire, blockhouse, puppet troops, searchlights, and the unidentified people following behind them along their footprints.

The code was matched.

The road isn't even right yet; if we don't cross this blockade, our lives are hanging by a thread.

The two disappeared into the deeper shadows, their footsteps gradually swallowed by the wind.

Ahead, the blockade trench awaited them before nightfall.