Chapter Three: The Veteran Squad Leader

I realized that what I was vomiting was a mass of dark, clotted blood. Within those clots, to my horror, were tangled tufts of black hair—long, slender strands unmistakably belonging to a woman.

As I watched the hair come out of my mouth, terror seized me, and I couldn’t help but retch again and again. Each time, what I expelled was more old blood, entwined with clumps of women’s hair.

For a moment, the entire company fell silent. Not a single soul spoke. In hindsight, it was less a silence than a collective shock. No one had ever seen anything like this. No one knew how to handle it, and I was so violently ill that any course of action would have to wait until the episode passed.

It wasn’t until I was heaving up nothing but sour bile that the deputy company commander anxiously patted me on the back, and, together with my comrades from the mess squad, carried me in turns to the infirmary.

All along the way, blood dripped from the corners of my mouth, and every now and then, clumps of hair would slip out as well.

When we arrived at the infirmary, the squad leader rushed over from the mess hall as soon as he received the news, only to be met with a furious scolding from the deputy commander. He kept questioning how the squad leader could be so oblivious to the condition of his men, that I could be so desperately ill without anyone noticing.

The old squad leader’s face turned ashen, dark as pig’s liver.

Despite the commander’s persistent berating, I could see that his eyes never left me, betraying his deep concern beneath the harsh words.

Soon after, perhaps from the continuous vomiting and being jostled along the way, I drifted into a semi-conscious haze. Whatever the commander and squad leader discussed after that was lost to me.

What happened next, I only learned later from my comrades in the mess squad.

They told me that when the medic saw the hair I’d vomited, he blanched with shock. He pried open my mouth, only to find it stuffed with clotted blood and hair.

Immediately, he and his superiors contacted the deputy commander and insisted I be sent to the military hospital—or else, things would not bode well for me.

But just as they were about to take me away, the old squad leader grabbed the commander’s arm and said urgently, “You mustn’t send him to the hospital! I’ve seen this illness before—I know how to treat it!”

His words left the medic and commander staring at him in disbelief. They both demanded to know, “How could you possibly do better than the military hospital? You’re just a cook!”

“It’s not that,” the old squad leader replied, his composure unshaken as he pointed at me. “Even if the hospital could treat him, he wouldn’t survive the trip. If we don’t act now, he won’t make it!”

The commander’s eyes widened in disbelief. At that moment, the squad leader leaned in and whispered something into his ear. All present watched as the commander’s expression shifted from anxiety to grim resolve.

Finally, the commander clenched his fist and said, “You’d better be sure about this! If you fail, you’ll bear full responsibility!”

“Commander, leave it to me! He’s my man—his life is in my hands. If anything goes wrong, I’ll face a military tribunal!” the squad leader replied, sweat beading on his brow.

He then asked Zhao Hong, who had gone out with me the previous night to bury the fish, whether I had eaten the red-eyed perch that night.

Upon learning that I hadn’t touched the carp, a trace of surprise flickered in his eyes. Still, his experience served him well; he didn’t abandon hope. He observed my semi-conscious state, pacing anxiously back and forth.

At last, the squad leader gently lifted my right hand and noticed a fresh scar, just scabbed over—a cut I’d gotten while preparing food.

At that moment, the squad leader nodded and said to the commander, “I see now—it’s the fish oil! The cut on his hand must have come into contact with the perch’s oil that night. Whatever was in that fish oil entered through the wound.”

“Never mind the cause—can you save him or not?” the commander pressed, his voice taut with worry.

“There’s a way! There’s a way!” the squad leader exclaimed, as if a light had dawned.

He instructed the medic to prepare a spirit lamp, white vinegar, and a scalpel, and sent Zhao Hong to fetch glutinous rice, ginger, steaming cloth, and a bowl of chicken blood from the mess hall. He said he would have to operate.

He then cleared everyone out of the infirmary. My comrades didn’t know what happened inside, but they told me later that the commander stood guard at the door, refusing to let anyone peek in.

Two hours passed before the old squad leader finally emerged, exhausted and bloodstained, and solemnly announced that my life had been saved.

To this day, I don’t know exactly what he did with the scalpel, or what he whispered to the commander. I only remember that three days later, when I woke from my stupor, my right hand—used to handle the fish—bore several fresh cuts, their edges tinged with vinegar.

After that, I recovered swiftly. My gratitude to the old squad leader was immense, and I grew ever more curious about the man.

I asked him several times how he had saved me, but he always brushed it off, telling me to focus on my recovery and that he’d explain someday.

Finally, one day, when only the two of us were on duty in the mess hall, the old squad leader revealed the whole truth.

He told me that my illness had been caused by that red-eyed perch.

When he was a boy learning to cook from his father, his father had told him that the most prized variety of perch was the “Four-Gilled Perch” from Songjiang. The whole fish was a delicacy, but if you ever encountered a thoroughly cooked Songjiang perch with blood-red eyes, you must never eat it. You had to bury it, and even discard the broth.

I knew nothing of these superstitions, so I pressed him further. What was so special about this red-eyed perch? Why had it made me vomit women’s hair and nearly lose my life?

The old squad leader lowered his voice and said, “That red-eyed perch has a scholarly name—Beauty Perch. But it’s not a delicacy for ordinary people.”

“Beauty Perch? That sounds lovely. Why such a name?” I asked.

“It’s called the Beauty Perch,” he explained, “because before it dies, it feeds on—” he enunciated each word—“human female flesh.”

His words sent a chill through me.

He went on to explain that in some islands along the southeastern coast, there’s an ancient ritual for raising these Beauty Perch. It was said that consuming such a fish would lead to possession by a vengeful spirit.

If a couple were betrothed, but the woman died unexpectedly before their wedding, and the man was so heartbroken that he couldn’t let her go, he might try to cultivate a Beauty Perch.

The process was simple: they would fill a large vat with seawater, cure the beloved woman’s corpse inside, and then feed her flesh piece by piece to a few perch.

Once the supply of flesh was gone, the perch would have matured. These became the so-called Beauty Perch.

Afterward, the man would release the fish into the sea.

Why release them? According to what the squad leader’s father told him, the islanders believed that the fish, having been raised on the woman’s flesh, carried her soul. Letting them go was meant to help the soul evade netherworld pursuers and to plead with the water ghosts beneath the waves for help, seeking their aid in freeing the woman from the cycle of reincarnation. In this way, the lovers could be united forever in the underwater “Third Realm.”

If, many years later, the man encountered such a red-eyed Beauty Perch while eating fish, it meant the water ghosts had found the woman’s soul and, out of compassion, were willing to grant his wish to reunite with his beloved.

But this reunion had a price—a life for a life. The man had to die.

If he still loved her and was willing to make the sacrifice, he would unhesitatingly eat the perch and await their union.

After consuming the Beauty Perch, the person would be possessed by the woman’s ghost. Within seven days, the transformation would begin: first, unceasing vomiting of blood and hair, then rapid emaciation, teeth falling out, until finally, the man would shrivel into a husk.

Thus, after years of separation, the souls and destinies of the lovers would be reunited in this macabre way.

Afterward, the islanders would seal the man’s corpse in a jar and commit it to the sea. It was said that the body would sink to the Eastern Sea, to the underwater city of Dongjing, ruled by the Dragon King. There, the lovesick man could be reborn, free from the cycle of reincarnation, to enjoy eternal happiness with his beloved—a Third Realm for star-crossed lovers.

The squad leader’s story made my skin crawl. If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I would never have believed such loyalty and such a bizarre kind of fish could exist in the world.

Seeing my pale face, he clapped my shoulder and said, “I suppose I’m to blame too. I never thought we’d find a Beauty Perch in Guizhou, let alone that its effects would be as potent as Miao witchcraft. Even a trace is enough for the perch’s ‘woman soul’ to possess you—and nearly cost you your life.”

“Squad leader!” I asked, still shaken, “Is it all gone from my body? I won’t... vomit hair again, will I?”

He laughed it off, saying, “Luckily, we caught it early. I used my family’s old remedy—vinegar, chicken blood, and spirits—to draw the poison out. You’re safe now. But remember, there are things in this world you must never eat, especially wild things with unknown origins.”

He leaned in once more, “And remember, Xiao Tian, keep what I’ve told you to yourself. We’re soldiers, materialists. There’s no place for ghosts and spirits in what we believe. Understood?”

I nodded gratefully, finally understanding his reticence on New Year’s Eve.

From that point on, the old squad leader became my mentor. All my cooking skills were painstakingly taught by him, step by step.

Later, I learned that my old squad leader, Zhao Haipeng, was a remarkable pillar of our company. His ancestors had been imperial chefs from Shandong, and legend had it that they helped prepare the famous Manchu Han Imperial Feast. The family still kept a kitchen knife bestowed by the emperor. The division had even sent him to train all the cooks in the unit, and throughout the entire group army, he was considered a leader in the culinary ranks—a true champion among military chefs.

In the years that followed, I apprenticed under him, mastering the culinary arts through two years of conscription and then re-enlisting as a non-commissioned officer, gradually becoming a core member of our company.

Yet, just as I was filled with hope, ready to make my mark on the grand stage of the military, fate played another astounding trick on me.