Choice
"Extra! Extra! The area outside the Great Wall has fallen! The Japanese army has captured the area outside the Great Wall, and countless tragedies have occurred!" The newspaper boy, dressed in patched coarse cloth clothes, carried a bundle of mimeographed newspapers on his thin body as he ran and shouted loudly.
You Jiale's steps abruptly halted, as if an invisible hand had gripped his throat. The words "outside the pass," "fallen," "captured," and "tragedy" engulfed him instantly like a stench-laden wave.
He recalled the dark era mentioned countless times in books and documentaries of his past life—the war of aggression against China that brought profound disaster to the Chinese nation. Those cold numbers, blurry photos, and the sorrowful accounts of later generations were once just a passage in history books, seemingly distant and untouchable. But at this moment, the words "the fall of the Great Wall" were like a lightning bolt, tearing apart the barriers of time and space, instantly pulling that bloody history before his eyes.
He strode up to the newspaper boy, grabbed a newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket without bothering to find change, and haphazardly stuffed a few bills into his hand. The boy's thanks were left behind; his heart was pounding rapidly and erratically, as if it would leap out of his chest.
You Jiale hurried home and spread the thin newspaper on the table. Under the dim light, the ink-printed words appeared rough and blurry, but the shocking headlines and brief reports were like sharp knives, piercing his eyes.
"The area outside the pass fell, and the defending troops fought valiantly, but ultimately could not reverse the decline."
"The Japanese army trampled the ancient city, and countless civilians were killed or injured."
"Witnesses said that the city was filled with cries of despair, a truly horrific sight."
He gripped the newspaper tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force. "Massacre!" The word haunted his mind like a persistent ghost. He struggled to recall what he knew of modern history, searching for fragments of memory related to "outside the Great Wall." Countless ordinary Chinese people lived there, hardworking, kind, and content, living peaceful lives. But now, they had suffered such a cruel fate.
A surge of intense resentment, like volcanic magma, churned within him, threatening to tear him apart. He hated the invaders, their brutality, their wanton trampling of this land, their slaughter of innocent compatriots. At the same time, a profound fear, like a cold, venomous snake, coiled around his heart. The area beyond the Great Wall wasn't far from this city; the tragedy of today could befall him tomorrow, could happen in the courtyard of "Leji Delivery," could happen in every corner of this city.
The bloody words and cold descriptions in the newspapers were like countless invisible hands, gripping his nerves tightly and preventing him from calming down.
He threw himself onto the bed, burrowed under the covers, and tried to find some warmth. But in a daze, he drifted off to sleep. However, what awaited him was a nightmare far more cruel and terrifying than reality.
In his dream, You Jiale felt as if he were in a living hell. He saw hordes of Japanese soldiers, their faces contorted in a ferocious grimace, rampaging through the city like bloodthirsty beasts. They brandished bayonets, indiscriminately slaughtering unarmed civilians, their blood staining the streets like gushing springs.
He saw elderly people kneeling on the ground, pleading desperately, only to be kicked to the ground by Japanese soldiers and then killed by cold blades. He heard the heart-wrenching cries of young women quickly swallowed by nauseating laughter. He also saw countless innocent children, their wide, bewildered eyes filled with fear, watching helplessly as their loved ones fell into pools of blood, their small bodies trembling under the guns of the Japanese soldiers.
The dream, like a vivid documentary, laid bare that humiliating history before You Jiale's eyes. He seemed to witness firsthand the raging flames of Nanjing and hear the silent cries of 300,000 wronged souls. Those brutal scenes, once confined to words and images, now felt so real, so heart-wrenching, as if they were happening right beside him.
He felt an immense grief, like heavy shackles, binding his soul so tightly that he couldn't breathe. He wanted to scream, to stop it all, but his body was nailed to the spot, unable to move, and he could only watch helplessly as those horrific scenes unfolded before his eyes.
Everything in the dream was so real it was suffocating; the stench of blood in the air seemed still palpable, and the wails echoing in his ears were clearly audible. You Jiale's heart was torn apart by immense anger, fear, and helplessness. He had once been far removed from that era, only able to feel the weight of that history through cold words. But now, he was there, personally experiencing the crisis of national subjugation and annihilation, feeling the despair and struggle of ordinary people amidst the flames of war.
Suddenly, You Jiale awoke from his nightmare. He sat bolt upright, gasping for breath, his forehead covered in cold sweat. The room was pitch black, save for the faint moonlight streaming through the window onto the floor, making it all the more silent. But the agonizing screams from his dream still seemed to echo in his ears, and the bloody images still lingered before his eyes.
His heart pounded wildly, as if trying to break free from the confines of his chest. He looked around, trying to distinguish between dream and reality, but the deep-seated fear lingered. He realized that this was no longer just a story in a history book, but a reality unfolding in his own time, a reality that could befall him at any moment.
An unprecedented sense of confusion and helplessness washed over him like a tide. He had once thought of himself as mature, a time traveler with modern thinking, capable of navigating this era with ease. But now he realized that in the face of such a grand historical tide, he was as insignificant as a drop in the ocean, utterly powerless to resist.
He hated his own cowardice and weakness. He knew perfectly well that this nation was suffering, that he had witnessed those heinous atrocities, yet he could only hide in a corner of the concession, living cautiously for his own survival. He wanted to do something, but he didn't know what to do, nor whether he had the ability or courage.
He hurriedly got out of bed, stumbled to the table, and rummaged through the messy documents and ledgers. Finally, he found the note with the contact number he had hidden before.
He picked up the phone receiver from the table; the cold touch made him even more alert. He stared at the number on the slip of paper; each digit felt like a heavy weight pressing down on his heart. He knew what the consequences of dialing this number would be.
He was torn internally. Reason told him that acting rashly might put him in even greater danger. He hadn't yet grasped the rules of this world, nor did he possess sufficient self-protection skills; once drawn into the unknown vortex, he could face utter destruction.
However, the bloody scenes from his dream resurfaced before his eyes once more. The innocent lives lost under the Japanese invaders' blades filled him with a profound sense of national humiliation that he could not ignore. He hated his own cowardice, hated that in this time of national crisis, he only wanted to survive.
He gripped the phone and the note tightly, his palms sweating. He didn't know whether he should make the call. If he did, it might bring great danger; if he didn't, his conscience would be tormented. He felt an unprecedented struggle and helplessness, as if he were in a dark maze with no way out.
Was he a coward? Yes, he had to admit. He wasn't ready to face those harsh realities, to take on unknown risks. He feared death; he wanted to live—his strongest desire since his transmigration. But when personal survival intertwined with the fate of his nation, what choice did he have?
He bit his lip tightly, staring at the phone number in his hand with a complex expression, as if it were a lifeline or an entrance to an unknown abyss. Finally, he let out a long sigh, slowly placing the phone receiver back in its place, but still clutching the note tightly in his hand, as if it were a heavy responsibility, a future he had to face.
At that moment, You Jiale suddenly remembered a popular internet saying she'd heard while scrolling through her phone in her past life: "We live for a few moments." The truth of that saying reached its peak at that instant.
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