I put you in charge of those rebellious female soldiers, how come they all became top special forces

That night, inside the safe house.

Ram slept on the cot in the corner, wrapped in a military blanket, curled up in a ball.

Anran didn't sleep.

She sat on a wooden stool by the fireplace, hugging her knees, her gaze fixed on the old wooden table against the wall.

Chen Zheng sat there, his ten fingers resting on the virtual keyboard of the military terminal.

An Ran stared at his back for a long time.

Then he quietly stood up and walked to the table.

Chen Zheng placed her dark gray titanium alloy thermos next to the terminal. She lifted the lid and felt the water inside; it was already completely cold.

An Ran didn't say anything, picked up the thermos, unscrewed the lid, and poured out the cold water inside.

He then walked to the stove, poured hot water into the kettle, and took out the small packet of goji berries from the side pocket of Ram's backpack, pinched a handful, and threw them into the cup.

Tighten the cap, return to the table, and gently place it within Chen Zheng's right-hand reach.

Chen Zheng's fingers didn't stop, and his gaze didn't leave the screen.

But after Anran put down the cup, his right hand naturally reached out, picked it up, and took a sip.

Anran retreated to sit down by the stove and continued to watch him quietly.

The text on the screen gradually increased under Chen Zheng's hands.

She caught a glimpse of a few lines out of the corner of her eye.

What was written on it were strings of names.

Dajie suffered three fractures in his right tibia, which were inflicted by the Dawa family.

Tsering Wangdu was illegally detained at the Qiangba family's mine and has not returned for six months. His fate remains unknown.

Tashi Dondrup suffered a fractured tibia, and a doctor at the county hospital is suspected of accepting bribes.

In Losang village, seventeen herding families were forced to sell their caterpillar fungus at a low price.

Each name is followed by a brief statement of fact.

The words are dry and unadorned, but the facts are vivid and clear.

An Ran continued to look down.

There is a photo below.

That's a photo of Tsering sitting on the doorstep.

In front of him was the ghee lamp, which was mostly burned out, and on the wall behind him still hung the faded portrait.

The old man's back was bent, he held the Buddhist prayer beads in his hand, his eyes were filled with tears, and he looked ahead.

"Tsering, an 87-year-old man, said in his own mud-brick house: 'Are you... still going to take care of me?'"

Upon seeing this, An Ran's eyes suddenly stung with tears again.

She quickly turned her head away and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

Hearing the noise, Chen Zheng turned his head to look at her.

"If you want to sleep, then go to sleep."

An Ran bit her lip and nodded emphatically.

She didn't say anything more, but simply moved closer to the stove and leaned against the wall.

The firelight cast the shadows of two people, one hunched over the table, the other tending the hearth.

The wind outside the window is getting stronger.

Chen Zheng continued writing.

He planned to bypass all intermediaries and deliver the report directly to An Jianjun, who would then forward it to the highest levels.

In the main body of the report, he attached three things.

One is irrefutable evidence of the financial transactions between the White Egret spy organization and the Gongjue family.

The second is a photo of the line of red Tibetan script painted on the outer wall of Qiangba's abandoned mud house.

Thirdly, there was Tsering's butter lamp and his heart-wrenching question.

Chen Zheng stared at the screen for more than ten seconds, his fingers hovering above the keyboard.

A moment later, his fingers fell again, typing a line on the last paragraph of the report.

"The bottom line of united front work should not be to allow the dust of history to turn back into a mountain weighing down on the people."

"If the law is subject to local constraints, I request that it be forcibly quelled by military law."

After typing the last period, Chen Zheng stopped.

An Ran kept watching him.

Although she didn't see the specific content of the last paragraph, she could guess a bit from the slightly clenched fist Chen Zheng made when he closed the terminal.

Chen Zheng clicked send, and the encrypted data was transmitted via military communication satellite to the Southwest Military Region.

After finishing, Chen Zheng tightened the lid of the thermos, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

Anran waited a few seconds to make sure he wouldn't move again before getting up and walking over to gently drape her coat over his shoulders.

He then returned to the fireplace and sat down cross-legged.

……

Southwest Military Region, Brigade Commander's Office.

3:07 AM.

An Jianjun was snoring, his head resting on his desk.

The table lamp was still on, and the ashtray was full of cigarette butts.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

An Jianjun mumbled something indistinctly: "Get lost..."

The door slammed shut twice more, this time with much more force.

He suddenly sprang up from the table.

"Who is it! Aren't you asleep in the middle of the night?!"

The secretary pushed open the door and came in, her expression somewhat off.

"Brigade Commander, an urgent document has arrived from the direction of Tibet."

An Jianjun rubbed his eyes, looking annoyed.

"Chen Zhengfa's?"

"Yes."

An Jianjun's lips twitched instantly, and he instinctively felt a chill run down his spine.

This guy never lets you have an easy time when he sends documents in the middle of the night.

"What did he do this time? Weren't they all arrested?"

The secretary shook his head: "I don't know, it's supposedly a special report on public opinion."

An Jianjun was stunned.

Public opinion report?

That guy actually wrote a report on public sentiment?

An Jianjun put on his coat, plopped back into his office chair, took the tablet from his secretary, and opened the document.

The screen lights up.

At first, he looked a little impatient, rubbing his temples with one hand and holding a teacup in the other, ready to glance at the tea and go back to sleep.

After reading the first paragraph, I put down my teacup.

After reading the second paragraph, I stopped rubbing my temples.

An Jianjun straightened up.

The text on the screen was unadorned, consisting entirely of bloody facts.

Dajie suffered a fracture in his right arm.

Tsering Wangdu has been missing for six months.

Fifteen yak oxen, borrowed but never returned.

The elderly herdsman who was trying to collect a debt was pushed down the steps, breaking two of his ribs.

A young woman stood at the door holding her three-year-old child. Her husband had been taken to the mine and had not been heard from since.

The police station chief attempted to file a case, but his car was pushed off a cliff, fracturing his spine and leaving him paralyzed for life.

An Jianjun's breathing became increasingly heavy.

His temples began to throb when he saw the photo marked with red paint.

"This place already belongs to someone."

Five Tibetan characters, written in red paint, were painted on the wall of a mud-brick house that had collapsed halfway.

An Jianjun served in the army for most of his life and went to many remote areas, including this place.

He knew very well what this marking meant.

He continued scrolling down.

When An Jianjun turned to the photo of Tsering, his finger stopped.

The old man in the photo is sitting on the doorstep, his back hunched, with a butter lamp in front of him and a faded portrait behind him.

The old man's original words were attached below the photo.

"Are you... still going to care?"

An Jianjun stared at those five words for a full minute.

The tablet in my hand was also trembling slightly.

He flipped the tablet over and placed it face down on the table, propped his hands on the table, lowered his head, and didn't say a word.

The secretary stood at the door, not daring to breathe.

Having served the brigade commander for so many years, An Jianjun often cursed people, and throwing things was even more common. Although he rarely slammed his fist on the table with his superiors, he did do so.

But this silence should be the second time.

Last time, it was about the main family.