Chapter Thirty-One: A Brief Clash

The interrogation began immediately. Ning Zhiheng wasted no time in taking Huang Xiansheng and his companion to the Interrogation Section for handover. Once the formalities were completed, Huang Hui was placed in a separate cell. Ning Zhiheng gave special instructions: unless summoned by the Operations Team, the Interrogation Section was not to question him. This was the most Ning Zhiheng could do as a gesture of special consideration—he could only wait until the case concluded before releasing him.

As for Huang Xiansheng, Ning Zhiheng resolved to treat him with every available method in the interrogator’s arsenal; he had no qualms about wearing him down to the very end. The interrogation room was a place Ning Zhiheng had visited once before—a place of terror and gloom, where the air reeked of blood.

Before long, the interrogators from the section arrived: two burly men accompanied by two lieutenants.

“Jiang Wende!”
“Zhang Ping!”
“Ning Zhiheng!”

Their introductions were brief. Ning Zhiheng handed over the dossier he carried. Jiang Wende, a middle-aged officer just past forty, his hair already streaked with gray, appeared older than his years and carried an air of indifference. Zhang Ping, in his thirties, was broad and intimidating, with the fierce gaze of a wolf. One look at him and the word “ruthless” sprang to mind. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t explain, Ning Zhiheng sensed a heavy aura of violence emanating from Jiang Wende, and Zhang Ping’s deferential attitude toward him made clear who was in charge.

“Captain Ning, you’re a new face. What’s the case this time?” Jiang Wende asked. It was obvious he’d already learned something about Ning Zhiheng before coming. He took the file from Ning Zhiheng without even glancing at it, tossing it onto the table with a look of studied boredom. The Military Intelligence Division only handled major cases, and Jiang had seen so many that he’d long since grown numb.

“Japanese spy,” Ning Zhiheng replied bluntly. Before coming, Wei Liangbi had warned him: the Interrogation Section’s men were all transferred from the military. They were a law unto themselves, and looked down upon graduates of the Whampoa Academy, whom they regarded as arrogant upstarts advancing rapidly through connections instead of merit. There was always a sense of resentment; their tone was invariably sarcastic during investigations.

Ning Zhiheng knew these men were simply the ones assigned to dirty work. No one with connections or background would ever be sent here.

“A Japanese spy, eh?” Zhang Ping sneered. “Every time you bring someone in, it’s a Japanese spy. This year, how many have we had? Has even one turned out to be genuine?”

“We’ll know after the interrogation,” Ning Zhiheng replied coolly, meeting Zhang Ping’s hostility in kind. “I’ll be right here to witness your methods. Don’t let me down.”

The retort left Zhang Ping speechless. He was a man of action, not words; usually, a fierce glare was enough to silence others. But the young officer before him was clearly unimpressed.

“All right, enough talk. Captain Ning, is this the man?” Jiang Wende shot Zhang Ping a glare, then gestured at Huang Xiansheng, who sat handcuffed and silent in the interrogation chair, eyes closed.

“A soldier?” Jiang Wende asked, noting Huang Xiansheng’s posture.

“Yes, an active-duty officer—a major serving as staff in the Eleventh Regiment, Second Division. We suspect he’s a Japanese spy, extremely dangerous. He even wounded one of our men during his capture,” Ning Zhiheng explained.

Jiang Wende gestured for Ning Zhiheng to proceed with questioning—the first step in any interrogation.

“Huang Xiansheng, let me introduce myself. I am Ning Zhiheng, captain of the Military Intelligence Operations Team. You surely know why you’re here. Tell us everything, and spare yourself some suffering.” Ning Zhiheng paced before Huang Xiansheng, hands clasped behind his back.

Huang Xiansheng slowly opened his eyes, studying Ning Zhiheng—the young adversary who had so mystified him. He still could not comprehend the events leading to his capture. But now was not the time for reflection. He’d received specialized training in resisting torture. Since the moment he went undercover, he’d prepared himself for this possibility. But now, facing the real thing, could he truly endure?

“I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here, nor do I know what you’re talking about! My identity should be clear—I am an officer of the National Army, a major in the Second Regiment of the Eleventh Division. You have no authority to arrest an active officer—can you bear the consequences?” Huang Xiansheng demanded, his anger barely contained. He had no idea where his mistake lay, no clue where he’d slipped.

Everything had seemed normal—until his sudden capture on his way home. Only now did he realize it was the dreaded Military Intelligence Division that had taken him. As a mid-level officer, he was all too aware of their reputation. His heart sank with despair—he would not be leaving alive, unless…

He dared not pursue that thought further.

“You see?” Ning Zhiheng spread his hands. “People always cling to hope until the very end,” he said with a sigh. “Captain Jiang, he’s all yours.”

Huang Xiansheng’s reaction was exactly as Ning Zhiheng had expected—just a perfunctory exchange before handing him over for torture. He saw no need to waste words. As long as he stayed by Huang Xiansheng’s side, he was confident he could pry the truth from his mind.

Seeing Ning Zhiheng’s decisive handoff, Jiang Wende wasted no words. “Well? What are you waiting for? Show some spirit and don’t let us be shamed,” he barked at his men.

At his command, the two brutes seized Huang Xiansheng, dragged him from the chair, and bound him to a massive cross. His hands and feet were locked in place. His outer garment had been stripped during his arrest, leaving only a white shirt. Two wounds on his left shoulder still oozed blood.

“He was injured during capture, but it’s nothing serious. The bleeding will stop soon enough,” Ning Zhiheng explained, tearing open the shirt to expose the wounds.

He walked over to the brazier, carefully extracted a red-hot iron, and approached Huang Xiansheng, pressing it suddenly against the wound on his left shoulder.

A stench of burning flesh filled the air, and white smoke curled upward.

“Aaah!” Huang Xiansheng screamed as agony wracked his body, convulsing him violently.

“There you go—high heat disinfects wounds. Severe cases require drastic measures. Staff Officer Huang, this is all I can do for you,” Ning Zhiheng said with a gentle smile.

Everyone in the room flinched. Even Jiang Wende and Zhang Ping, hardened as they were, were shocked—not by the act itself, but by Ning Zhiheng’s composure. Gazing at the young captain’s still boyish face, all present shed their earlier contempt.

“Captain Ning sets a high standard—we won’t hold back, then,” Jiang Wende said, his face grim.

Despite having lived two lives, Ning Zhiheng had never before witnessed a real interrogation. The reality was far more brutal than he had imagined, but he forced his expression to remain impassive. He could show no weakness before Huang Xiansheng or anyone else. He had to project strength.

The whip, barbed and soaked in brine, ripped away flesh with every stroke, mingling screams of agony with the crack of leather. Long bamboo slivers were hammered between his fingers, each nail pried off one by one—then the toes. By then, only hoarse, guttural moans escaped him.

After two hours, Ning Zhiheng signaled for a pause and stepped before Huang Xiansheng once more. The man’s face twitched uncontrollably from pain; hands and feet were impaled with bamboo, his body soaked in blood.

“Tsk, tsk. Staff Officer Huang, was this necessary? Sooner or later, you’ll talk—why make it come to this?” Ning Zhiheng sounded almost regretful. “Just tell me: why did you rent Room 402 on North Hua Street? What does the potted rose in the window mean? Where is the dead drop for transmitting information? How do you receive instructions? What is the radio frequency? The time? The codebook—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Huang Xiansheng rasped before Ning Zhiheng could finish.

So that was the leak! North Hua Street, Room 402—the rose in the window! These bloodhounds had sniffed so close, yet he’d had no inkling. The signal drop was exposed; the place was surely a trap now, bristling with guns. Even if they hadn’t captured him, he’d have walked into the noose soon enough.

What to do? His capture would endanger both the windmill and the radio station. How could he have been so careless—so fatally complacent? Was it the long years of peace that dulled his instincts, or had these Chinese hounds grown so sharp?

He did not know that the organization’s most vital courier, Liutian Xingshu, had already been captured and executed before him, and that his own exposure was due to none other than this Operations Team Captain Ning Zhiheng.

“What a shame. We could have been friends, but you refused my hand. No matter—you’ll have more chances,” Ning Zhiheng said, dropping the subject.

He knew Huang Xiansheng was a seasoned spy, not one to break easily. But Ning Zhiheng had time on his side.

“Continue, Captain Jiang. I’m afraid you’ll be late for supper,” Ning Zhiheng said.

Without a word, Jiang Wende signaled Zhang Ping to resume.

The red-hot iron was pressed to open flesh, followed by scalding water poured over the wounds, then again the iron, and again the boiling water—over and over.

Soon, Huang Xiansheng could no longer make a sound. His body hung limp from the cross, trembling violently, mouth twitching, vision blurred, every nerve ablaze with pain. He’d always thought himself a man of unwavering will, certain that no torture could break him. But now, his confidence faltered.