104: Chapter 104 Fungal Infection: Recommendation to Visit the Urology Department

"Mr. Sacrifice, let's go pee-pee!"

These words fell from the receiver, and Li Li went over them three times in his mind.

The accent was Hebrew. "Pee-pee" was a mangled "chat," and "Mr. Sacrifice" was a botched attempt at "Mr. Li."

Someone from Israel.

He pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back against the chair.

"Pee-pee?"

He paused for a moment.

"If you need to pee, go to a public restroom."

The other side was silent for two seconds, probably frantically flipping through a dictionary.

Then the accented voice spoke again, enunciating more forcefully, pushing the words out one by one.

"No, Mr. Li, we are looking for you—it is about a very important matter. We have, fungus."

Li Li moved the phone an inch away from his ear.

Fungus.

He lowered his head and thought for two seconds—"evidence," the pronunciation had gone astray, colliding with "fungus."

Chat turned into pee-pee, evidence turned into fungus; the vibe of this call was already hopeless.

"Oh," he said, switching to a very concerned tone.

"If there's fungus while you're peeing, that's no good. It's easy to get an infection."

"How about this? I have some connections. I'll send you a registration link for the Urology Department at West China Hospital later. You should go see a doctor when you have time; don't let it turn into chronic inflammation."

"No! Mr. Li—"

"You don't need it? Then I'm hanging up."

Click. The call ended.

He tossed the phone on the table and sat there for three seconds.

Fahd's WhatsApp was being monitored; that was a certainty now.

He looked up and swept his gaze around the four-square-meter room, flipped his phone over onto the table, stood up, and went out.

"Teacher Wang."

Teacher Wang was standing in the corridor, holding an account book and staring blankly.

"Let me borrow your phone."

Teacher Wang didn't ask any questions; she pulled out an old, chipped phone and handed it over.

Li Li took it, walked to the side corridor at the very end of the main building, checked the doors at both ends, then pulled up the SMS from the General Political Department, manually entered the number, and dialed.

It connected. A female operator, standard tone.

"Hello, please state your purpose."

"I am Li Li, we've been in contact before. I just received a strange call, with a Hebrew accent, attempting to contact me in Chinese. The WhatsApp chat and call logs of one of my overseas contacts have likely been intercepted."

"Received. Please wait a moment."

Silence on the line, with very faint background noise. About four minutes later, someone else was on the line.

A male voice, middle-aged, with a certain gravity honed over years of practice pressing between his words.

"Comrade Li Li."

"Yes."

"Situation received. You handled it appropriately. You don't need to get involved in the follow-up; just go about your normal life."

Li Li thought for a moment, then decided to ask one more question.

"Is it my trouble that brought them to my door?"

The other side didn't answer immediately, remaining silent for about three seconds.

"Watch the news broadcast tonight."

The male voice added, "We have decided to release the relevant news ahead of schedule. This is also to protect you."

Li Li went over this sentence and roughly understood—official categorization, sealing off public opinion. The space for the other side to make an issue out of the name "Li Li" had been blocked off in advance.

"Understood."

"Thank you for your hard work, Comrade."

The call ended.

He stared at the chipped screen of Teacher Wang's phone for two seconds, then walked back to return it to her.

Imperial Capital, Haidian District, the Jiang residence.

Dinner at seven, without fail.

General Jiang Zhan sat in his usual spot, Director Wu Xiaomei came out of the kitchen with the last dish, and Jiang Rumu shuffled out of the bedroom in slippers. The family of three was all seated.

The TV was on, playing the news broadcast at a low volume.

Jiang Rumu picked up a piece of braised pork, lowered her head to study the rice in her bowl, phone face down on her lap, wondering whether to send a fourth message urging for a reply.

This damn pauper, said he was negotiating a big deal, and after talking for so long, he still hasn't replied—

"...Recently, while our Navy's 001 Aircraft Carrier was patrolling near the Indian Ocean, it encountered a malfunctioning foreign fighter jet..."

Jiang Rumu's chopsticks stopped. She looked up.

On the screen was a gray-green sea, with a row of officers and soldiers in training uniforms standing on the deck. Then the footage switched.

An F-18 Hornet. The flag area was pixelated. She recognized that plane.

"...The foreign fighter jet failed to land, the go-around was unsuccessful, and it crashed into the sea..."

Failed to land. She was still alive.

She turned her head to look at her father. General Jiang Zhan didn't move his chopsticks; he stared at the TV, his back sitting very straight.

"Dad, this is fake, right?"

General Jiang Zhan picked up a piece of tofu, placed it in his bowl, and flipped it over.

"It is fake."

He paused.

"To protect those two pilots. You understand."

Jiang Rumu understood. The crash into the sea was a cover. By sealing off information externally, the identities of those two people wouldn't be exposed, and no one would be able to follow the thread to find them.

At least on the surface, it would be fine as long as they recovered the wreckage of the fighter jet.

She put down her chopsticks and said "Oh."

Director Wu Xiaomei held her chopsticks, looked at her daughter, then at her husband; she hadn't kept up, and didn't ask.

The news anchor had already moved on to the next story.

"...Recently, Vice Minister of Culture Minister Xu Jianguo, representing the Party Central Committee and the State Council, visited Qingcheng Orphanage to present the national may 1st labor medal to acting director Li Li..."

"Is this that young man Li Li?"

Director Wu Xiaomei asked Jiang Rumu in surprise.

Jiang Rumu rested her chopsticks on the bowl and straightened up.

On the screen was that dilapidated cafeteria, that old wooden table wiped three times, that ragged undershirt with a hole poked in it by a safety pin.

Li Li stood in front of the camera, took the medal, looked down at it, furrowed his brow as he pinned it to his chest, and after pinning it, he used his finger to press on the pinhole.

The news anchor's tone was steady, finished the brief sentences, and the footage moved on.

Jiang Rumu didn't make a sound.

She stared at that face, feeling as if something in her mind had hit a wall—it hadn't broken through, but it had definitely shaken her.

An amateur who had only been streaming for ten days, who had torn apart internet celebrities, confronted the police, and then was awarded a national may 1st labor medal on the national news broadcast.

It wasn't that she hadn't seen big scenes, after all, there was a high-ranking military official in her family.

But this person really dug another layer deeper every time she thought he had hit rock bottom.

Opposite her, the chopsticks paused. General Jiang Zhan didn't turn his head, just scanned with his eyes, his gaze sweeping over his daughter's face.

His daughter was staring at the TV screen, her back straight, a tiny upward curve at the corners of her mouth—obviously not intending for anyone to see, but she couldn't suppress it.

General Jiang Zhan struggled to pull his gaze back, lowered his head to pick up a mouthful of vegetables, and chewed slowly. There was an indescribable blockage in his chest.

He had been a soldier for thirty years, seen all kinds of young people get ahead, seen all kinds of impressive resumes and glittering backgrounds.

But those things were not the same as the unconscious expression on his daughter's face when she stared at someone.

He took a sip of soup, put down his bowl, and didn't say a word.

Director Wu Xiaomei had already started clearing the third dish, clattering away, completely oblivious.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was no different than usual, except that General Jiang Zhan was eating exceptionally slowly tonight.

He pushed his bowl aside, stood up to pour some water. When he passed the living room TV, the news broadcast had already moved on to the next item, showing a grain harvest somewhere.

He stood there, taking a sip of water while facing the TV screen. Plain water, tasteless.

He thought of the brief he had received from his staff officer this afternoon. It was related to that "crash into the sea" news.

The military had conducted a preliminary assessment of the things brought back from that F-18—the value exceeded expectations, significantly.

The brief said "Major Contribution," four words, with extremely restrained wording.

He put down the glass and walked back to the dinner table. His daughter was still looking down, scrolling on her phone.

General Jiang Zhan sat down and picked up his chopsticks again. He didn't speak. He just picked up another mouthful of cabbage.

There was half a piece of tofu left next to the cabbage, sitting there quietly. He glanced at it and didn't touch it.

By the time the meal was finished, the tofu had fallen apart, the cabbage was gone, and his heart felt icy cold.

Jiang Rumu carried her bowl to the kitchen; the moment she turned the corner, her phone lit up. Li Li had replied with a single sentence.

Li Li: [I found a willing sucker for the hotel; he's ruthless, talks little, makes little trouble, and has lots of money.]

She stared at the screen, her finger hovering over the keyboard.

It was settled.

She looked back at her father still sitting at the dinner table—General Jiang Zhan was drinking soup, his back to her, his face invisible.

Jiang Rumu turned back, put the bowl into the sink, phone clutched in her hand, not replying immediately.

She was thinking about something. How many more trump cards did this person have that she hadn't seen?