Chapter Twenty-One: Farewell
The setting sun, like blood, dyed the surface of the Suzhou River a dark purple.
Qiao Yuan silently watched Cheng Qing's retreating figure.
Suddenly, the scene of our first meeting at the Paramount came vividly to mind.
The late autumn of 1937 seems like it was just yesterday.
The rotating spherical lamp cast flowing spots of light, and Cheng Qing, dressed in a moon-white cheongsam, had a beauty mark at the corner of her eye that, amidst the decadent jazz music, resembled a grain of poisoned cinnabar.
During the months she acted as his concubine, he would casually embrace her and introduce her to guests as his "wife," and she would lean against him coquettishly and smile.
But when the mask was truly torn off, he grabbed her by the throat and wouldn't let go until blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, her Browning gun pressed against her heart.
Despite everything that had happened, he always felt she still had a conscience, and for a moment he even softened towards her. But ultimately, there was no place for her in his destiny. Five years later, when they met again, he never imagined she had become an executioner for the 76th Division.
His eyes were completely icy, and his black trench coat was stained with blood.
At this moment, did she use her life to put an end to her sins, or did fate ultimately refuse to give her a chance to turn back?
Qiao Yuan suddenly came to his senses, feeling as if something was gripping his heart tightly, causing him so much pain that he could hardly breathe.
Were the tears she shed and the words she spoke about the past in her old house in Hongkou just to put her mind at ease?
Or was that moment of vulnerability the true Gu Manqing hidden beneath layers of pretense?
Qiao Yuan dared not think too deeply, but his feet involuntarily took a few steps in the direction Cheng Qing had left. In the end, he could only stop in place, his fingertips digging deeply into his palms.
Gu Manqing, who lived in the old house in Hongkou, died under the pomegranate tree when she was fourteen years old. The current Cheng Qing is nothing more than a vengeful ghost kept by No. 76.
Qiao Yuan suddenly turned around and ran wildly in the opposite direction from Cheng Qing, his leather shoes crunching through the fallen sycamore leaves with a rapid, crisp sound.
The sandalwood incense from the old house in Hongkou still lingered in his nostrils, but he knew that some farewells, once turned away from, were forever.
Right now, he has no time to worry about Gu Manqing's fate; he must go find Lin Jintang!
He ran almost on instinct, his chest wound tearing apart with pain from the violent movements, each breath carrying the stench of blood, but he dared not stop.
Qiao Yuan's mind kept flashing back to Lin Jintang's image: her smile, her scolding, her determined gaze, and the warmth of the peace charm she had given him before parting.
After so many years of separation and reunion, if this is the end of life, then let him be with her, whether he lives or dies!
Qiao Yuan ran a few steps and saw Japanese transport vehicles in the distance.
His heart tightened, and he quickly ducked into an abandoned newsstand on the side of the street, staring intently at the car through its dusty glass window.
The tires screeched as they rolled over the gravel on the road, and the Rising Sun flag printed on the carriage glowed eerily red in the setting sun.
Qiao Yuan slid down to the ground against the broken wall, pressing his left hand tightly against the bleeding wound on his left arm. The gauze had long been torn to shreds by shrapnel, and drops of blood dripped from his fingertips into the frozen soil, forming dark red spots.
In that instant, an idea came to him.
As soon as the delivery truck passed the street corner, he rushed out of the newsstand and leaped onto the footboard at the back of the truck.
The truck bed was piled high with wooden crates covered with tarpaulins, and the air was thick with the smell of engine oil and rust.
The wagon bumped and jolted over the seams of the rails. He huddled under the canvas, listening to the conversations of Japanese soldiers coming from the driver's seat. Cold sweat mixed with bloodstains soaked through the rough fabric of his palms.
A muffled explosion suddenly came from afar, the wooden crates in the truck bed shook violently, and the canvas was lifted by the blast wave. He saw orange-red flames explode in the night sky in the direction of the armory, and thick smoke shot straight into the sky like an ink pillar. His heart skipped a beat.
The Japanese soldiers in front of the vehicle shouted twice, and the vehicle immediately stopped.
Qiao Yuan suddenly darted out from behind the car, his pistol bullets firing simultaneously: the first shot grazed the helmet of the soldier wearing a military cap, startling him so much that he dropped the bottle of liquor in his hand, the sake mixed with broken glass spreading across the asphalt road; the second shot hit the soldier's temple precisely, and the soldier's body fell into the back of the truck like a puppet with its strings cut, the ammunition box exposed under the canvas making a loud bang.
Just as another transport soldier reached for the grenade at his waist, Qiao Yuan rolled to the side of the truck, his left hand firmly pressing down on the other soldier's wrist holding the gun, while his right hand pressed the muzzle of the gun against the soldier's chin. With a "bang," the transport soldier's Adam's apple bobbed under the muzzle, spitting out broken Chinese words, before his head exploded in a spray of blood.
Qiao Yuan shook his head, kicked the corpse into the empty seat next to the driver's seat, and then turned the key.
The truck tires screeched against the ground, sending up plumes of smoke mixed with the smell of burning. Qiao Yuan jerked the steering wheel, and the ammunition boxes under the canvas slammed against the truck bed with a loud clang.
In the rearview mirror, the distant sound of Japanese whistles could be heard, and beams of searchlight swept erratically across the night sky.
Qiao Yuan loosened his tie and wiped the blood-splattered lenses. The roar of the engine startled the crows in the treetops. Qiao Yuan floored the accelerator, and the truck, like a wounded beast, rushed toward the flaming armory.
Qiao Yuan looked out of the car, and the bumps of the truck rolling over the bluestone road made the figures in the rearview mirror even more blurry.
In late autumn, the city of Wuhan was shrouded in leaden-gray smoke. The fleeing crowds were like scattered ants: women wrapped in tattered bundles, merchants carrying wooden boxes, and elderly people leaning on canes, all struggling to move through the mud.
But when the car camera shook, he could no longer see Chen Mo and Chen Nian.
Is it an illusion? Or is it real?
The moment Chen Mo turned and walked into the alleyway with Chen Nian in his arms, Qiao Yuan saw the little girl suddenly peek out from under the blanket and raise her tightly clenched little fist.
What they defended with their lives was never personal grudges or hatred, but the national righteousness that surged in their blood, the unbroken flame of the Chinese nation amidst the flames of war.
Qiao Yuan stared intently at the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of those two figures again amidst the chaotic crowd, but all he saw was the receding street scene and the throng of heads.
The truck continued to surge forward madly, each bump feeling like it was tearing at his taut nerves.
He didn't know if Chen Mo and Chen Nian were truly safe, or if that fleeting glimpse was a beacon of hope in their desperate situation, or a hallucination born of his own overeagerness.
But he knew that he couldn't stop or turn back at this moment.
Qiao Yuan stepped on the gas, and the truck roared into the flow of fleeing vehicles. In the rearview mirror, the withered branches of the old locust tree swayed in the wind, like a hand reaching towards the sky, tightly grasping the hope that refused to be extinguished.
As the car crossed the Suzhou Creek, a mushroom-shaped black cloud suddenly rose in the southeast, followed by a deafening roar that shook the earth. Qiao Yuan pushed open the car door and ran towards the center of the explosion.
The flames dyed half the sky red, and scorching heat waves carrying charred cotton wadding rushed towards us.
"Jintang! Jintang!"
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