Chapter 180: A Hearty Meal
"Hey, Teppei. Why aren't you out training with your sword? What are you doing in the infirmary all the time?"
The voice came from a soldier with a bandaged face, one eye permanently closed beneath layers of gauze. He was lying on a cot, his tone rough, though not unkind.
The bandages around his head were soaked through, especially near the eye. Blood still seeped out from beneath the wraps.
They said he'd taken an arrow straight to the face in battle. The man had gouged out his own eye on the spot and kept fighting until he collapsed from blood loss. That he'd even made it back alive was a miracle—and one of the luckier stories among the wounded.
But still… an eye doesn't grow back. A full recovery? Not likely.
"I've already trained for the day," Teppei replied calmly, continuing to check over a wounded soldier's dressings.
The sword techniques Lord Battousai had taught him were simple—nothing more than the most basic swings and strikes.
But even simple techniques had depth. With solid fundamentals and daily practice, Teppei had more than enough to work with. The rest of his time, he spent here, in the infirmary.
The only thing he was truly thankful for... was that he hadn't seen Mirai's older brother among the injured.
"Seriously," the one-eyed soldier muttered, "if I were you, I'd be out there training non-stop. Lord Battousai himself taught you—how could you waste that on tending to broken-down guys like us?"
His words carried a bitter edge—not quite jealousy, and not quite resentment.
It sounded more like self-mockery.
With injuries like his, returning to the battlefield was little more than a dream. And since he wasn't originally from Watatsumi Island, his future... was uncertain at best.
"Because someone has to," Teppei answered plainly.
He carefully peeled off the bloody gauze from an unconscious soldier and tossed it into a nearby basin filled with stained bandages. Then, with steady hands, he began wrapping fresh cloth over the wound.
It was only after coming here that Teppei truly understood why there was only one doctor in Bourou Village.
Compared to the Shogunate army, the Resistance was woefully behind in medical care.
Some of the so-called "medics" here were barely more trained than Teppei himself—who was, frankly, just fumbling through most of it. Yet even they were tasked with stitching up open wounds and resetting broken bones.
With such a lack of proper care, the mortality rate in the infirmary was painfully high.
If not for the occasional visit from the Divine Priestess herself, who used her Vision's power to heal the gravely wounded, many more would be dead.
But she was the leader of Watatsumi Island. She couldn't stay by the wounded's side all day, every day.
What Teppei didn't yet know was this:
The Resistance wasn't lacking in doctors.
Rather, the Shogunate never allowed the talented ones to leave.
Doctors, engineers, scholars—anyone with unique expertise—were either absorbed into the Shogunate's ranks, exiled, or… silenced.
If not for the handful of skilled individuals hidden among the refugees fleeing from Tatarasuna, the Resistance might have collapsed from its own wounds long ago.
They even found records tracing back to a certain doctor hiding in Higi Village.
That old fox Kujou Takayuki truly knew how to bleed the Resistance dry—on every front, not just the battlefield.
It would be naïve to think he didn't know the Fatui were stirring up chaos on Yashiori Island.
No, the Fatui had infiltrated the Tenryou Commission, and in turn, Kujou Takayuki was using them just as much as they were using him.
What he didn't understand… was how dangerous the Fatui truly were.
And in the end, he paid the price.
. . . . . .
Night fell.
A sea of glittering stars blanketed the sky. For astrologers, these constellations told the stories of fate—some lives were simply written in the stars.
Perhaps it was because no one had seen the sky clearly for so long on Yashiori Island, but tonight, many in the refugee camp silently gazed upward, lost in thought.
Some clung to prayers, huddled in corners and muttering strange incantations—driven nearly to madness by the Tatarigami's lingering influence.
At first, everyone assumed the Shogunate would expel these unstable ones. But to their surprise, not only did the soldiers allow them to stay—they even built a special section of the camp just for them.
The gesture earned the Shogunate newfound respect in the hearts of the desperate.
As the night deepened, the silence was broken.
From the direction of the Kujou encampment, a slow rumble approached.
Several wooden carts arrived at the camp.
On the wooden carts were several barrels.
Based on Bai Luo's past experience, he assumed they must contain simple rice porridge—or perhaps plain white rice, if they were lucky. Standard fare for displaced refugees like them.
But to his surprise, although the food was indeed prepared by the Shogunate, it wasn't porridge.
It was lavish.
Chunks of meat floated in the steaming pots—far more meat than vegetables. In fact, a single ladleful could make any food hall worker back in the city stop and do a double take.
For the laborers from Tatarasuna, it wasn't all that shocking. As miners, their meals—though rough—had always included meat to keep them strong.
But for the native refugees from Yashiori Island, this was unprecedented.
Due to the island's unique geography—and the effects of the Tatarigami—most animals and fish had become taboo, either poisonous or cursed. Seeing this much meat in one place? Many of them hadn't even seen meat in months, let alone tasted it.
As soon as the food distribution began, the camp erupted into chaos.
People rushed forward, drawn by the scent alone.
"Don't push! Everyone will get a portion! If you don't have your own bowl, line up to the left—we'll provide utensils!"
The officer in charge had clearly anticipated this frenzy. Holding a makeshift megaphone fashioned from a paper tube, he began shouting instructions, trying to restore order.
But Bai Luo and Sveta did not join the crowd.
The two of them remained at the entrance of their tent, watching quietly.
Observing.
Bai Luo noticed something strange.
The Shogunate soldiers—though clearly salivating at the aroma of the food—never even looked like they might take a bite.
Instead, they slunk off to quiet corners, pulling out their own rice balls, hastily eating in secret.
They knew something.
Something about the food.
Bai Luo narrowed his eyes.
He didn't have long to wonder.
One of the soldiers approached, carrying two wooden meal boxes—one in each hand. The boxes looked to be made from thin, disposable wood. Not intended for reuse.
Which made sense.
Once something had been touched by those affected by the Tatarigami, no sane person would use it again.
It was, in essence, no different from a contagious disease.
The boxes, Bai Luo guessed, would be gathered up and burned after use.
"You two don't need to line up," the soldier said as he approached. "My commanding officer had these set aside just for you."
He smiled, trying to sound casual—but his tone was too deliberate. Too rehearsed.
He set the boxes down, then grabbed a nearby bucket and a plank, fashioning a makeshift table for them.
"Come on, eat up! While it's still hot," he encouraged, opening both boxes for them with a practiced hand.
To be fair, the food looked amazing.
And it smelled even better.
The soldier himself couldn't help but gulp down a mouthful of saliva as he stared at the sizzling meat, the thick gravy, the soft rice steaming beneath.
Bai Luo watched him carefully, then turned to Sveta.
Then back to the soldier.
He didn't touch the food.
"You look hungry," Bai Luo said mildly, picking up one of the boxes and lifting a piece of meat with his chopsticks. "Why not stay and eat with us?"
The soldier froze.
He laughed awkwardly, taking a half-step back.
"Me? Nah, no way. These meals are reserved for you, sir! I'm just a grunt. Not my place. Please, go ahead—eat. Once you're done, I'll take the containers back for... disposal."
He swallowed again—but this time, it wasn't from hunger.
His expression was strained.
Forced.
Bai Luo set the meat back down.
At that moment, the final piece fell into place.
He was sure of it now.
There's something wrong with this food.
. . . . .
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