The two walked along the concrete road into the barracks.
The early-spring wind still carried a chill; white poplars along the path were just budding, and from afar came the shouts of soldiers training—vigorous and full of life.
They soon reached the rear kitchen.
It was a little past ten; clearly, lunch preparations were already underway.
Everyone in the yard looked busy, yet the work was orderly—each person had a task, and no one idled in chatter.
Only the clatter and clank of preparation could be heard.
Chen Ping stepped forward first, said a few words to the elderly kitchen supervisor, then returned to Jiang Cheng's side.
He then led Jiang Cheng toward the cooking stoves at the far end of the yard.
Only when they drew close did they see a grey-haired old man bent over, wiping a stove.
His dark-blue training uniform was washed almost white, yet still worn with perfect neatness.
His sleeves were rolled to the forearm, exposing several old scars of varying depth on his wrist.
It was Zhao Anning.
Jiang Cheng softened his steps and said nothing at first.
Chen Ping called out first, "Old Zhao, keeping busy?"
When Zhao Anning turned and saw who stood beside Chen Ping, his eyes widened; the rag in his hand slapped to the ground.
For a full three seconds he stared, then stammered, "Jiang Cheng… Young Master Jiang? What brings you here?"
Jiang Cheng bent, picked up the rag.
His tone was mild, without the least airs: "Passing by, so I dropped in to see you. Brought some specialties from Shanghai—try them while they're fresh."
Zhao Anning hastily wiped his still-usable left hand on his apron.
With that hand he accepted the bag.
His emotions were clearly running high; his fingertips trembled as they brushed the plastic.
"You… you're too kind," he said, voice cracking, then quickly swallowed it—afraid of losing a veteran's dignity. "I'm already grateful you found me this job; having you come all this way… it's more than I deserve."
Was Zhao Anning grateful to Jiang Cheng?
Absolutely.
Without Jiang Cheng he'd still be living alone in a tiny public-rental flat.
Yet the gulf between their stations was enormous.
A favour from the powerful may be remembered for life.
But to the powerful it can be as trivial as righting a fallen pail.
When Jiang Cheng arranged his enlistment last time, Zhao Anning had glimpsed the super-car and guessed the young man's background was no common thing.
Now, seeing Jiang Cheng "stoop" to visit, he couldn't contain his excitement.
Jiang Cheng glanced around the stoves: the tiles gleamed, even the seams free of grease.
Though Zhao Anning's left hand was the more agile, he had been working briskly.
"Getting used to it here? That hand coping all right?" he asked.
Zhao Anning's face lit up. "I'm doing great—wiping stoves, trimming vegetables, nothing heavy. For the first time in years I feel useful. And I can chat with the lads—beats sitting home alone. They all look out for me."
"Glad you're comfortable. Qingming Festival's coming; if you fancy an outing, tell Chen Ping—he'll arrange it."
"No need, no need," Zhao Anning waved hurriedly. "At my age I'm not roaming. But you—so busy yet you still remember me… Back then I was only an ordinary soldier, just a third-class merit. For you to treat me like this…"
He couldn't finish; his throat knotted, and the right hand with only one moving finger instinctively shrank to his side, as though fearing these "useless" limbs might tarnish such kindness.
Watching him, Jiang Cheng felt something clench inside; his tone lost its earlier ease.
"Old Zhao, when you held that position on the battlefield, you weren't thinking of medals. What you guarded is exactly what deserves to be remembered. My coming isn't about me remembering you—it's that the motherland has never forgotten you. We younger generations are only repaying, on the nation's behalf, the peace you bought with your life."
Just as the words fell, a stout figure at the corner of the corridor outside the kitchen shifted.
The sentry had reported "Chen Ping bringing a young man to the kitchen," and he'd guessed it was Jiang Cheng.
He had purposely circled round to see, only to hear those words.
He now stood in crisp officer's dress, the stars on his shoulders glinting gold in the warm light.
Jiang Cheng, still talking with Zhao Anning, hadn't noticed.
Chen Ping, however, spotted him at once.
As Chen Ping began to salute and speak, the man swiftly raised a finger to his lips, signalling silence.
Chen Ping's heart lurched.
Though he made no sound, his gaze flicked anxiously toward Jiang Cheng—not one of their own, after all; this was the capital, and a careless word could spell trouble.
He clenched his palms, wondering: Should I quietly warn Young Master Jiang?
But Jiang Cheng had said nothing sensitive—only words from the heart.
So he held his tongue and waited.
Recalling his own battlefield days and knowing someone still remembered, Chen Ping felt heat behind his eyes; moisture gathered in the creases of his weathered face.
He straightened, wiped a sleeve across his eyes, then bowed formally, as once he had saluted on the field.
"Thank you, Young Master Jiang, for still remembering us old bones."
Jiang Cheng quickly steadied him. "None of that. Staying healthy means more to us than any thanks."
At those words not only Zhao Anning but even Chen Ping behind them reddened around the eyes.
He too was a soldier; those who've worn the uniform best know the unsung cost behind Zhao Anning's quiet service.
The more he thought, the firmer his conviction became.
Jiang Cheng, treating lowly veterans with such care and without airs—if he rose higher, he would surely not forget the common people; he would be a leader who cherished the grassroots, not empty glory.
Moved, Chen Ping glanced again at the youngest general standing in the corner.
The man's shoulders remained straight, yet the usual aloofness toward others was gone.
The hand that had motioned for quiet now hung relaxed at his side, knuckles loose.
The deliberately maintained smile had vanished.
Thanks to Jiang Cheng's words, his eyes were solemn, even faintly moist.
Zhao Anning gripped the bag of specialties tighter and, unable to hold back, ventured, "Young Master Jiang, I've never had the nerve to ask—what exactly does your family do?"
The unease in Zhao Anning's eyes and gestures hadn't escaped Jiang Cheng.
He smiled, voice gentler: "Just ordinary business folk with a bit of spare cash. I'm friends with Squad Leader Li back here; hearing the kitchen needed help and knowing you're a reliable old soldier, I asked him to pull a few strings."
Half true, half tactful, the answer landed right in Zhao Anning's simple heart.
He scratched his head, beamed. "So that's how it was… Still, thank you, Young Master Jiang. Without you, who knows where this lonely old man'd be drifting."
"Stop calling me Young Master Jiang," Jiang Cheng cut in, half-joking. "Sounds distant. Just call me Xiao Cheng."
"That… wouldn't be right," Zhao Anning hesitated, embarrassed.
"Of course it's right; you're my elder—that's the friendly way."
Warmth flooded Zhao Anning; his eyes misted again as he nodded firmly. "All right, Xiao Cheng it is—taking the liberty. Come, let me show you my dorm—just a few steps!"
When these words were spoken, the figure in the corner couldn't suppress a chuckle.
The Jiang Family carried enormous weight in the capital, yet Jiang Cheng had just called them "ordinary business folk."