Chapter Thirty-One: Braveheart (VI)

This time, the enemy’s assault was unusually resolute. Shielded by tanks and armored vehicles, their infantry surged forward wave after wave. Though the 598th Regiment fought desperately to hold their ground, the pressure exerted by the enemy’s armored fire made their defense exceedingly difficult.

Perhaps it was the accumulation of so many deaths—the gloom rising and thickening in the air—but at just nine o’clock in the morning, when the sky ought to have been bright and clear, ominous clouds gathered overhead, as if rain were about to pour.

“We can’t let this keep going! With those tanks and armored vehicles covering their advance, our losses are too grave. Guards platoon, special operations squad, follow me—we’ll blow up those tanks!” Huang Jingsheng glanced at the sky, clenched his teeth in determination, and, furious, flung his cap to the ground, snatched up a grenade, and prepared to attack the tanks.

“Commander, you mustn’t go!” The chief of staff beside Huang Jingsheng blocked him firmly, refusing to let him risk himself. The soldiers of the guards platoon and the special operations squad all stood together, resolutely denying their commander permission to enter the fray.

“Damn it, you little brats, are you rebelling? I’m going whether you like it or not!” Huang Jingsheng erupted in rage, stubborn as an ox, unyielding in his decisions.

The chief of staff and the guards exchanged uncertain glances. But Huang Jingsheng was the acting regimental commander—the actual commander had been reassigned to the division headquarters. Here, Huang Jingsheng was the highest authority, and when he set his mind on something, no one could stop him.

After a moment’s hesitation, the chief of staff relented, speaking with earnest gravity. “Commander, you’re now the top officer in the regiment. For the sake of all our men, you can’t risk yourself. If you’re determined to go, then you must stay at the rear!”

“Fine, fine! I promise you, I’ll stay at the back. Now you can rest easy!” Huang Jingsheng agreed boisterously, ready to lead the guards platoon and special operations squad out.

The chief of staff seemed as though he wanted to say more, but opened his mouth, remembered his commitment to survival, and ultimately shook his head and let them proceed.

Under the frenzied suppression of the enemy’s heavy fire—exposing their own strongpoints—the 598th Regiment fought on. Huang Jingsheng slipped away with his men, silent and unseen. By now, the sky was pitch black, as if a torrential storm was about to sweep away the blood that had pooled here over the past days.

“You, special operations squad, head over there and blow up those Type 97 ‘Chi-Ha’ tanks. The rest with me—let’s take out these armored vehicles. After you’re done, retreat immediately, and make it as safe as possible.” Huang Jingsheng gave his orders in a low voice; the guards and special ops split into two teams, creeping through the darkness toward their targets.

“Boom!” Even before the guards and special ops could reach their objectives, thunder shook the heavens, lightning danced wildly, and the rain came down in sheets, soaking the bones and washing away the blood-soaked mud.

The guards platoon crept to within sixty meters of the armored vehicles. Huang Jingsheng whispered, “Aim for the tracks of those armored vehicles. Five men to a car, throw two volleys, then run. Wait for my signal. One, two—throw!” The guards drew the grenades from their belts, pulled the pins, and hurled them with force.

“Throw again!” Another barrage of grenades. “Run!” Huang Jingsheng barked, and the guards darted away like shadows in the night, bodies low, racing back to their positions. From the other side came the sound of explosions—evidently, the special operations squad had succeeded as well.

Luo Hanya watched Huang Jingsheng covering the retreat and couldn’t help but admire the commander’s valor, reminiscent of a wandering knight. Yet Luo Hanya had always disagreed with such methods, finding them too risky, too emotional. The battlefield was a place of merciless logic; too much sentiment could spell ruin.

Despite the pouring rain, the Japanese army—at the time Asia’s strongest, ranked among the world’s top five, with a third of its troops said to be sharpshooters—would not let them escape easily.

Gunfire erupted in a dense volley. Several guards were hit—not fatally, but enough to slow their retreat. Huang Jingsheng quickly called for others to help them, hurrying low through the mud toward the defenses.

The 598th Regiment noticed the commotion and unleashed a storm of bullets, suppressing the pursuing Japanese. Yet the enemy pressed ever closer.

“Commander, watch out!” Luo Hanya suddenly saw several enemy soldiers charging from behind and instinctively pushed Huang Jingsheng aside. In that moment, five bullets struck Luo Hanya, piercing his body before he could even trigger his demonic transformation.

His consciousness blurred, and he collapsed to the ground. In his last thoughts, he recalled, “Zhou Tai from the Three Kingdoms took dozens of wounds and survived—yet here I am, felled by five. Is the gap between men truly so vast?”

“Wait… wasn’t I just on the battlefield? Where am I now?” Luo Hanya felt himself sinking into endless darkness, wandering lost for an indeterminate time. Then, as though rounding a corner, a beam of light appeared ahead. He instinctively closed his eyes, raised his hand to shield himself from the glare.

When he faced the light again, his eyes blinked uncomfortably. “After so long in the dark, it’s hard to adjust to brightness,” he mused wryly, continuing toward the luminous place.

Luo Hanya walked on for dozens of steps and discovered he was inside a cave. Emerging from the cave, he proceeded several hundred steps more. Everywhere he looked, peach trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Looking back, the cave had vanished. He felt lost, and surveying the surroundings only deepened his confusion. Amidst the chaos of war, why was there a peach forest spanning ten miles?

With no path behind him, Luo Hanya pressed forward. Deep within the grove, petals danced down, a cold spring shimmered, and a solitary swing hung nearby. A woman in white, delicate and graceful, gathered peaches, her robes swirling like a celestial maiden—an ethereal vision, worthy only of distant admiration, not approach, for fear of desecration.

Upon seeing her, Luo Hanya was struck by a sense of déjà vu, lost in a daze, as if caught in a dream he did not wish to wake from. Unexpectedly, the woman turned and smiled at him, her eyes meeting his, as if she had sensed his presence.

“Frozen waters of the Luo River, unmelted for ten thousand years.” The woman spoke softly, her eyes filled with laughter as she gazed at the bewildered Luo Hanya.

“Only for the beloved, cold yet gentle,” Luo Hanya, as if entranced, replied instinctively.

Her gaze softened further, as though recalling something from the past. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice gentle. “I remember when the ice no longer lingered.”

“When love stirs, the chill departs.” Luo Hanya’s mind remained clouded, yet pain seized his heart, sharp as a blade, and tears flowed unconsciously down his cheeks.

The woman’s eyes reddened as well, gazing at Luo Hanya with tender longing. She moved toward him, each step as graceful as a lotus, the epitome of delicate beauty.

Something stirred in Luo Hanya’s memory. In anguish, he clutched his head and watched the woman approach—one step, two, three—though they seemed only a few dozen paces apart, it was as if infinite time and space separated them. No matter how she tried to draw nearer, the distance remained unchanged.