Chapter Eight: Good and Evil
Zhao Qing, son of Zhao Pig Farmer, graduated from veterinary school and, as a trusted member of the Zhao family, was appointed head of the Pig Throne Building’s veterinary station—effectively the private doctor for the pig and dog elite. After Xi Gua’s rise, many pigs and dogs vacated the building, leaving rooms empty. Zhao Qing moved into his new studio, only to find a glaring red button on the desk, tempting like Pandora’s box. Curiosity won; he pressed it. The office morphed into a garish disco hall, lights flickering like ghostfire, speakers blaring shrill pig squeals and wolf howls, eerie and absurd. He and his entourage fled in panic.
The studio reeked of chaos, taking the Zhao family three days to clean and make habitable. Zhao Qing’s Tuxedo Cat moved in too, leaping about the vacant rooms with ease. A hen and her brood of chicks, raised in the cat’s nest and inseparable from it, followed, clucking and trailing her.
One day, a strutting rooster barged in, spotting Tuxedo Cat grooming the hen’s feathers with its tongue, chicks nestled close—a scene cozy yet bizarre. The rooster gaped, conceding animals could coexist but finding such intimacy outrageous. It paced the nest, squawking to shoo the hen and chicks. Unfazed, the cat and chickens ignored it. Enraged, the rooster crowed loudly, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
Tuxedo Cat glanced up lazily, “What’s that about?”
The rooster snapped, “Crowing’s my divine right! My call means get up!”
The hen scoffed, “Divine right? Yelling in broad daylight? That’s abusing your power!”
The rooster hopped, fuming, “You—you—you! If I don’t crow by day, should I crow at midnight? That’s nonsense!”
Tuxedo Cat purred, “Everyone knows you crow at midnight.”
The rooster, flustered, blurted, “That was Brother Watermelon faking a crow at night—sounding like a pig’s squeal! Can’t you tell?”
Seeing they knew the truth but stayed silent, the rooster circled the nest in a huff, grumbling, “It’s me who should guard the hen and chicks, not a cat! Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
Still ignored, it dragged in a large mirror, pointing, “Look at yourselves—what a disgrace!”
They didn’t glance. Desperate, the rooster shouted, “Weasel! Weasel!”
The ploy worked. The chicks panicked, chirping and scattering; the hen, jolted from her daze, fled with them. The rooster crowed in triumph. Just then, a rat darted from a corner. The rooster, terrified, shrieked, “It’s real!” and bolted, comb flapping. The flock, hearing its laugh then seeing its flushed sprint, knew it wasn’t joking and vanished with the chicks.
Tuxedo Cat, the household guardian, never flinched at weasels or rats. It stretched, ready to pounce, but first noticed the rooster’s mirror. Something moved within. Alert, it studied the reflection—not a weasel or rat, but a cat, identical to itself! It moved; the mirror cat moved. It stopped; the mirror cat stopped. Perplexed, Tuxedo Cat meowed, “Who are you? Why mimic me?” The other cat mouthed the same words in sync.
Tuxedo Cat approached; the mirror cat did too, colliding head-on. The eerie mimicry chilled it. Sneaking behind the mirror, it found nothing. Bewildered, it spun back, spotting a large rat—and its twin in the glass. Frozen, Tuxedo Cat wasn’t scared of rats but unnerved by this mystery. Its usual bravado faltered, betraying a hint of fear. The rat, mistaking this for weakness, grew bold, barking, “This is my turf—scram!”
Embarrassed by its lapse and the rat’s taunt, Tuxedo Cat wavered. It eyed the real and mirrored rats, locked in a standoff. Arching its back to intimidate proved futile. Finally, it stretched lazily, meowed twice at the rat, and turned to leave. A few steps out, it whipped around. The rat, seeing two cats in the mirror and caught by the sudden glare, squealed and scurried into a hole. Tuxedo Cat, dignity restored, sauntered off, muttering, “This is my new home—you should scram!”
When Zhao Qing first entered the Pig Throne Building, he burned with ambition to steer the pigs and dogs from Animalism, transform this wicked society, vindicate the heroes slain for toppling the walls in the lawn plaza, and halt the persecution of believers. He knew these ideas were perilous, yet plunged forward undaunted. One day, standing in the plaza before the Pig Blood Flag and the bacon corpse below, a chill crept up his spine, dread without cold. He secretly vowed to seize a chance to torch the flag and bacon, severing Animalism’s vile roots. Suddenly, a red surge flooded his body, his head throbbing unbearably. Later, he realized his cap was too tight, pressing his skull.
Days passed, and Zhao Qing’s thoughts grew muddled, logic crumbling. He began to entertain base, animal-like urges. His will seemed puppeted by an unseen force, his resolve to change the status quo fading as he unwittingly embraced Animalism. One night, a sharp noise jolted him awake. His Tuxedo Cat was being chased by a large rat, darting in panic. His heart sank: the world had truly turned! Cats hunting rats was nature’s law, yet now a rat chased a cat! This upside-down, absurd reality stunned him. If a cat couldn’t best a rat, how could he, mere flesh, confront these demons? Stranger still, he later saw the cat and rat become “friends,” romping without malice.
Another day, Zhao Qing was thrust into an urgent task. A police van sped him to a remote wall corner and stopped. A boy, seventeen or eighteen, hands bound, stumbled as cops shoved him aboard. Inside, a doctor readied a scalpel, coldly ordering Zhao Qing, “Strip his shirt, expose his stomach.”
Zhao Qing’s heart clenched, dread rising. Trembling, he asked, “Expose his stomach for what?”
The doctor, expressionless, replied, “To harvest his organs.”
Thunderstruck, terror flooded Zhao Qing like ice water. He glanced around; Wolf Warrior guards glared, eyes predatory. Cornered, as if chained invisibly, he mechanically lifted the boy’s shirt, pinning him with a foot to stifle struggles. The doctor’s blade flashed, blood’s stench filling the air. Zhao Qing’s legs buckled, mind blank, watching as the Wolf Warriors hauled the boy off, stuffing him into a body bag. A pig official approached the wall, knocked thrice, and whispered, “Watermelon, open.” From beyond, “Sesame, open.” A hidden door creaked ajar, just wide enough for a man to slip through. The official passed a sealed box; the recipient inspected it, handed back a tray of Golden Eggs, and vanished. The door shut, the wall seamless, as if it never existed. Zhao Qing grasped the blood-soaked truth of the trade.
Back at the Pig Throne Building, Zhao Qing was unmoored, the wall-side carnage haunting him, inescapable. He prayed such horrors would cease, but fate defied him. Soon, his veterinary station was converted into an organ transplant hospital. He witnessed pigs and dogs subjecting children and youths to inhumane experiments and dissections. Profit cartels eyed organs, biotech firms coveted bones—both fetched fortunes.
Zhao Qing, inherently kind, couldn’t bear to harm animals, let alone humans. He’d studied medicine to save lives, never imagining he’d wield a scalpel as a butcher. He knew this day would come. Conscience urged him to halt at the brink, to flee this den of evil, but that red surge flooded him again, devouring his resolve. Then, another force clashed fiercely with the red, his head splitting with pain. Touching his head, he found no cap; the agony hinted at sinister manipulation.
He recalled Qianru’s warning: the Pig Throne Building and lawn plaza were shrouded in a red evil spirit. To save himself, he must flee this place, erase Animalism’s beastly mark. With Qianru, he felt a righteous aura, making all things radiant, surpassing even the guide dog’s and mastiff’s loyalty. Yet back in the building, oppression crashed like a tide. Buried in work, he grew accustomed, even striving for a house and family, his original ideals fading.
One day, the hospital chief handed Zhao Qing a stack of cash with one hand and a scalpel with the other. The truth hit him: no one with a shred of conscience could partake in such evil. Even assisting was aiding tyranny—unthinkable! Yet the Pig Throne Building’s red malevolence had already devoured his soul. His mind blanked, the line between good and evil collapsed, and he moved like a corpse. Mechanically, he took the money and knife, stepping toward the operating room.
Murder—a word so horrific he’d never dared think it—now loomed as his own act. Cold sweat poured, his hands shook like leaves. He neared the operating table, avoiding the donor’s face, but a fleeting glance froze him. Staring, he cried out, “Qianru, my fiancée!”
Zhao Qing frantically used a scalpel to cut the ropes on Qianru and pulled her out of the door. The nurse and Wolf Warrior at the scene looked at each other in shock, and then reported to their superiors.
The chief, livid, sent Wolf Warriors in pursuit, closing fast. In desperation, Zhao Qing flung the cash skyward, bills fluttering like snow. The Wolf Warriors halted, scrabbling for the money.
The pair sprinted to the bridge, Zhao Qing hurling the scalpel into the river, holding Qianru tightly to comfort her.
The bridge seemed a divide between man and beast; beyond it, the Wolf Warriors ceased their chase. But within the walls, surveillance was inescapable, IDs all registered. Escaping tonight meant little—tomorrow’s hunt loomed. Their only hope was scaling the high wall to the free world.
They raced to a wall section, Zhao Qing crouching for Qianru to climb his shoulders. He hoisted her up, but she yelped, her palm sliced by barbed wire atop the wall, blood streaming. The crest was a tangle of spikes—impassable without tools. Alarms blared, wolfhounds bayed, police closing in.
A spark of memory hit Zhao Qing—the hidden door. He dragged Qianru to the wall’s corner. The hounds’ barks neared as he fumbled, knocking thrice, shouting, “Watermelon, open!” No reply. He knocked again, “Watermelon, open!” Silence. The baying was at his heels. In despair, he kicked the wall three times. At last, three knocks answered, a voice murmuring, “Sesame, open!” The code matched; a small door creaked open. A head peered in, startled. Zhao Qing thrust a wad of cash from his belt. The figure nodded, letting them pass. Qianru slipped through first, Zhao Qing following, but as his head emerged, the hounds arrived, teeth clamping his pants.
Zhao Qing screamed, “Run! Keep running! Boldly, to Beautiful Farm…” His voice echoed in the night, the walled darkness swallowing him like a beast. Qianru, tears streaming, clenched her jaw and fled toward freedom, carrying Zhao Qing’s final charge, racing for the distant, unreachable Beautiful Farm.
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