Chapter Ten: Fresh and Lively Seafood

At that time, our unit received a batch of new recruits.

Among them was a short, stocky Mongolian boy with dark skin. He was half a head shorter than the others, but incredibly strong, especially when it came to explosive power. His wrestling skills—particularly the "Eighteen Throws" technique—were authentic and left a deep impression on me.

Perhaps because he was Mongolian, his name was very long, and even now I can’t remember it fully. It was something like "Burigut-Talin-Baturu or Bater"—the translation was along the lines of "Warrior of the Eagle Grassland," or "Eagle Warrior of the Grassland." In any case, it sounded quite imposing and virile.

Later, our company commander thought his name was too long, so during roll call, he’d just call him Batu or Baturu.

But privately, we preferred his nickname—“Wild Seafood”!

The reason for this nickname was entirely due to his “lifestyle habits,” which were a bit too wild for us.

Because he had just come from the grasslands, Baturu’s eating habits were very different from ours. He especially loved half-raw or completely raw foods.

I often saw Baturu chewing on something, and when I asked, he would throw half an unwashed mushroom or a hunk of raw mutton in front of me and, grinning, tell me how delicious it was and how we should all eat more to grow strong… Frankly, it made my scalp tingle.

That’s how he came to be known as “Wild Seafood.”

After enlisting, Wild Seafood’s favorite place to hang out was our mess squad.

From what I remember, he was always dropping by to chat and always had some new gimmick: sometimes offering us a taste of kumis, sometimes singing khoomei for us.

At first, I thought he was really interested in cooking, but I soon realized he had only one real motive each time he came: to sneak raw beef or mutton while we weren’t looking—and worse, to stash some away to take with him.

Eventually, the squad leader banned him from the kitchen and made it clear he wasn’t welcome.

I knew the squad leader wasn’t worried about him stealing food, but was genuinely concerned he’d get sick from all the raw stuff he ate.

But even so, there was nothing we could do to stop our Mongolian “wild seafood” from indulging his peculiar tastes.

Not long after, our old squad leader’s worries, unfortunately, came true.

I remember it was a Sunday, and I was on duty when Wild Seafood showed up at the mess hall.

He was covered in dust, with bloody scratches on his arms and bamboo splinters in his hair, as if he’d just been through a fight.

What was even more unsettling was the blood-stained army-green bundle he carried—bulging, reeking of blood, and clearly containing some kind of meat or… a corpse!

Seeing him and that bundle, my scalp tingled and I nervously asked, “What have you been up to?”

“Old Tian! Old Tian!” Wild Seafood waved the green bundle in his hand and, in his clumsy Mandarin, said, “Treat for you! Special meal! Treasure from the back mountain!”

I immediately understood—he’d gone to the back mountain looking for food again.

Our barracks were surrounded by mountains, and the back hills were covered in bamboo. There was plenty to eat there. Since Wild Seafood’s arrival, it had become his favorite place for recreation; to him, it was both a training ground and a snack pantry.

This time, it was clear he’d found something extraordinary.

I didn’t throw him out. I confess, curiosity got the better of me. I pointed at his bundle and asked, “What on earth is it?”

Wild Seafood, seeing my interest, immediately placed the bundle on the stove and, grinning with pride, unwrapped it.

Inside was a bloody lump of meat!

I was stunned. It still had patches of fur, and I couldn’t decide whether to praise our Mongolian lad or scold him for his reckless ignorance.

“This is… forbidden meat!” I exclaimed.

“Forbidden meat? What’s that?” Wild Seafood was baffled by my outburst and had no idea what a treasure he held.

He just grinned, shaking his head, “Isn’t it just pork?”

Resigned, I gave him a quick lesson and explained what “forbidden meat” was.

“Forbidden meat” refers specifically to the choicest cut from the back of a pig’s neck—a delicacy once reserved for emperors, so prized it became synonymous with anything too precious to share. According to legend, during the Eastern Jin dynasty, only the emperor could eat this cut; whenever a pig was slaughtered, officials would automatically offer this piece to him.

Obviously, Wild Seafood knew it was good meat, but had no idea what “forbidden meat” meant.

But confronted with such a delicacy, I couldn’t feel happy at all.

It didn’t take much thought to realize that in those back hills, the only pigs to be found were wild boars. Judging by his injuries and the mud, he’d definitely tangled with one; this wasn’t some random find, nor had the boar thoughtfully carved off a piece for him.

This was serious.

At that time, hunting wild boars in the hills was strictly forbidden in our company. First, because wild boars were a protected species, and second, because they were dangerous animals—bad-tempered, thick-skinned enough to shrug off shotgun pellets, and not to be trifled with.

Thinking of his future, I immediately put on a stern face and scolded Wild Seafood, laying out the consequences and warning him never to do it again or I’d report him to the company commander.

But the Mongolian lad took it well. No matter how I admonished him, he just grinned and promised not to repeat it, explaining that he’d only done it to repay us—he’d eaten so much raw beef from the mess hall, he felt guilty and wanted to treat us.

I put a stop to that idea right away. I told him I appreciated the thought, but he’d have to deal with the meat himself. He could borrow the stove, but none of us would eat it.

I wasn’t being difficult.

Regulations required all meat consumed in the barracks to be inspected. If I let the mess squad eat this “special meal,” the squad leader would kill me, and I didn’t want that kind of trouble.

After that, I never mentioned it to anyone. I didn’t ask how Baturu had managed to kill the boar. In hindsight, I’m glad I wasn’t tempted—otherwise, I might have ended up like Baturu and Xian Hongye, stricken with a wild “devouring illness.”

Not long after eating the wild boar, Baturu started to act strange.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his appetite grew by the day. Within a few days, his eyes reddened and he was eating enough for five men in a single sitting. Only then did our company realize something was wrong.

Our commander sent Baturu to the medical unit, but the results were baffling. He was in perfect health—no signs of illness, and his digestive system was fine, showing none of the expected symptoms from overeating.

Everyone was mystified. Rumors spread that Baturu had a demon in his belly that craved meat; the whole company was abuzz with wild speculation, and Wild Seafood became the talk of the barracks—but his condition only worsened.

In the end, it was our old squad leader who saved Baturu’s life.

When he heard what was happening, the squad leader took me straight to the infirmary and gave me only one instruction: prepare a bowl of raw ginger and mustard water, and as soon as I saw Baturu, no matter what he was doing, pour it down his throat!

But when we got to the infirmary and saw Baturu lying in bed, I froze on the spot and completely forgot the squad leader’s orders.

Because I saw Baturu, red-eyed, gnawing on a dead cat.