Doctor, Patriot, and Terrorist (12)
Liu Linfei entered Korea through Incheon Airport in the early hours of February 14th.
“Hwi oppa!”
Spotting me waiting right there in the terminal, Linfei burst into tears the moment I briefly showed my bare face. She came running and threw herself into my arms like she was leaping up. It was quite the sight, her tossing aside her mask without a care. The hot breath seeping into my chest felt uncomfortably human in its warmth. Along with it came the scent of her body mixed with perfume flooding my nostrils. If it had to be artificial anyway, I preferred the fruity aroma of triacetone triperoxide—TATP—over some sweet perfume. That white powder explosive, sugary as it was, could rightly be called a fragrant death.
In the time I’d been unaware, our relationship had grown far more intimate. I’d received a report on it a day earlier, and though the contents of the report and its attachments made me grimace, I could play my assigned role well enough.
“Oppa” was a direct transliteration of the Korean word. From the text conversations between Linfei and the subordinate posing as my secretary, it seemed to be an expression young people had picked up from the Korean drama boom. Tacking on the last syllable of a name as a nickname was common too. So I had to call Liu Linfei “Fei” from now on. That much had been decided without my knowledge. Better than weird ones like “pig head” or “pig tail,” at least.
“Long journey. You must be tired, Fei.”
Only then did Linfei lift her face from my chest. Despite the vital signs beneath her skin going wild with overflowing joy, she pouted her lips and pretended to sulk.
“How can you be so calm, oppa? You must’ve missed me all this time.”
“Sorry. I’m just bad at showing emotions.”
“Sorry with words only?”
As she pressed me like that, Linfei tapped her own lips with her right index finger. It was the dead of night during the second wave of COVID-19, when air travel demand had been strangled to nothing. The airport was a quiet void with hardly a soul around. So I obliged her request without hesitation.
Our lips met, tongues brushing, and the kiss only ended once her breathing grew ragged. Linfei rubbed her flushed face against my chest, a smile playing on her lips.
“I forgive you now.”
“Thanks.”
“……Thanks to you too.”
Thanks for what, exactly.
The natural progression once we reached the prepared lodging was, of course, work in bed. Linfei, who’d been thirsting for this reunion, sobbed and convulsed like she was on the verge of death before collapsing into a stupor before even eating breakfast.
February 14th was Valentine’s Day in China too, called Qíngrén Jié. After a late lunch near noon, once she’d recovered some energy, the letter and chocolate she offered me carried that meaning.
“Here, try it. I made it myself. Read the letter later.”
“You found time for this amid your busy schedule?”
“My shoots wrapped up the day before the holiday anyway. And no matter how busy I get, I can’t be busier than you, oppa. You barely squeezed out two days and a half this time.”
“Work is work. Can’t be helped.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m grateful you made the time despite being so busy.”
Untying the ribbon and opening the box, Linfei picked up a square piece of chocolate and popped it into my mouth. She licked the powder from her thumb and index finger, her eyes brimming with anticipation.
“How is it?”
“Delicious. Really.”
“Aw, such a bland reaction…… Then how about this?”
Putting chocolate in her own mouth, Linfei leaned in for a kiss. Sharing food passed mouth-to-mouth with tongues—filthy, honestly. But it was part of the job, so I accepted. The sweetness dissolving in saliva helped me endure the disgust. I’d gotten by digging through trash cans for meals once; this was nothing.
“Was it good?”
Her voice trembled from inches away as she asked again. I recited the line I’d prepared during our tongue play.
“It was good, but I can’t tell if it’s you who tastes good or the chocolate.”
The ad-lib worked; Linfei hugged me tight and burst into giggles. Then she let go, stood, and said:
“Wait a sec. I’ve got something prepared.”
“Something prepared?”
“Just wait. Won’t take long.”
Flashing a playful smile, Linfei slipped into the dressing room, changed, and came out.
“Ta-da!”
She wore a white áo dài. Spinning in place, she shook the long hem brushing her ankles with a mischievous grin.
“Recognize it?”
“Looks like the one you wore on the Spring Festival Gala.”
“Correct!”
That night, even the rain couldn’t hold you back.
The wind in the valley wept alongside me.
I wished to cross snow-capped mountains and the Gobi Desert with you,
But you left without farewell, cutting off all news.
My beloved, I wait for you in Cocotohai.
The Spring Festival broadcasts were state affairs directly overseen by the central government and the Communist Party to cultivate public morals. As the star of a heartwarming tale backed by Gao Xusen—meant to shine China through tough times—Linfei had appeared live on the eve of the holiday wearing an áo dài as “traditional Chinese attire.” Skipping pants under the áo dài was likely to emphasize its link to the qipao. Implying the qipao was the original, and áo dài merely a derivative. Thanks to that, she was now bearing the full wrath of Vietnam—but from her demeanor here, she couldn’t care less.
Watching the edited footage of that broadcast, I’d thought:
The Reds keep making blunders. Or is it a dead end?
To foster internal unity against external threats, China’s nationalist moves evoked a hedgehog bristling its spines in a corner. Strengthening claims on the Paracel and Spratly Islands in the South China Sea was part of it. With U.S. fleets crossing the Taiwan Strait and British carrier groups prowling southern waters like it was their backyard, China had to respond somehow. Otherwise, the already nationalist public opinion would turn suspicious of Beijing.
So China dispatched fleets to the islands for shows of force. Vietnam expressed official regret, as they claimed the islands too. China fired back with a foreign ministry statement.
The two island groups are historic Chinese territory. A small nation encroaching on a great power's domain is the surest path to ruin.
The result: massive anti-China riots across Vietnam. The Reds in Hanoi needed a bonding moment in this era of returned magic too, so Vietnamese authorities turned a blind eye to assaults, looting, rape, and murder against overseas Chinese. This made the riots far larger and fiercer than those in ’14, ’17, or ’18. Airing on Chinese TV sparked anti-Vietnam riots there too. Over 30,000 Vietnamese fled, with three-digit casualties and missing.
Linfei’s pristine white áo dài embodied that ongoing conflict.
“I meant to wear this and hug you, oppa, but seeing your face made me lose control……”
She whined with regret. Time for me to play along.
“Too late to do it now?”
“No! Then we couldn’t do anything else today!”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“S-still no. I’ve got more prepared.”
“More?”
Clearing her throat and straightening up, Linfei took a deep breath and began singing with poignant emotion honed as a performer.
I thought it was just a ordinary love song at first, but soon a bitter smile tugged inside me. Cocotohai was in Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. The refrain—“I wait for you in Cocotohai”—repeated twice more, alongside other Uyghur place names like Ili and Narati. A brainwashing anthem disguised as love, cultural colonialism propaganda. Like pro-Japanese songs under Japanese rule casually naming Korean, Manchurian, and North China sites.
Regardless of her awareness, this woman was unmistakably the vanguard of the “Heavenly Plan.” Steal, seduce, copy, seize. As natural to CCP imperialists as breathing. How many researchers, entrepreneurs, and Awakened were falling for such tricks right now, heading to China or aiding its interests? I could picture Gao Xusen dangling bait, waiting for bites. The more oblivious the bait, the better.
“Sounds good. What’s it called?”
“The Shepherd of Cocotohai. Newly debuted at this year’s Spring Festival Gala—exploded in popularity right after airing. Even during rehearsal, I felt it: this is the one. I wanted to sing it for you, Hwi oppa.”
“Feels special hearing you sing it. Could you do it again?”
“Of course!”
She responded to my feigned encore with delight. But since each line mocked inwardly, before the refrain hit a second time, I wrapped her waist and pulled her to the bed.
“N-no……not yet……”
Her resistance was feeble.
“Your fault for being so pretty.”
“……You’re right.”
Her giggles soon drowned in gasps under the rush of sensation. Better to substitute bed labor for parading around in this tough role. Exhaust her by day for peace at night.
“No……condom……!”
Even panting, Linfei shot me pleading eyes. No protection. Standard reckless practice among communist nobles and capitalists she knew. Illegitimate kids faced insurmountable status gaps with heirs, so such children were just “lifetime security” for concubines. Plenty kept mistresses unmarried. Only as a formal wife would her child count as an heir.
I hesitated theatrically before nodding, delighting her—and deepening Gao Xusen’s delusion when relayed.
Using Life for biomanipulation and recovery between allies/enemies, the five-hour ordeal etched an even more deviant experience than last time into the prey. Afterward, I suppressed her innate mana field, projected mana to abort any pregnancy, and twisted her budding circuit’s structure to block mana flow. A strong mana field would hinder Life. She had to remain an unawakened civilian. She might face issues later from my sabotage, but why care? It’d be at least a decade.
Leaving the blissfully unconscious prey, I spent the rest of the 14th on remote work and magical meditation. Arizona’s Mountain Standard Time was sixteen hours behind. The fallout from the bomb at the Native American holy mountain wouldn’t reach me until past midnight tomorrow.