Chapter Fifty-Nine: Reunion of Comrades

When Zhang Wenhao woke up, it was already past noon. He hadn’t expected he could sleep for so long in one stretch, but upon awakening, he felt better than he ever had before—a new surge of strength coursed through his entire body.

Song Huafang, seeing her son awake, was pleasantly surprised to find that the pallor of his face from yesterday had vanished, replaced by a healthy flush. She rushed forward, touched his forehead, then her own, and smiled. “No fever. Looks like your wound won’t get infected.”

Zhang Wenhao smiled slightly, but noticed that Su Ruoran was no longer in the room. “Mom, where’s Ruoran?”

Song Huafang shot him a mock-annoyed look. “Look at you. The first thing you ask about when you open your eyes is Ruoran, as if your mother were made of air!”

Embarrassed, Zhang Wenhao replied, “No, I saw you as soon as I opened my eyes, but she wasn’t here, so I just asked.”

Song Huafang smiled knowingly. “Ruoran went home—her mother needed her for something.” Then she added, “You really slept long enough. We were waiting for you to get up for breakfast, but now it’s almost late for lunch.”

Zhang Wenhao quickly asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s almost one,” Song Huafang answered. “I’ll call the doctor to check on you. Your father and your Uncle Lei have spent the whole morning receiving people—looks like more than a dozen old comrades have arrived. Once everyone’s together this evening, we’ll all go have dinner with them.”

Zhang Wenhao asked curiously, “Mom, I thought you didn’t want to go?”

Song Huafang nodded. “They’re all men; I didn’t want to intrude. But your father said Uncle Lei’s wife and daughter will be there too. It wouldn’t be right to leave Uncle Lei’s wife alone, how awkward would that be?”

She stood up. “You rest a bit, I’ll call the doctor.”

Zhang Wenhao nodded, and as soon as his mother stepped out, he quickly got out of bed himself. After sleeping so long, his system should have finished integrating the Strengthening Technique. His strength and endurance index should now be at ten points—he was eager to see what difference that would make.

Stretching his limbs, he found that his injured left arm no longer hurt—this delighted him. He hooked his right hand around the corner of the hospital bed, and before he realized how much force he was using, he had lifted the bed more than half a meter off the ground.

The hospital bed was not like ordinary furniture; it had a steel frame and electric lifting functions, making it much heavier than a normal bed. Before, even using both hands, he would have struggled with it—now, it was effortless.

But this was a hospital, not a place to properly test his strength. He thought to himself, when he had time, he could go to a gym and quantify his strength, to better understand the true effect of the Strengthening Technique.

He then reviewed the Strengthening Technique in his mind. It consisted of two parts: a unique set of physical exercises, and a detailed regimen for physical training.

It seemed that from now on, he’d have to set aside time for these exercises, and follow the training plan to scientifically improve his body. The Strengthening Technique could be upgraded to ten levels—he had a long way to go.

The doctor gave Zhang Wenhao a thorough examination and concluded that there was no longer any risk of infection; he could recover at home so long as he cared for his wound. The stitches were made of a new material that would be absorbed by his body, so he wouldn’t need to come back.

With a prescription in hand, Zhang Wenhao and his mother took a cab home. His mother prepared a simple lunch for him, and as he ate, he watched the national news. Unexpectedly, the arrest of Li Chunyang in Jiangcheng made the headlines and was featured as a major story.

The anchorwoman said, “A Class A fugitive, who committed crimes for six years across seven provinces and thirteen cities, responsible for fifteen cases resulting in nine deaths and eight injuries, was arrested in Jiangcheng last night. Our reporters are on their way for live coverage.”

Since the reporters hadn’t arrived yet, the program spent seven or eight minutes reviewing Li Chunyang’s fifteen crimes—out of a thirty-minute show, that much airtime made it clear how notorious Li Chunyang was.

Zhang Wenhao was relieved that his own involvement was not mentioned. Very few people knew what he did last night, so it wouldn’t affect his life.

Society is like this: some people crave publicity, but others shun it. People like Wang Cheng and Liu Xiping belong to the former; Zhang Wenhao to the latter.

He rested at home all afternoon. As dusk fell, Song Huafang got a call from Zhang Xingping—it was time to bring Zhang Wenhao to join the gathering, as all the comrades had arrived.

Song Huafang fetched a suit from the wardrobe for him. “Son, put this on—your father just called.”

Zhang Wenhao nodded. This suit was bought by his father a year ago; he’d only worn it once, to the wedding of a fallen comrade’s son. That comrade had died in their father’s arms on the battlefield, leaving behind a widow and a two-year-old son. After retiring, his father had looked after them until the boy grew up and married. Before the wedding, his father had bought him this suit and said something Zhang Wenhao would never forget: “That boy lost his father so young—just him and his mother, not many relatives or friends. If not enough people come, the wedding will feel too lonely. That’s why our whole family should go.”

It was this sense of loyalty that Zhang Wenhao most admired in his father. He was even more excited than his father for tonight’s reunion, as it would finally fulfill a long-held wish.

Song Huafang personally tied his tie. Looking at her son, tall, handsome, and dressed in a suit, she smiled. “My son has grown up—so tall and handsome! You look sharp in a suit.”

Zhang Wenhao tilted his head up to make it easier for her and smiled. “This is the only decent outfit I have. If I didn’t look sharp in it, there’d be no justice in the world.”

She patted his shoulder and laughed. “Remember, when you get there, be polite. Call everyone uncle or sir as appropriate—mind your manners.”

Zhang Wenhao grinned. “Don’t worry, Mom—I know how to talk sweet.”

Mother and son took a cab to the hotel and were stunned by the scene as soon as they entered the private dining room.

This was the best restaurant in Jiangcheng, and this private room was the largest in the city, rivaling a banquet hall. Originally, there had been a massive table for twenty-eight, but at Lei Zhanjun’s request, it had been replaced by three regular tables; he thought a huge table felt too impersonal and made it hard to clink glasses.

The atmosphere inside was boisterous—everyone was seated on the long sofas, chatting animatedly. When Song Huafang and Zhang Wenhao entered, several strangers stood up, pointing to them in surprise. “Brother Zhang, is this your wife and Wenhao?”

Zhang Xingping hurried over, taking his wife and son each by the hand, and brought them to the crowd. “Let me introduce you all—this is my wife, Song Huafang. Most of you are younger than me, so you should call her sister-in-law; those older, call her young sister.” Then he pulled Zhang Wenhao forward. “And this rascal is my son, Zhang Wenhao.”

A man not yet forty laughed, “Brother Zhang, is this the great hero the captain was bragging about? He looks so refined—not what I expected. Did you come with a battle scar?”

Zhang Xingping pointed to Wenhao’s left arm and laughed, “That’s a through-and-through wound! Kid, my son’s no luckier than you. You made it through gunfire without a scratch.”

The man scratched his head and grinned, “That’s because I’m the youngest—you all looked after me.” Then, protesting, he added, “Okay, I never got shot, but I was hit by shrapnel once!”

“Come off it,” someone snorted from the crowd. “You didn’t even know to hit the deck when the Vietnamese were shelling us. If Brother Zhang hadn’t knocked you down, you’d have been blown to bits. Can you compare yourself to his nephew here? He took down Li Chunyang’s whole gang bare-handed!”

Everyone burst out laughing, teasing the one they called “the kid.” Zhang Xingping then introduced the twenty-seven visiting comrades one by one to Song Huafang and Zhang Wenhao.

Soon, Zhang Wenhao found himself in front of two women—one older, strikingly beautiful, and the other a girl about his age with short, ear-length hair. Zhang Xingping introduced them, “Wenhao, this is your Uncle Lei’s wife, Aunt Xue.”

Zhang Wenhao nodded politely. “Hello, Aunt Xue.”

Then he gestured to the girl. “And this is Uncle Lei’s daughter, Lei Lei—she’s a few months younger than you.”

Lei Lei was stunningly pretty, clearly having inherited the best features of her parents. Unlike Su Ruoran, she was about 1.72 meters tall, slender, with short hair and a simple but crisp outfit that gave her a hint of competence and a touch of heroism.

“Hello,” Lei Lei said, extending her hand with a smile. “I’ve been hearing about you all afternoon—they’ve almost turned you into a legend. I was expecting a burly muscleman, but you’re nothing like I imagined.”

Zhang Wenhao thought to himself, “Lei Lei certainly has an outgoing personality.” He smiled and shook her hand. “I hope the real me isn’t too much of a disappointment.”