Night Wanderer

This was the same car Zong Ying had ridden in just a few days prior.

On the rainy evening of September 15th, she had left the villa at the foot of Sheshan Mountain in this very vehicle—driven by Secretary Shen.

Lost in thought for a moment, she suddenly felt a sharp drop, and in an instant, the world around her had completely changed.

At first, she felt the support of a wooden plank beneath her feet, but before she could steady herself, the plank gave way. In the moment of falling, someone abruptly pulled her into their arms, and the two of them tumbled together into a damp pile of straw.

Zong Ying winced in pain as she opened her eyes, her hands tightly gripping not straw, but Sheng Qingrang’s shirt.

He had clearly taken a hard fall, the tension in his facial muscles betraying his pain. Yet when he opened his eyes, his first question was for her: "Are you hurt? Is it serious?"

Zong Ying quickly released her grip, sitting up to rub her shoulder and smooth her hair before replying curtly, "I'm fine," and looking upward.

It was a typical rural dwelling from the last century—perhaps even a relatively decent one for its time.

But the roof had long been blown away, and the wooden plank meant for a loft now hung precariously. They had landed on that unstable plank, only to fall straight through to the second floor. Fortunately, a pile of straw stored near the stove had cushioned their fall.

The interior was a mess, the ground muddy—evidence of recent rain.

Dawn had not yet fully broken, and the air in the Shanghai suburbs, freshly drenched by the downpour, was thick with humidity. As Zong Ying remained dazed, Sheng Qingrang stood and pulled her up, suppressing his own pain as he said, "If the map is correct, the division’s camp should be nearby."

Zong Ying steadied herself, taking a deep breath before asking, "Should we go now?"

Sheng Qingrang was about to step outside to assess the situation when gunfire erupted—

A rapid, relentless volley tore through the dark blue curtain of the sky as the sun leaped up from the east.

Sheng Qingrang paused mid-step, turning back to tell Zong Ying, "Stay inside," before continuing forward.

As the gunfire intensified, he returned.

Zong Ying steadied her nerves and asked, "Are we in occupied territory?"

"No." Sheng Qingrang suddenly took her hand and drew a vertical line across her palm, quickly explaining, "West of this river is a village occupied by the Japanese. To the east is the Nationalist army’s camp. We're here—" His fingertip landed on the eastern side, near the front line.

"In the combat zone?"

"Yes." Still looking down, he continued, "The Nationalists need to cross this river for their counterattack. The Japanese have set up machine guns on the opposite bank—that’s likely where the gunfire is coming from."

"Where should we go?"

His finger traced a path eastward, his tone firm. "East, to the frontline command post. It’s not far."

With the battle just beginning at dawn, no one could predict how the fighting would unfold. Moving quickly before more dangerous airstrikes began might be the wisest choice.

As he spoke, Sheng Qingrang suddenly pressed a gleaming pistol into her hand. "Just in case."

The cold, heavy weight of the metal pressed against her palm. In her haste, Zong Ying glanced down and immediately recognized it—a Browning M1911.

The sun had yet to dry the standing water, leaving the roads a muddy mess. Moving in a hurry, Zong Ying repeatedly pulled her feet free from the muck. If not for the support beside her, she would have fallen countless times.

The gunfire remained behind them, growing fiercer, yet the farther they walked, the more distant it sounded. Only the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air and the occasional roar of large-caliber artillery reminded them of the danger and the intensity of the battle.Zong Ying turned her head, her gaze skimming past Sheng Qingrang's profile.

Pursing his lips in silence, his expression was one of seasoned composure. Sensing her gaze, he suddenly turned to her and asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing. Let's hurry." Despite the tension of the moment leaving no room for distraction, Zong Ying recalled the shrapnel wound on his face, the scent of gunpowder clinging to him that night of his birthday—

Even though he lived in the concession and wasn’t a soldier, the war zone was no unfamiliar territory to him.

The morning breeze was cool, yet his shirt was drenched with sweat. Her heart raced from lack of sleep, pounding so hard it felt unbearable. The frontline command post was just ahead, reachable by crossing the trenches—but the roar of enemy planes abruptly filled the air.

Zong Ying looked up to see two fighter planes swooping in from the west, quickly circling above the command post. One suddenly veered—before she could even track its path, a hand pressed against the back of her head, forcing her to the ground—

Seconds later, the earth trembled, her ears ringing as a shell exploded meters away, splattering mud and gravel over them.

Sheng Qingrang’s arm shielded the back of her head, his hand tightly covering her ear and cheek.

Shells rained down chaotically, the bombardment relentless, the deafening explosions drowning out everything. Zong Ying couldn’t hear a word Sheng Qingrang was saying.

The journey was fraught with danger and chaos.

A soldier shouted at them. After stumbling, being dragged, they finally reached the command post—disheveled and battered.

Inside the air-raid trench, the explosions outside became muffled, as if wearing earplugs.

Zong Ying pressed her palms to her ears, massaging nearby pressure points, willing her hearing to return. Instinctively, she glanced up to see Sheng Qingrang presenting his credentials to a soldier.

The soldier scrutinized them warily. "Relocation Committee? Who are you looking for? What’s your business?"

Sheng Qingrang replied, "I’ve already coordinated with your division’s leadership through the Relocation Committee beforehand. We need to apply for a batch of travel permits. Please make a call to inform them."

Outside, the shelling continued, forcing them to yell. The soldier shouted back, "The division commander isn’t at the command post! You’ll have to wait until this battle’s over before we can notify him!"

No one could predict when the battle would end. Sheng Qingrang said, "Then please notify Battalion Commander Sheng Qinghe of the 3rd Battalion, 79th Regiment."

The soldier immediately responded, "Battalion Commander Sheng led his men east to flank the enemy at midnight. He’s not here either. You’ll have to wait for him to return!"

Rejected twice, progress stalled. Only the relentless shelling outside persisted. Sheng Qingrang lowered his hand, tucking his documents back into his briefcase.

It was then that Zong Ying noticed his hand—

Covered in blood.

Had it not been for that hand shielding her, the injuries would have been on her face.

"What’s wrong?" Sheng Qingrang caught her gaze, then followed it to his own hand. The searing pain finally registered, delayed. "It’s fine. Just needs cleaning."

Before he could finish, Zong Ying grabbed his wrist, lifting his hand for a closer inspection.

Outside, the sun blazed as the battle raged. Inside the trench, it was damp and oppressive. A radio operator knelt in the mud, frantically tapping out a message. Field rats scurried freely among the people. Zong Ying crouched, swiftly opening her forensic kit and pulling out latex gloves and small tweezers.

She pointed to a rock for Sheng Qingrang to sit, then cradled his hand in hers, using the tweezers to pluck out the tiny gravel embedded in his skin.

Above them, a single dim bulb flickered with each distant explosion, casting erratic light.Sheng Qingrang lowered his gaze. The collar of her clothes was stained with mud, the hair at her temples soaked through—utterly disheveled, yet her expression remained focused, as if oblivious to the chaos around her.

The pain was no longer so sharp, and the tension in her nerves eased instantly. In the damp, dim air-raid shelter, there seemed to be a fleeting warmth and a moment of peace.

But it was all temporary.

Outside, the roar of enemy planes ceased, and a group of people hurriedly barged in. The leader flung his cap aside and cursed furiously, "What the hell has the 83rd Regiment been doing?! I led my men through the night, and half of them are dead! Half of my men are gone! Half!"

His eyes were nearly bloodshot, his uniform caked in mud, blood dripping from his left sleeve. Trembling with rage and pain, he turned to the soldiers carrying a stretcher and bellowed, "What are you standing around for?! Go get a medic to extract the bullet!"

Another soldier nearby snapped to attention and shouted in response, "Reporting, Battalion Commander! Too many wounded, not enough hands—everyone has to wait!"

Sheng Qinghe kicked the earthen wall in frustration. "People are dying, and you're telling me to wait?!" In his pain and fury, his gaze swept past and finally landed on Sheng Qingrang and Zong Ying, standing about seven or eight meters away.

He froze for a second before demanding, "What are you two doing here?"

Without waiting for an answer, Lao Si rushed toward them like a drowning man spotting a lifeline. He grabbed Zong Ying and exclaimed, "Perfect timing! Come help me save someone!"

His strides were too fast to stop. By the time Zong Ying managed to wrench her arm free, she was already standing in front of the stretcher.

In times of scarce resources, everything was prioritized for those of higher rank—medical supplies were no exception. Yet lying on the filthy stretcher was just a low-ranking infantryman, the lowest of the low.

He was so young. In peacetime, he might still be in compulsory education.

Lao Si’s anger gave way to anxiety, his tone urgent. "The bullet’s lodged below the shoulder—he can definitely be saved. Hurry up and get it out!"

Zong Ying bent down to examine him. Below the collarbone, above the heart—though the exit wound was packed with gauze, blood still seeped relentlessly. The young face was deathly pale, his pulse weak, bordering on shock.

This required emergency treatment. Sending him to the military hospital would take too long.

After a brief silence, she withdrew her hand and said, "I’m sorry. I can’t do it."

"It’s just extracting a bullet!"

"It’s not just about the bullet."

One, desperate to make up for the sudden loss of too many subordinates, was determined to save the youngest in his unit. The other, unusually firm and resistant, stood her ground.

Both were red-eyed with emotion.

Zong Ying, having gone all night without sleep, had bloodshot whites in her eyes. She took a deep breath, looked up, and said, "There’s no diagnostic equipment. I can’t pinpoint the bullet’s location or assess the damage. The surgical conditions here are terrible. Besides, I—"

Here, she closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, exhaustion weighed heavier in her gaze. "I’ve only ever extracted bullets from the dead."

"So what if you’ve only done it on the dead? It’s the same principle, isn’t it?!"

Zong Ying closed her eyes again.

Years in medicine, and she had never treated a gunshot victim. After switching to forensic pathology, she had only handled one gun-related case—and the victim was already dead. Dissecting a corpse and extracting a bullet from a living person were not the same thing.Setting aside her lack of experience, it had truly been a long time since she last performed surgery.

From the day she abandoned the operating table, she had never personally performed a procedure again. Even when she had assisted with the amputation of Sheng Qinghe, the eldest brother of the Sheng family, she had merely provided guidance to the intern, never once touching a scalpel from start to finish.

"I carried him back because I wanted him to live!" Sheng Qinghe's tone grew more urgent.

Zong Ying opened her eyes.

Someone called out to her, "Miss Zong." The voice was all too familiar. She turned toward the sound and saw Sheng Qingrang standing on the other side of the stretcher, looking at her.

She met his gaze and said, "I really... can't do it."

People continued to move in and out of the air-raid shelter as the sound of bombing resumed outside, causing dust and debris to fall from the ceiling.

The dim electric light flickered incessantly. Sheng Qingrang's gaze remained fixed on her right hand. He recalled her vague mention of a past accident and guessed that she might be grappling with some deep-seated fear. But as his eyes traveled upward, he unmistakably detected the compassion of a healer facing a patient on her face.

Sensing her inner conflict and struggle, he said to her, "Miss Zong, whatever decision you make, I stand by you."

Lao Si was growing impatient, unable to tolerate their slow deliberation any longer. Just as he was about to interrupt, Sheng Qingrang raised a hand to stop him.

Zong Ying's right fingers trembled uncontrollably. Suddenly, she clenched them into a fist, gripping with all her might, repeating the motion several times. Finally, she looked up and said, "I'll try."

The moment these words left her lips, Lao Si immediately called for the nearby soldiers to assist and ordered, "No matter what, get them to allocate instruments and a nurse for us! Our 3rd Battalion has lost so many brothers—we can't even fail to save a child!"

The operating table was hastily assembled. The field hospital had only two doctors left, both too busy to spare any time. Of the few nurses available, one was miraculously assigned to assist Zong Ying.

There was no time for strict sterilization, no shadowless lamp, let alone sterile surgical gowns or monitoring equipment. Determining the bullet's location, cleaning the cavity, separating and suturing the tissue—everything fell entirely on Zong Ying's shoulders.

Even the surgical environment was far from quiet. The distant sound of artillery fire intermittently echoed—a new round of counterattack had begun.

The sun slowly moved from the east to its zenith. Zong Ying's eyelids twitched incessantly as sweat streamed down her cheeks, soaking the collar of her shirt. She summoned every ounce of concentration, handling each step with extreme caution.

Her mind was stretched to the breaking point, yet in this state of heightened focus, not a single frame of the haunting mistakes that often disturbed her dreams surfaced.

After completing the final layer of sutures, she closed her eyes, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. But the hand pressed against the bed remained steady.

Behind the white curtain, Sheng Qingrang had been waiting for her. Only when she set down the instruments did he cautiously release a sigh of relief.

But just as he relaxed, a messenger arrived with news: they had finally managed to get through to the division headquarters, which had ordered him to leave the frontline command post and retrieve a travel pass from the division.

Official business couldn't be delayed, but he still waited for Zong Ying to emerge.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither spoke. Sheng Qingrang simply pulled a plain handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, just as he had during their first meeting: "It's unused, clean."Folded neatly, it bore some unavoidable creases, carried the scent of war and a trace of body warmth, but there was no dust or blood on it—it looked truly clean.

Zong Ying held the handkerchief in her hand as she listened to him say, "I need to go to the division headquarters now. The road is dangerous, so wait for me here."

Zong Ying nodded.

The messenger urged again, and Sheng Qingrang turned to leave.

Zong Ying followed him out, watching as he boarded a jeep that swayed and jolted along the muddy road, gradually disappearing into the distance. The sun dipped slightly westward, and for the moment, the artillery fire had ceased.

Not far away, the voices of Lao Si and the adjutant suddenly reached her. The adjutant walked alongside him, speaking urgently, "Listen to me—after checking on Xiao Kun, get your wounds treated and bandaged! Don’t take it lightly! If it gets infected, it’ll be trouble!"

Lao Si hurried straight toward Zong Ying, muttering a quick "thank you" as he passed her before pushing through the curtain to see the youngest wounded soldier in the regiment.

But before he could stay even a full minute, the nurse shooed him out.

He removed his cap and scratched his head, looking disheveled and somewhat scruffy—a far cry from the first time Zong Ying had seen him.

Zong Ying studied him and asked, "Aren’t you going to treat the wounds on your head and shoulder?"

He replied, "They’re just superficial. Once the pain peaks, it stops hurting."

His tone betrayed a self-punishing mindset, his face pale from blood loss and clouded with gloom.

After surviving a brutal battle and losing many comrades, he subconsciously felt he didn’t deserve treatment.

But the fierce nurse refused to indulge him, emerging with a metal tray and coldly ordering, "Come in and get bandaged."

Zong Ying glanced at him. "Go on."

Lao Si stood and went inside, while Zong Ying stepped outside.

The cool breeze brushed against her damp back, raising goosebumps on her skin. Zong Ying felt a chill, and the dazed sensation in her mind finally dissipated.

Just moments ago, she had indeed performed a full surgery—her hands hadn’t trembled, and the patient hadn’t died on the table.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood outside before snapping back to reality and turning to see Lao Si emerge, now properly bandaged.

The nurse, likely holding some grudge against him, had wrapped his wounds roughly and carelessly—especially the bandage around his head, which looked downright ridiculous.

With no mirror to check, he remained oblivious. Silently, he pulled a matchbox and cigarettes from his uniform pocket, lit one, took a drag, and gazed into the distance.

Needing a pick-me-up, Zong Ying extended her hand. "Could I have one?"

He glanced at her sideways before handing over the cigarette box and matches.

Only a few remained inside—clearly hand-rolled, crude and uneven, the tobacco threatening to spill out.

Zong Ying plucked one, struck a match with practiced ease, lit it, and took a drag, frowning.

But as soon as the smoke reached her lungs, they rebelled.

Zong Ying coughed violently. Lao Si scoffed and remarked drily, "If you can’t handle it, why force yourself? Smoking’s no good anyway."

Zong Ying watched the smoke curl upward, sparing her lungs further torment, and rasped, "It’s been a while since I last smoked."

Lao Si paused, tilting his head to study her profile. "Did you quit for my third brother?"

After a brief silence, Zong Ying neither confirmed nor denied it. "Maybe."She let the cigarette between her fingers burn out, reaching into her pocket intending to pull out a handkerchief to wipe her sweat, but instead touched the handgun Sheng Qingrang had given her that morning.

The Browning was small and exquisite, yet lethally deadly.

Old Fourth watched her turn it over in her hands and blew out a smoke ring, remarking, "Third Brother really knows how to present borrowed gifts."

Zong Ying glanced up and countered, "Did you give this gun?"

"Of course. What use would a scholar like him have for a gun?" He turned sideways, slipping one hand into his trouser pocket as he tilted his chin at her, his tone laced with provocation. "Want me to teach you how to use it? Where to aim? Wouldn’t want the bullets to go moldy sitting inside too long."

No sooner had his smug words left his mouth than Zong Ying abruptly chambered a round and raised the gun, its dark muzzle pointed straight at him.

"I know better than you where it’s most lethal," she said calmly, though her gaze was icy.

Realizing Zong Ying didn’t take kindly to being provoked, Old Fourth raised a brow. "No need for threats. Let’s talk this out properly."

Zong Ying ejected the magazine, removed the bullet from the chamber, and methodically disassembled the pistol before reassembling it. Old Fourth watched and commented, "Seems you’re quite familiar with handguns. Do you like them?"

Zong Ying replied, "No."

Just then, the adjutant hurried over again, handing Old Fourth an enamel mug while venting his frustration. "Food supplies are running dangerously low! Command keeps sending reinforcements but doesn’t bother with timely provisions—are they trying to starve us?"

Old Fourth took it and passed it to Zong Ying without hesitation. "Nothing much to eat, but make do for now. You won’t be staying in the warzone long anyway."

Zong Ying lifted the lid—inside was a full mug of rice broth, a spoon buried in it. She stirred, but only a few grains surfaced.

"Aren’t you having any?" she asked.

Sheng Qinghe shook his head, chain-smoking instead, his gaze fixed on the newly arrived reinforcements in the distance.

They had just arrived, exhausted and lacking the vigor they should have had, their young faces filled with confusion.

"Last-minute reorganization, long march, no experience, equipment shortages," Sheng Qinghe said. "They’re being sent to their deaths."

He spoke with forced nonchalance, but his lips and facial muscles trembled slightly.

A hopelessness born of having no choice but to persist shrouded his face like the smoke from the cheap tobacco he was smoking.

Zong Ying finished the rice broth in the mug and found a place to rest.

Old Fourth left the field hospital to return to camp and attend to business.

Sheng Qingrang returned to the frontline command post by evening.

The command post had temporarily taken over a Taoist temple near the village—one that had thrived for years but was abandoned in these chaotic times, its early autumn winds carrying a sense of helpless resignation.

Sheng Qingrang thanked the messenger, walked a short distance after getting out of the car, and happened to run into Old Fourth.

Still nearly two meters apart, Old Fourth tossed a set of clothes at him. "Not for you—for Doctor Zong. Borrowed from the nurses. Should fit."

Sheng Qingrang caught it neatly and said, "Thanks," before continuing toward the command post.

After passing through the main gate and walking deeper inside, Old Fourth pointed to a small woodshed in the far west corner. "She looked exhausted. Probably resting in there now."

Sheng Qingrang thanked him again and took a few steps forward, about to knock.

"Third Brother," Old Fourth suddenly called out to stop him.Sheng Qingrang turned to look at him, only to see his head wrapped comically in thick layers, his shoulders tightly bandaged, his shirt collar slightly loose, and his shoes and pant legs covered in mud and blood. "What happened?"

"Your woman is quite something," Lao Si said with a smirk, tossing out the remark without context.

Sheng Qingrang met his gaze and asked, "So what?"

The fourth brother pondered for a moment, tilting his head slightly. "Though our stances and views on family and country differ, our taste in women seems quite similar, don’t you think?"

Holding a briefcase in one hand and cradling a set of clean clothes against his chest with the other, Sheng Qingrang subconsciously clenched his fist. His tone remained steady as he questioned each point methodically: "How do we differ on family and country? And what if our taste in women aligns?"

A faint, almost imperceptible smile of resignation flickered across the fourth brother’s face. "That family—I have no patience for it, yet you refuse to leave no matter what. As for the country—I’m on the front lines, while you’re busy with the rear. If our taste in women is the same, then perhaps we’ll end up competing?"

Sheng Qingrang listened patiently before replying calmly, "Competing? But Miss Zong is not an object."

The fourth brother’s smile deepened as he tried to make it appear more genuine, his tone shifting instantly. "Third Brother, don’t be so absolute. If I weren’t on the front lines with no guarantee of survival, regardless of the outcome, I’d still fight for her."

Deep down, the fourth brother knew Zong Ying would never have much to do with him. But since childhood, he had always compared himself to Sheng Qingrang, making grand declarations a habit.

Moreover, today he genuinely felt that, given the current circumstances, he might have already lost the right to pursue love—because he couldn’t promise a future, even if that future simply meant staying alive.

Sheng Qingrang understood the implication behind his words, "no guarantee of survival." After a moment of silence, he only said, "The war is intensifying. Take care of yourself."

Hearing this, the fourth brother smiled knowingly and remained silent for a long while before finally lifting his chin. "Of course. You’re going to such lengths to relocate Shanghai’s factories inland. I’ll wait and see—whether it’s worth it, whether it means anything!"

Sheng Qingrang replied, "It will."

"Will it?" The fourth brother suddenly tightened the collar of his uniform, his smile fading as he turned away. "I hope I live long enough to see it."

With that, he put on his cap and strode out. The evening breeze brushed against the white gauze bandage on his shoulder.

As the wind carried him, he glanced back once and saw Sheng Qingrang’s retreating figure. The prejudices he had harbored for years had mostly dissipated. If this man were truly a profiteer, why would he willingly shuttle through the flames of war for such a thankless task as relocation?

The blood-red sun sank inexorably. Zong Ying, long awake, had listened to the conversation outside the door. She rose and pushed open the dilapidated wooden window facing north.

Closing her eyes and reopening them, she suddenly waved a hand in front of her face—

She was seeing double.