Chapter 694: Xin Ta's Revenge

At eight o'clock in the evening, in the captain's cabin of the Zhenyuan, Xiaoyuan Chuan and Zhou Zhen guo sat opposite each other.

On the table were a few plates of simple dishes and a bottle of clear sake, but neither of them lifted their chopsticks.

Beyond the porthole lay pitch‑black night and a faintly visible coastline. In the distance, toward Neibi Du, flames still flickered — the scars of war, a burning city, the bodies that had not yet been buried.

"Neibi Du has been taken," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, his voice hoarse, "Myanmar, taken as well."

Zhou Zhen guo nodded.

"What are the casualties?"

Xiaoyuan Chuan was silent for a few seconds.

"Fifty‑three thousand. Adding Malaya's forty‑two thousand, ninety‑five thousand."

Zhou Zhen guo said nothing.

He stood up, walked to the window, and stared at the pitch‑black night outside.

"General Xiaoyuan, the blood you have shed, Lanfang will remember," he said without turning around, "The dead soldiers, Lanfang will provide compensation to their families. The living soldiers, Lanfang will give them time to recuperate."

Xiaoyuan Chuan watched his back.

"General Zhou, I have a question."

Zhou Zhen guo turned around.

"Please speak."

"What will Xin Ta do with those Myanmar prisoners?"

Zhou Zhen guo was silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know," he said, "That is a matter for the Myanmar people."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

Outside the window, toward Neibi Du, the flames were still flickering.

"General Zhou, those living soldiers need rest," he said, "They are exhausted. Nearly one hundred thousand have died."

Zhou Zhen guo looked at him.

"I understand. Two months. You have two months to recuperate."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

"Thank you."

The two stood side by side, watching the distant flames.

After a long silence, Xiaoyuan Chuan suddenly asked, "General Zhou, you say, how much longer will this war last?"

Zhou Zhen guo thought for a moment.

"I don't know. Perhaps a year, perhaps two, perhaps longer."

"How many people are still over in India?"

"Three hundred thousand. Adding the remnants withdrawn from Myanmar, perhaps three hundred fifty thousand."

Xiaoyuan Chuan was silent.

Three hundred fifty thousand people. How many more must die before it ends?

Zhou Zhen guo seemed to see what he was thinking.

"General Xiaoyuan, war is just like that," he said, "There is no end. Only the day when you can no longer fight."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

"Indeed. Only the day when you can no longer fight."

He turned and walked toward the doorway.

In a small village by the Irrawaddy River, Ang Dan leaned against a bamboo house, watching the Myanmar prisoners being interrogated.

The sun was scorching, making people dizzy. The river surface was windless, the water as if solidified, completely still. The air was filled with an indescribable stench — the smell of blood, of rot, the odor emanating from bodies that had not yet been buried.

The prisoners were bound together with rope, herded like livestock to the banyan tree in the village center. There a table stood, bearing a thick stack of lists. Xin Ta sat behind the table, a pencil in hand, watching the people being brought in.

One by one, Myanmar prisoners were brought before him, stating their names, their unit numbers, and what they had done in the British Army.

Ang Dan leaned against the bamboo house, watching those people.

Some were very young, looking younger than him, their faces still bearing unwaned childishness. Some were very old, hair white, hunched, walking with a trembling gait. Some wore old British Army uniforms, some wore traditional Myanmar attire, some were shirtless, their bodies covered in wounds.

A young man was brought before Xin Ta.

"Name?"

"Mao… Mao Ding."

"Which unit?"

"The… Seventh Indian Division… Third Battalion."

"Did you kill any Myanmar people?"

Mao Ding's face turned deathly pale. He opened his mouth, a gurgling sound coming from his throat, and finally managed a sentence: "It… it was ordered by the British… I… I was only…"

Xin Ta waved his hand.

Two soldiers dragged Mao Ding to the riverbank, pressed him to the ground. One soldier raised his knife and struck down.

Blood splashed into the river, quickly washed away.

Ang Dan closed his eyes.

He heard the muffled thud, heard the man's final scream, heard the surrounding crowd's gasps and sobs. Yet he did not open his eyes.

He did not want to see.

A Myanmar Independence Army soldier walked over and sat beside him. The man was named Dan Tai, who had come out of the training camp with him and fought the street battles of Neibi Du together.

"What's wrong?" Dan Tai asked, "Can't bear watching?"

Ang Dan opened his eyes, looking at the people being executed on the riverbank.

"They…" he began, his voice a little hoarse, "they are also Burmese."

Dan Tai was silent for a few seconds.

"They sold their lives to the Yingguo," he said, "they have killed our people."

Ang Dan said nothing.

He recalled the street fighting in Naypyidaw, recalled the Yingguo soldier he had killed, recalled those surrendering prisoners stabbed to death with bayonets. At that time he felt nauseous, fearful, and felt he had become a devil.

But now, as he looked at these executed "traitors," he felt nothing at all.

He just watched. Like watching a movie from far away.

Another prisoner was dragged before Xin Ta.

It was a middle‑aged man, his face full of wear, his eyes all terror. He was forced to kneel on the ground, his whole body trembling.

"Name?"

"Wu… Wu Bo."

"Which unit?"

"Eighth Burmese Rifle Battalion… I'm a clerk, not a combat soldier, I have never killed anyone…"

Xin Ta looked at him, silent for three seconds.

"How many years did you serve in the British Army?"

Wu Bo's voice trembled: "Three… three years."

"Three years," Xin Ta repeated. "In those three years, you watched the Yingguo bully the Burmese, watched them collect taxes, arrest people, kill people, and you did nothing?"

Wu Bo opened his mouth, but could not speak.

Xin Ta waved his hand.

Wu Bo was dragged to the riverbank. He struggled, shouting something in Burmese—Ang Dan heard him call "I have a wife and children," "My mother is still at home," "Have mercy on me." But the two soldiers did not stop, pressing him to the ground.

The knife rose and fell.

Another head rolled into the river.

Ang Dan averted his gaze, looking at the endless mountains in the distance. The mountains were green, glittering in the sunlight. Without this slaughter, it would be a beautiful place.

Dan Tai lit a cigarette and took a drag.

"Ang Dan, do you know why Xin Ta is killing these people?"

Ang Dan gave no answer.

"Because if we don't kill them, more will sell their lives to the Yingguo later," Dan Tai said. "Independence must be bought with blood."

Ang Dan turned his head to look at him.

"Does the blood of those people count as well?"

Dan Tai was silent.

At the riverbank, another prisoner was dragged over.

This time it was a youth, looking only seventeen or eighteen, thin as a bamboo pole. When he was dragged before Xin Ta, his legs were already weak, and two soldiers held him up so he wouldn't collapse.

"Name?"

"Min… Min Deng."

"Which unit?"

"Logistics… porter… I never fought, I only carried ammunition…"

Xin Ta stared at him for a long time.

The young man cried, tears streaming down his face. He shouted something in Burmese, and Ang Dan heard him call "Mother," "Father," "I don't want to die."

Xin Ta lowered his head, looking at the list in his hand.

He remained silent for a long while.

Then he lifted his head and waved his hand.

The young man was dragged away. He struggled, shouting, his nails scraping long marks on the ground. Yet he was still pulled to the riverbank.

Ang Dan stood up.

"I'm going for a walk."

He did not wait for Dan Tai's reply, turned and walked toward the outside of the village.

Behind him, another muffled thud sounded.

He quickened his steps.

Outside the village was a paddy field, the rice was heading, lush green. Wildflowers of red, white, and yellow bloomed brightly on the dike. In the distance a few farmers worked in the field, bent over, pulling weeds.

Ang Dan stood on the dike, watching those farmers.

They were also Burmese. They also farmed, lived, and waited for the harvest.

They did not know that just a kilometer away, their compatriots were being executed.

Another muffled thud came from the riverbank.

Ang Dan closed his eyes.

He recalled the trench in Naypyidaw, recalled the Yingguo officer he had killed. Golden hair, blue eyes, very young. When he fell, his eyes were still open, looking at Ang Dan.

He could not forget those eyes.

Now, those executed Burmese prisoners will also be unforgettable to some.

He opened his eyes, looking at the endless mountains in the distance.

The mountains were still that green. The river was still that still. The sun was still that poisonous.

Only people, killing people, being killed.

He turned and walked slowly toward the village.

It's time to go back.