Spy Wars: I am the Captain of the Military Police

As a time traveler, he knew the tragic end of the war and was aware of the greater suffering that Nanjing and its people would endure in the years to come.

He once thought that he could use his advantages in identity and information to leverage the power of history, at least to give China a chance to catch its breath or achieve a partial victory, and slightly change its heavy trajectory.

However, reality gave him a harsh answer.

The inertia of history is immense, the power struggles among various factions, internal concerns, and the objective disparity in strength cannot be easily reversed by him providing intelligence unilaterally.

Although Dai Li and the Military Intelligence Bureau's choices were short-sighted and conservative in his view, they were also the true reactions of a weak regime facing a powerful enemy in that historical context: fear, caution, and a desire to protect itself.

"In the end... it's impossible to rely on external forces." Zhou Zhengqing muttered to himself.

Trying to quickly change the situation through hints or even "gifts" is perhaps too idealistic.

This path is fraught with uncertainty and subject to external control.

Therefore, there is only one path left: to more thoroughly control and make good use of the storm that he himself instigated within Japan.

Matsui Iwane and his faction must be uprooted, and these elite divisions of the Kwantung Army must be firmly bound to their own war machine after being "baptized" in blood and fire.

What he wanted to forge was a sharper, more obedient "knife" that belonged only to him, Zhou Zhengqing.

Even if this process requires more bloodshed and this ancient city to endure more trauma.

My gaze turned south again, as if it could penetrate thousands of miles and see the blood and fire intertwined within the city of Nanjing.

There, he ignited the flames of war and instigated the carnage.

At this moment, he was more like a calm and even ruthless chess player. Although he was disappointed by the "lack of performance" of some pieces on the board, he immediately devoted all his energy to how to more effectively mobilize and sacrifice those obedient pieces in order to ensure that the final victory belonged to him.

He was neither able nor willing to fundamentally reverse the fate of China; what he needed to ensure first was his absolute power and living space in this time and space.

The undercurrents are still surging, but their direction has been slightly adjusted.

The strategic focus is now more on a thorough cleansing and integration within Japan.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Nanjing has been completely transformed into a purgatory ruled by madness, bloodshed, and an extreme absurdity.

Inside and outside the city walls, the sounds of gunfire from different factions of Japanese troops, the cries of the dying, and the rumble of collapsing buildings still constituted the main theme of death. However, mixed in with this chaotic symphony was a highly discordant "variation" full of mercenary sentiment.

This melody mainly originated from the front lines controlled by the Fourth Division, which was known as the "Merchant Division".

In the eastern part of Nanjing, near Guanghua Gate, there is an area.

This place was once a bustling commercial street, but now only ruins, charred beams, and scattered rubble remain.

The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder, dust, and a faint stench of blood.

A company of the 2nd Infantry Regiment of the 4th Division was engaged in fierce fighting with a part of the 13th Division of the Central China Expeditionary Army, which was holding out in a three-story building that had been half-shattered by artillery fire.

Gunfire was deafening, bullets whizzed past the ruins, and grenade explosions occasionally kicked up clouds of dust.

However, on the very edge of this killing field, some unexpected "activities" were being carried out methodically amidst the intervals between gunfire.

In a relatively secluded corner of a street, piled with sandbags and broken furniture, a temporary, tacitly agreed-upon "trading point" has been formed.

Private First Class Saburo Kojima, a young soldier who had honed his shrewd calculation skills by helping his family run a dry goods store in Osaka's Kuromon Market before enlisting, was cautiously peeking out from a relatively safe gap in the ruins.

Instead of nervously aiming and firing like the other soldiers, he observed the several windows that had been blown open on the ground floor of the Western-style building a few dozen meters away, as if he were sizing up customers in a market.

He clutched tightly in his hand a piece of compressed dry rations carefully wrapped in waterproof oil paper, printed with the words "Naval Special Rations". This was a good thing he had "exchanged" from the Navy during the short half-day after landing in Shanghai with the main force. It was high in calories and was a hot commodity in the Army.

"Hey! Over there! Brothers in Sendai!" Kojima shouted in a low voice with a heavy Osaka accent, his voice sounding somewhat abrupt amidst the intermittent gunfire: "Listen! I've got some good stuff here! Navy-grade compressed rations, they'll keep you full!"

Want to trade? I have a gold watch, a pocket watch, or... even a gold tooth! Fair trade, no cheating!

At first, he was met with only a few hesitant bullets, more like warning shots, which struck the rubble in front of him, sending up a few sparks.

Xiaodao pulled back, spat, but was not discouraged. He knew the taste of hunger and understood the value of survival supplies in desperate circumstances.

After a while, perhaps the soldiers inside the building were indeed on the verge of running out of ammunition and food, or perhaps this absurd way of shouting made them feel surprised and even a little absurdly "friendly".

A weary and angry voice, clearly from the Tohoku region and Sendai, came from behind a window across the street: "Baka yarou! You Osaka idiot! What are you doing?! This is a battlefield, not a black market!"

Upon hearing a response, Kojima immediately perked up, as if he could hear a customer haggling. He poked his head out again, a shrewd smile even on his face: "Even on the battlefield, we need to eat! Brother!"

Only by staying alive can one serve His Majesty the Emperor and go home to see one's wife and children!

We'd starve to death and have nothing left! But I still have some good stuff here: hemostatic powder from the Army Medical Factory, it's incredibly effective!

"Change into your leather shoes, or belts will do! Or... I see that place you're occupying used to be a big trading company, didn't you find anything good there? Ivory chopsticks, jade pendants or something?"

There was another moment of silence.

The soldiers of the 13th Division inside the building looked at each other in disbelief. This kind of business activity, conducted amidst gunfire, was completely beyond their comprehension.

But the feeling of hunger was real, and the scarcity of medicine was also a reality.

Finally, something wrapped in rag was thrown out of the window and landed with a "thud" on the open ground not far in front of the island.

Xiaodao's eyes lit up, and like a nimble raccoon, he quickly crept over and scooped the item back.

It was a Swiss pocket watch covered in mud and dark red bloodstains, with a brass case. Although dirty, it looked exquisitely crafted.

Kojima wiped his eyes vigorously with his sleeve, looked at them in the dim light, then listened to them with a satisfied expression.

Without hesitation, he forcefully threw the precious bag of compressed rations in his hand toward the window.

A deal made right under the nose of death was thus completed with an eerie tacit understanding.