8: Chapter 8 The Food That Kills

[System Prompt: You have obtained the supply item 'Cooked Potato' x3]

[Current Hunger Value: 15 / 100 (Extremely Weak)]

The red text in the lower right corner of his retina was flashing wildly.

Jack stared at the three dark, round spheres in his hand, his throat making a gulping sound as he swallowed.

This was something that could save his life.

No matter how ugly it looked, no matter how much dirt clung to it, if the system judged it to be a 'Cooked Potato,' then it was carbohydrates, it was calories, it was the fuel that could make his nearly frozen body move again.

"This game is finally doing something useful," Jack muttered.

He didn't bother wiping the frost off the surface, grabbed the largest one, opened his mouth wide, and bit down with all his strength.

Even if it was cold, as long as it was cooked, this bite should have been met with the soft, glutinous aroma of starch.

Crack.

A teeth-grinding crunch exploded in the snow hollow.

There was none of the expected pleasure of teeth sinking into food. In that instant, Jack felt like he hadn't bitten a potato, but a piece of granite just pulled from the bottom of a river.

A massive recoil force shot straight from his tooth roots to his forehead. The excruciating pain, like a dislocated jaw, made his vision go black. The potato in his hand tumbled onto the snow, making a clinking sound—the sound of a stone hitting ice.

"Ah--!"

Jack clutched his jaw, his whole body hunched over like a shrimp, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face.

He opened his mouth and spat out a mouthful of saliva tinged with blood. He licked his front teeth; they had nearly shattered, but the piercing, deep ache made him tremble even while inhaling.

The live stream zoomed in for a close-up.

On the potato rolling on the ground, only two shallow white marks were left; the skin hadn't even broken.

No one in the barrage spammed 'Hahaha.'

The viewers who had been mocking Jack's 'terrible footwork' just a few minutes ago stared at the potato, which was harder than iron, their fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to type a word.

Jack tremblingly picked up the potato.

It felt heavy and hard in his hand, carrying a dead, cold stillness that seemed to come from the Ice Age.

This was their military ration?

This was the supply this unit relied on to survive on the forty-below-zero snowy plains?

A rustling sound came from nearby.

Little Shandong didn't look at Jack. He struggled to undo the shriveled ration bag on his chest and reached inside to feel around.

The bottom of the bag had long been empty. He turned the cloth bag upside down and shook it into his rough palm.

There was only a small pinch of yellowish-brown roasted flour—a mixture of ground and roasted sorghum and wheat, dry enough to smoke.

Little Shandong didn't show any disgust. He curled his tongue over his cracked lips and poured the small pinch of flour into his mouth.

No water.

The flour instantly absorbed the last bit of moisture in his mouth, turning into a dry clump of powder stuck in his throat. He couldn't swallow it; it might even choke him to death if it went down the wrong pipe.

Little Shandong's movements were practiced.

He didn't rush to swallow. Instead, he freed one hand and scooped up a handful of snow from the ground beside him.

It wasn't fluffy fresh snow, but the hard crust formed by the cold wind blowing all night, mixed with sand and dead grass.

He stuffed the snow directly into his mouth.

His cheeks bulged as the heat from his mouth melted the sub-zero snow, turning it into icy water. This water mixed with the dry roasted flour, forcibly churning it into a paste.

Gulp.

His Adam's apple rolled with difficulty, and the ball of icy paste slid down his esophagus.

Watching this scene, the sharp pain in Jack's jaw seemed to lessen slightly. He subconsciously looked down the mountain.

A few hundred meters away, the American camp was brightly lit.

The wind carried the sounds from over there.

A few American soldiers were cleaning their mess kits.

Half a piece of turkey, bitten into only a few times, was casually tossed onto the snow, still steaming hot.

Unfinished coffee was spilled, scalding a patch of murky brown onto the pure white snow.

There was even half a can of food, kicked by a military boot, rolling into a ditch by the roadside.

Not even a stray dog was seen.

But these Chinese soldiers, only sixteen or seventeen years old, lay on the ice mountain, eating stones that could shatter their teeth and drinking snow mixed with sand.

"Brother, eating like that won't work," Little Shandong said in a low voice after swallowing the last bit of snow water and seeing Jack staring blankly at the potato.

He reached out and took out his own last small potato, the one he had been reluctant to eat earlier.

"You have to do it this way."

Little Shandong unbuttoned two layers of his thin shirt, revealing the coarse cloth underneath.

That layer of fabric couldn't block the wind at all. Jack could clearly see his ribs sticking out, his skin frozen a purplish-blue.

Little Shandong stuffed the potato, which was as hard as a grenade, under his armpit.

That was the area with the highest body temperature and the most tender skin.

"Clamp it," Little Shandong gestured.

"Hold it there for a while. When the outer skin softens, you can gnaw off a layer. Eat one layer, then hold it again, then eat what's inside."

Using body heat to melt a stone.

Exchanging his own warmth for that tiny bit of swallowable starch.

This was a cruel formula for heat exchange.

Could the heat generated by eating the food offset the body heat consumed to melt it?

No one could calculate it, but if he didn't eat, it meant certain death.

Jack watched Little Shandong button his shirt back up. The boy shivered from the cold, hunching his shoulders, but still smiled at him: "Brother, you should warm yours up too, or you won't have the energy when the fighting starts."

Jack didn't speak.

He lowered his head, unbuttoned the high-grade US military cold-weather gear, and then his thermal underwear.

The cold wind immediately stabbed into his chest like a knife.

He picked up the potato, which was still stained with his own blood from his teeth, gritted his teeth, tucked it under his left armpit, and clamped his arm down tightly.

Hiss--

Although it was extremely cold, the moment it touched his skin, Jack felt a searing pain, as if burned by a branding iron.

The ice ball pressed against the soft flesh under his armpit, greedily sucking away the heat from his core body.

Jack's whole body began to shake, his upper and lower teeth chattering uncontrollably.

But he didn't let go.

He just lay there in the snow hollow, clamping the potato, like a statue weathering away.

Time became viscous in this torment.

Ten minutes, or twenty?

The sharp pain under his arm turned into numbness, and then into a bone-chilling cold that drilled into his lungs along his ribs.

Jack felt half his body turn completely cold.

He took the potato out.

The surface, which had been iron-hard, finally showed a slight sign of softening, covered with moisture melted by body heat.

Jack brought the potato close to his mouth and, carefully, as if gnawing on some treasure, used his front teeth to scrape off the softened outer layer.

Bitter.

Icy cold.

And a strong earthy smell.

But the instant this thin layer of starchy mud slid into his stomach, Jack actually felt a long-lost sense of solidity.

When he used to play games, if his health bar turned red, he'd use a medkit; if he was hungry, he'd eat an energy bar. Those were just data, problems solved with the press of a button.

He had never imagined that on this land, in this war, simply getting a mouthful of food down his throat required such a bloody price.

"Brother, is it tasty?" Little Shandong asked softly.

Jack, with the mouthful of grit still in his mouth, felt a sting in his nasal cavity.

He wanted to say this thing was worse than pig feed, wanted to say the Americans down the mountain were throwing away turkey, wanted to say this war was too stifling.

But looking at Little Shandong's bright eyes, he finally just nodded forcefully.

"It's delicious," Jack said.

Little Shandong was satisfied. He took out another handful of snow from his chest and stuffed it in his mouth.

He mumbled, "When this battle is over, I want to go back home and farm. I have sweet potatoes there; those are sweeter than potatoes and ooze oil when roasted."

"Okay, I'll come to your house to eat then," Jack agreed, and tucked the potato, which still had a hard core, back under his armpit.

This time, he didn't feel quite as cold.

The night grew deeper.

The wind wailed, freezing everything between heaven and earth into a grayish-white.

Those few hundred figures lying on the snow looked like hundreds of stubborn stones that had existed there for a thousand years, merging into the mountain range.

The lights in the US camp gradually went out. Only the massive silhouettes of a few tanks squatted on the highway like monsters, their muzzles pointed at the night sky.

Jack stared at the dark muzzles. The restlessness, arrogance, and haughtiness belonging to a modern gamer were slowly draining away with his body heat, being replaced by a heavy feeling he had never experienced before.

It wasn't fear.

It was a suffocating reverence.

If a battle was fought by gods, it was called mythology. If it was fought by well-equipped special forces, it was called a blockbuster movie.

But here, it was a group of mortals.

A group of mortals eating stones, drinking snow water, wearing single layers of clothing, and wielding old muzzle-loaders, lying in the sub-zero cover, preparing to challenge the most powerful industrial machine on this planet.

Was this 'Civilization Reenactment'?

What exactly did that madman Su Yun want them to see?

Just as Jack was lost in thought, his palm, which had been pressed firmly against the ground, suddenly felt a slight vibration.

It wasn't the wind.

Little Shandong's expression changed.

The eyes that had previously held a hint of youthful innocence instantly shed all gentleness, leaving only a wolf-like sharpness.

He swallowed the last mouthful of snow water and propped his old rifle, whose entire body was wood except for the barrel, onto his already frozen arm.

No command had been given.

But at this moment, on the entire silent hillside, the murderous aura that had been suppressed all night rose up as if it had substance, even cleaving the wind.

"Brother," Little Shandong stared down the mountain, his voice so light it was like a dream, yet it drilled clearly into Jack's ears.

"If that potato hasn't warmed up, keep it in your chest and don't eat it yet. In case... I mean, in case I don't make it, you can use it to last another day."

Jack's heart lurched violently.

Before he could speak, a sharp whistle tore through the night sky over Chosin Lake.

It was the sound of some gas rapidly frictioning the air.

Jack suddenly looked up.

In the pitch-black night, three dazzling red flares, trailing long plumes of fire, pierced straight toward the firmament and suddenly exploded at their highest point.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Red light filled the sky.

The dim snowy plain was instantly dyed a tragic blood-red.

The rocks, the trees, the tanks on the highway, and those few hundred figures lying in the snow were all coated in a layer of crimson.

The next second.

Beep—Beep—Beep-beep-beep—!

The bugle sounded.

It wasn't the melodious sound Jack had heard in movies. It was shrill, high-pitched, cracking, carrying a madness that vowed not to rest until the enemy was torn to shreds. It exploded simultaneously from the ridges on all sides, converging into a roar capable of shattering eardrums.

"Charge--!!!"

The accumulated snow beside him scattered.

Little Shandong, who had always claimed 'It doesn't hurt,' the youth who still spoke of going home to plant sweet potatoes, leaped out of the snow pit like a leopard springing from hell.

His necrotic leg dragged a crooked mark across the snow, but he ran so fast that Jack didn't even have time to reach out and grab him.

The mountainside filled with stones had come alive.

Countless thin figures rose under the red signal flares, like a flood bursting its banks, facing the steel-forged camp below the mountain, launching their charge against the biting wind.