Chapter Thirty-Two: The Confession Begins

Another four hours passed, with Ning Zhiheng sitting there quietly, watching without saying a word. His calm expression resembled someone viewing a film, detached and indifferent.

Jiang Wende couldn’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. In truth, interrogations rarely reached this level of brutality. Normally, they would begin with milder methods—such as the tiger bench or chili water. While painful, these would not damage the body’s functions, and after more than four hours, most suspects would break.

But today, seeing Ning Zhiheng’s unwavering attitude, he wanted to make a strong impression and went straight for the harshest punishments. These methods were so vicious that after their use, a person was essentially ruined. No one experiencing them for the first time could face them calmly, and Jiang was curious to see how this young man would react.

Clearly, he was disappointed. The prisoner had been reduced to a mass of battered flesh, and it was impossible to continue the torture. Zhang Ping set aside the branding iron and glanced at Ning Zhiheng, noting that he gave no sign of stopping. Helplessly, Zhang turned to Jiang Wende, his meaning obvious—they could go no further.

Jiang Wende had never encountered such a situation before. Normally, during an interrogation, the supervising officer would be present to ensure things didn’t go too far, preventing deaths, as a dead man cannot speak. Many interrogation staff would intentionally intensify their methods, testing the limits of the investigator, then toss out a mocking remark, “You haven’t seen anything yet—we have far worse waiting.” It was a way to show disdain for the fragile nerves of the investigators, and they often took pleasure in this game.

But today, since the start, Ning Zhiheng, the supervising officer, hadn’t spoken a word against the torture, letting them do as they pleased. This was turning the tables, for if someone died, everyone would bear responsibility.

“Captain Ning, it’s getting late. Should we rest for a while?” Jiang Wende asked.

“Oh, let’s continue; time is tight. I think the prisoner is about to confess—give it another push!” Ning Zhiheng replied, entirely missing Jiang Wende’s hint, speaking in earnest.

Jiang Wende’s face tightened. This guy was a fool! What was the Operations Section thinking, sending someone like this? It was simply a contest of who was more ruthless, who would go further—was he here to wreck the place?

“Uh, perhaps we should pause for a bit. If we continue, the prisoner may not survive,” Zhang Ping said awkwardly. Seeing Jiang Wende caught out, his face was unpleasant, and Zhang Ping, for once, tried to ease the situation. For someone of his temperament to admit defeat was unexpected, and his words lacked conviction.

Ning Zhiheng stood up and once again approached Huang Xiansheng. He had to admit, the man’s willpower exceeded his expectations.

But he felt no concern; now he was the executioner, and Huang Xiansheng the victim—he could do as he pleased.

“Staff Officer Huang, how are you? So far it’s only flesh wounds. If we continue, your body will suffer irreparable damage. If you don’t speak soon, it’ll be too late,” Ning Zhiheng advised earnestly, his expression sincere, as if he truly sympathized.

Waiting a moment for a reply and receiving none, he sighed and turned to Jiang Wende. “I think the suspect is very robust—these superficial injuries won’t make him talk. Let’s use the electric chair, increase the current a bit, let Staff Officer Huang stretch his muscles!”

Ning Zhiheng showed no intention of stopping. He was ready to push things to the limit. This brute!

The electric chair was the fiercest method, and in reality, far more vile and cruel than portrayed in films. Electrodes were attached to the most sensitive, private areas of the victim, releasing currents that induced excruciating pain—no ordinary person could withstand it. Worse, it harmed internal organs, and survival after such treatment was rare.

Yanagi Shige was executed after failing to survive the electric torture.

Jiang Wende’s face grew longer; he ignored Ning Zhiheng’s suggestion. He could not allow this madman to continue. After the recent Fu Cheng case, he couldn’t risk another scandal. He didn’t know what Ning Zhiheng might do, but he knew he himself would not escape blame. He refused to carry the burden.

The situation had now reversed: the investigator, tasked with supervision, was demanding harsher methods, while the normally ferocious interrogators wanted to stop. The exchange stalled, and the atmosphere became awkward.

Just as both sides were at an impasse—

“I’ll talk!”

A voice, barely audible, sounded.

Huang Xiansheng felt himself struggling in endless darkness, as if centuries had passed. It was as if his veins carried not blood, but countless steel needles, their direction chaotic, relentlessly stabbing his nerves.

He could no longer feel his bound limbs. His body was riddled with wounds, blood flowing freely, each breath grinding and painful, as though giant millstones crushed him. The agony filled his vision with red, his suffocating lungs squeezing every internal organ.

It was too much. He truly could not endure. This was real torture, beyond resistance. He knew if he held out any longer, he would soon fall into death’s abyss, never to return.

He once thought he had no fear of death, but at the critical moment, he found it impossible to face.

“To live, even if it means living like a dog!”

Huang Xiansheng screamed this thought within his heart. As soon as it surfaced, it shattered all his resolve and pride.

Ning Zhiheng looked skeptically at the bloody, mangled Huang Xiansheng—the voice had indeed come from him.

He allowed himself a cold smile. As long as one was made of flesh and blood, how could they endure such torture? He did not deny that some could face death calmly, but those who could withstand such extreme cruelty were one in a million.

Many would rather kill themselves than continue suffering.

Jiang Wende and Zhang Ping hurried forward, checking Huang Xiansheng’s vital signs. Looking back at Ning Zhiheng, they said, “Captain Ning, the suspect has spoken. Let’s treat him first, or he won’t make it to the end of the interrogation.”

Ning Zhiheng nodded. It was best if the suspect spoke of his own accord, though he doubted Huang Xiansheng would confess everything without reservation.

He resolved inwardly that in the end, he would still take the man’s life, extract his memories—the most reliable, most genuine method.

The Interrogation Section had its own duty doctor, prepared for such situations. Huang Xiansheng was released from the cross, and the doctor performed emergency treatment. After some time, his vital signs stabilized.

The doctor nodded to Ning Zhiheng and Jiang Wende, indicating the interrogation could continue, then exited the room.

Ning Zhiheng turned to Jiang Wende, who in turn said to Zhang Ping and the other interrogators, “Let’s step outside.”

The fewer people present during questioning, the better for keeping secrets.

“Staff Officer Huang, I’ll ask the questions now, and you’ll answer truthfully. I hope our exchange is genuine and without reservation,” Ning Zhiheng pulled up a chair opposite Huang Xiansheng. “If I find any deception or concealment, you’ll pay dearly for it. Do you understand?”

Huang Xiansheng struggled to open his swollen eyes, his face so puffy that his eyes were reduced to slits. He nodded with difficulty.

“Very well, let’s begin,” Ning Zhiheng said.

“Your real name?”

“Huang Xiansheng.”

“Staff Officer Huang, that won’t do. You’re making it difficult for me. Should I try some more methods?” Ning Zhiheng’s eyes narrowed, cold light flashing.

“Really, my real name is Huang Xiansheng,” he insisted.

“Chinese?”

“Chinese. I’m from Linyi, Shandong. I have an elderly mother and an older brother at home. If you send someone to investigate, you’ll see!” Huang Xiansheng argued desperately.

As an active-duty soldier, his detailed records were still with the military; his household registration only contained his personal information.

To think he was a traitor—Ning Zhiheng didn’t know there were people in his hometown who could prove his identity.

At this point, Shi Hong should already have brought Huang Xiansheng’s personnel files and belongings back to the Operations Section. Once he returned, he could verify them, so he wasn’t worried about lies. For now, he skipped the question.

“Your true identity?”

“Special agent of the Tokko Division, Ministry of Home Affairs, Japan.”

“Code name?”

“Puppet.”

As the interrogation progressed, the situation gradually became clear, and the truth surfaced.

Huang Xiansheng was from Linyi, Shandong. As a teenager, he was sent to Japan as a laborer, working in the most grueling jobs—quarrying, mining, port hauling. Many perished, dying far from home. Because of his youth, the Japanese selected him, subjecting him to five years of espionage training and political indoctrination.

He was then sent back to China as a chess piece, eventually joining the army. With the military knowledge gained in Japan, he distinguished himself, later transferring to the central army.

Only then did Japanese intelligence agents contact him, assigning tasks and formally engaging him in espionage.

Ning Zhiheng listened to his remarkable story with skepticism, but he cared little for these past events.

“How did you receive instructions?”

“By radio, using coded numbers on specific frequencies. You should have guessed this already.”

“Time? Frequency? Code books?”

“Every night at ten, frequency 93.3. The code books are two novels: on odd days, ‘Birds of a Feather’; on even days, ‘The Wilds’. On the second shelf, far right, in my study.”

“Where is the dead drop?”

“Behind the leftmost black brick at the bottom of the north wall of Tongfu Inn, on Beihua Street. The brick is loose.”

“Why choose that spot?”

“The north side of Tongfu Inn is a wooded area, very secluded, rarely visited. Only those needing relief go there. Each time I delivered intelligence, I pretended to need to relieve myself—no one paid attention.”

“Do you place the intelligence first or signal first?”

“First, I put the intelligence in the dead drop, then go to 402 Beihua Street and place a pot of roses on the windowsill as a signal. The next day, I check the dead drop—if the intelligence is gone, everything is normal, and I remove the roses. If the intelligence remains, something is wrong; I abandon 402 as a communication point, destroy the intelligence, leave, and await further instructions.”