Outside, the roar of artillery shells tearing through the night sky and the crackling of sparks flying across the rooftops filled the air. The firelight illuminated half the sky, and the air itself was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the heat of battle.
But the moon, as if nailed to the inky sky, remained motionless, its clear light still shining coldly on the broken walls and ruins, and also falling into his eyes.
He suddenly remembered Xu Zhuohua.
He once felt that she was like a little sun, bursting into his life, which had been silent for many years, with her scorching light.
The brightness in her eyes when she laughed, the lively chatter, and the warmth when she clung to his sleeve and acted coquettishly—all these things, like sunshine, forcefully dispelled the gloom that had accumulated around him for many years, and even the frozen corners in his heart quietly melted away.
But now, his sun has fallen.
What sustained him through each and every stage of his journey were those fragmented memories.
The once scorching sunlight has now transformed into the soothing moonlight streaming through the window, gently caressing his heart.
The wreckage, ravaged by hatred and pain, was gently soothed by the moonlight, preventing it from collapsing completely.
He looked up at the moon, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, his voice as soft as a sigh, trembling without him even realizing it: "Xu Zhuohua, did I do the right thing?... I miss you so much."
The wind seeped in through the cracks in the iron window, carrying the smell of gunpowder, but it couldn't dispel that murmur.
The moon still hangs high, silent, as if listening quietly for someone.
Footsteps approached from afar, their heavy, oppressive sound striking the stone walls of the cell. Before the echoes had even faded, a group of heavily armed soldiers surged in like a tide, their dark gun barrels gleaming coldly.
Zhang Qi strode forward and kicked open the dilapidated prison door, the hinges groaning shrilly.
He handed over the neatly folded military uniform. The brass buttons on the uniform gleamed in the torchlight, a color and texture that Cheng Muyun was all too familiar with.
Cheng Muyun raised his hand to take it, his movements slow but unusually firm.
As my fingertips traced the fabric of the military uniform, I vaguely recalled countless days and nights—wearing it to save struggling civilians amidst gunfire and to slay vicious enemies on the front lines.
This military uniform, stained with blood and wrapped in wounds, carried what he once thought was faith and glory, but he never imagined that one day he would wear it to kill a group of "his own people".
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