Chapter 245

Standing in the shadow of the roof, looking at the Japanese military police on the street below who were ready to face the enemy.

The sirens, the shouts, the thud of boots on the cobblestones—all mixed together into a chaotic mess. All of this was caused by those few stitches I had last night.

Rong Zhou didn't care whether they were afraid or not, nor did he care whether that special envoy would commit seppuku. He just thought it was... a bit noisy.

What really kept him awake at night were the two words "history".

Coming from the future, we clearly know this humiliating past and also clearly know where China will go in the future - that is a country powerful enough to attract the attention of the world.

But now, they are killing those Japanese who should have been alive in history and continuing their aggressive actions.

Can anything be changed?

According to the original historical knowledge, the head of the Mei Agency, Inukai Ken, should have died in an assassination attempt by the Military Control Commission six months later. But now, he died prematurely under my needle.

Will this be like a falling domino, where if one is pushed down, everything else will go off track?

If the course of history deviates due to intervention, will the powerful China of the future still exist?

This thought cut at his heart like a blunt knife. Rong Zhou was terrified, afraid that his good intentions might have led to bad consequences, that he would become the sinner who destroyed the nation's future.

Just like before, they hide in their homes and do nothing, thinking that they can turn a blind eye to things that they cannot see.

But……

Rong Zhou closed his eyes, and the scenes he had seen in the past few days emerged in his mind.

A Japanese soldier, simply because a Chinese vendor accidentally bumped into him, smashed the vendor's head with the butt of his rifle. Blood splattered on the dirty ground, and the soldier smiled and wiped his boots.

And those compatriots who were arrested and taken to the military police and never came out. I could feel their wailing and despair even through the wall.

Rongzhou knows history and knows that their suffering is part of this history and a strong cornerstone for the future.

But I saw it with my own damn eyes!

Rong Zhou couldn't just sit back and watch the tragedy unfold calmly like a bystander. Lu Er couldn't do it, and neither could Rong Zhou!

When I saw the little girl, hit by a stray bullet, falling into her mother's arms, the dam in my heart collapsed.

So Rong Zhou took action and made those whose hands were stained with blood pay the price.

Knowing that this could trigger an unpredictable butterfly effect, knowing that this could cause history to deviate from its course.

Afraid of hesitation.

Rong Zhou is different from Lu Er. He is always hesitant and unable to make a choice.

All the people he met told him that what was before his eyes was reality.

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Outside the blockade line of the Shanghai International Settlement, the wind and snow were blowing heavily.

Rong Zhou, carrying an elderly man on his back, tapped the waterlogged rooftop with his toes, his figure passing like a ghost past the patrolling gendarmes. His breathing was long and steady, and the elderly man on his back didn't even feel the slightest bump.

"Young friend Rong, I will never forget your kindness." The old man lay on Rong Zhou's back, his voice trembling with emotion. Tucked tightly in his arms was an oilskin bag containing top-secret documents Rong Zhou had stolen from the secret room of the Mei Agency—documents of the Japanese troop deployment and operational plans in East China.

Only now did he realize that this skilled doctor, Dr. Rong, was the chivalrous warrior who was secretly killing the Japanese devils.

Rong Zhou landed beside a secluded reed marsh, set the old man down, and handed him a heavy cloth bag. "Old man, these 'small yellow croakers' (gold bars) were confiscated from the private vaults of Japanese officers. We're using them to buy guns, ammunition, and medicine for our brothers on the front lines."

The old man looked at the cloth bag, tears welling in his eyes. He bowed deeply and said, "My dear Rong, you are so kind! But it's too dangerous for you to stay in Shanghai. Why don't you come with me?"

Rong Zhou shook his head, his face expressionless, only a hint of determination hidden deep in his eyes. "I still have things to do. We can't let them have their way in East China." He knew the tragedy that was about to happen, and he wanted to stay and use his own methods to delay the Japanese army.

The old man knew that he had made up his mind, so he stopped trying to persuade him. He bowed again and said goodbye, then turned around and disappeared into the snowy night.

Ever since the Flower Street Massacre, he had sensed an invisible "force of exclusion" enveloping him. This force didn't come from a single person or a single country, but from the entire world order that he had disrupted.

It wasn't like a bullet, a blade, or even any kind of energy he understood. It was more like an omnipresent "corrective force," a cold, indifferent, and endless will.

The exclusion of world consciousness does not come from a certain country or organization, but from the entire space-time structure itself.

It is like water, trying to expel foreign matter that has mixed into it.

It was like a giant net. Every time Rong Zhou changed history, it was like tearing a hole in it. And the net was shrinking with increasing force, trying to completely crush and erase this "hole."

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When Li Qiu pushed open the creaking wooden door of the attic, the afternoon sun was shining in obliquely, casting a long spot of light on the floor.

It was empty inside, without even a trace of people.

The air still seemed to hold the faint, indescribable smell of disinfectant from Dr. Rong, mixed with a hint of gunpowder smoke. But even that little scent was rapidly dissipating, as if it had never existed.

Li Qiu's eyes immediately fell on the simple wooden bed.

A black priest's robe was neatly folded on the bed, with a collar that had turned pale from starching, cuffs that had frayed edges, and a small, tarnished silver cross on the lapel.

This is Dr. Rong's favorite outfit. He said that this outfit can make him more convenient and less troublesome in this chaotic city.

But now, it is left here.

Doctor Rong left without saying a word.

Li Qiu walked over slowly, stretched out her little hand, and gently touched the robe. The fabric was still warm, as if it had just been taken off by its owner.

He remembered that last night, Doctor Rong was still sitting at the table, polishing each silver needle by the dim oil lamp. Li Qiu asked him where he was going, and he just smiled, touched his head, and said, "Li Qiu, you must live well and become a useful person in the future."

At that time, Li Qiu didn't understand why Dr. Rong's smile was so strange, as if he was saying goodbye.

Now he understands.

Dr. Rong is really gone, and he may never come back.

Li Qiu picked up the priest's robe and hugged it tightly. The lingering warmth on the robe reminded him of Dr. Rong's warm hands. His nose felt sore, and he couldn't help but let his tears fall, splashing on the black fabric, leaving a small wet mark.

He didn't know why Dr. Rong left, nor where he went. He only knew that Dr. Rong, who was always silent but would give him steamed buns when he was hungry and would save him when the Japanese bombed him, was gone.

The attic window was open, and the wind blew in, blowing the curtains and the corner of his robe.

Li Qiu walked to the window, looked at the still heavily guarded meeting outside, buried her face in her soft robe, and her shoulders trembled slightly.

He lost someone very important.

And that black priest robe will become his deepest and warmest memory of Dr. Rong and this turbulent era.

The wind was still blowing and the sun was slowly setting in the west. There was only a small figure left in the attic, holding an old piece of clothing and standing quietly by the window.

In this small attic, in this child's heart, what is left is a pure tenderness of protection and farewell.