bookrandom Chapter 1169: Participating in the Celebration
Chapter 1169: Participating in the Celebration
This seemingly lively and bustling welcoming banquet was never a simple welcome party.
It is more like a silent battlefield, and everyone in it is a participant in this war.
All sides are using this banquet to subtly probe his background, seek opportunities to cooperate with him, or investigate his weaknesses and bottom line.
The intricate factional struggles within the Japanese army, the opportunistic motives of members of the puppet regime, and all the entanglements of interests and power struggles were intertwined in this lavishly decorated banquet hall, forming a dense and complex network.
And he, Zhou Zhengqing, is at the center of this network, and at the heart of this silent war.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next day, just as dawn was breaking, Zhou Zhengqing got up. The pale light barely pierced the sky, and Beiping was still shrouded in a thick, gray morning mist.
The streets outside the window were eerily quiet, so quiet that you could hear your own breathing. Occasionally, the engine of a Japanese patrol car would sound, its deep, domineering sound like a wild beast growling in slumber, briefly breaking the suffocating silence before quickly dissipating into the mist, leaving only an even heavier sense of oppression.
She walked to the wardrobe, slowly changed into her uniform, and carefully tidied herself up in front of the mirror.
My fingertips brushed against the collar, smoothing out the folded edges.
She tugged at the cuffs again, making sure every seam fit her arm snugly.
Finally, he straightened his military cap, the shadow of the brim falling into his eyes, obscuring some of his emotions, leaving only his determination to control this land, burning deep in his pupils like a flame tempered with ice.
Outside the guest room, Masaki Tani was already waiting.
Upon seeing Zhou Zhengqing emerge, he immediately stepped forward and bowed respectfully: "General, breakfast is ready, all Japanese dishes prepared according to your taste."
After breakfast, the group traveled by car to the venue.
A black sedan drove through the streets of Beiping in the early morning. The wheels crunched over the stone slabs covered with a thin layer of ice, making a grating sound that was particularly jarring in the silent air, as if gnawing at the dignity of this land.
Along the streets, military police stood in two rows, fully armed, their postures stiff as statues. Their bayonets gleamed coldly in the morning mist, and the frost flowers formed by the morning mist on them added to their chilling presence.
The fake police, dressed in gray-black uniforms, hunched their shoulders but still brandished their batons arrogantly, shouting at the few people who stopped to watch and driving them away from the street.
The crowd hunched over, staggering as they made way for each other. A sense of oppression and panic filled the air, like a heavy stone weighing on everyone's hearts.
The founding ceremony was held at Huai Ren Hall in Beiping.
This palace, originally built in the Qing Dynasty and named Yiluan Hall, was once the core place where the Empress Dowager of the Manchu Qing Dynasty spent her old age and controlled the government. With its red walls, glazed tiles, carved beams and painted rafters, it exudes the majesty and grandeur of the imperial family.
Later, during the Beiyang period, it was renovated and a steel canopy was added, turning it into a large venue that could accommodate nearly a thousand people, witnessing countless historical changes.
But today, this palace, which carries the historical memory of China, has become a tool for the Japanese invaders to establish a puppet regime.
The vermilion palace walls were mottled and peeling, with unmelted snow piled up at their base, like solidified blood and tears; the glazed tiles had lost their former luster in the morning mist, appearing gray and heavy; the stone lions outside the hall were shrouded in the morning mist, their originally majestic expressions becoming blurred and desolate, as if they were silently sobbing, denouncing this humiliating celebration.
The square outside Huai Ren Hall was already packed with people.
The people who came to "participate in the celebration" were a mixed bag, yet clearly distinguished.
On one side were members of the puppet regime dressed in suits. The suits were made of rough material and had been starched until stiff. They wore cheap badges on their collars. They had obsequious expressions, whispered to each other, and their eyes kept glancing towards the entrance of the venue, hoping for the arrival of the Japanese generals.
On the other side were Japanese military officers in uniform, standing tall and arrogant, with their hands behind their backs, chins slightly raised, and their eyes sweeping over the crowd with disdain, as if everything in front of them was just a farce under their control.
Most of them were Beiping residents who had been forcibly driven there by the Japanese puppet regime. They were separated on both sides by thick hemp rope cordons set up by Japanese soldiers and puppet police. Wooden signs that read "Do Not Approach" were hung on the ropes, and the muzzles of the Japanese soldiers' guns were pointed at the inside of the ropes. Any slight movement would draw their wary glances.
The people's faces showed no joy that should be present during a celebration; they stood there numbly, their eyes filled with lingering despair and resentment.
Several people who tried to whisper among themselves were sternly rebuked by the patrolling fake police officers before their voices could even spread. The fake police officers brandished their batons, making a feint in their direction, and their shouts were extremely rude.
"Shut up! Don't speak!"
The people could only lower their heads, purse their lips tightly, and silently endure this humiliating scene.
The security at the venue was extremely tight, and every corner exuded a suffocating sense of oppression.
Japanese soldiers, their rifles loaded and pointed at the crowd, fingers gripping the triggers tightly, knuckles white, scanned every corner with wary expressions, as if ready to pull the trigger at any moment.
The scabbards of the military police's swords gleamed coldly in the morning light. They paced back and forth, their steps heavy, their eyes sharp as hawks, not missing a single abnormality.
The fake police officers swaggered around, tapping their batons against their palms from time to time, making a "slap slap" sound, and shouting and cursing at the public with vulgar language, attempting to maintain this false "peace" through violence.
Accompanied by Hisaichi Terauchi, Zhou Zhengqing slowly walked toward the main entrance of Huai Ren Tang.
Throughout the journey, Zhou Zhengqing maintained a blank expression, but his gaze constantly swept across the crowd, carefully observing everyone's reactions. He took in everything, from the obsequiousness of the puppet regime members to the arrogance of the Japanese generals, and the apathy and resentment of the people.
Upon entering Huai Ren Tang, a smell mixed with sandalwood and ink wafts towards you.
The once antique palace interior has now been forcibly transformed into something incongruous.
The steel canopy installed during the Beiyang government era covers the entire front courtyard, and the rusty steel frame looks particularly out of place.
A layer of gray mist covered the skylights in the roof, letting in a faint light that dimly illuminated the neatly arranged tables and chairs inside.
The area near the temple gate was designated as a press area, where dozens of reporters crowded together, creating a unique scene.
Japanese journalists occupied the front row, most of them dressed in sharp suits, holding cameras and frequently pointing their lenses at the Japanese military commanders in the center of the platform. They wore obsequious smiles and occasionally whispered praises to their colleagues about the "imperial majesty."
Several Chinese journalists huddled in a corner, dressed in simple long gowns or Zhongshan suits, their hands tightly gripping pens and notebooks, the pens gliding rapidly across the paper, but their heads were always lowered, deliberately avoiding the gaze of the Japanese soldiers, their eyes concealing an undisguised grief and humiliation.
Several journalists from Europe and the United States, dressed in trench coats, stood aloofly in the middle area, holding leather notebooks and calmly observing everything in the room. Occasionally, they would exchange glances with a mixture of scrutiny and curiosity, neither trying to ingratiate themselves nor revealing any obvious emotions.