bookrandom Chapter 997 To Go or Not to Go?
Chapter 997 To Go or Not to Go?
Looking at the scene before him, Li Shouren felt a surge of hot blood rush to his head, which then turned into icy despair, and his heart ached as if it were being torn apart.
A profound sense of powerlessness overwhelmed him like a tidal wave.
He rescued the children, but he couldn't feed them.
He gave them a shelter from the wind and rain, but he could only watch helplessly as they starved or died of illness there.
This torment, more painful than death itself, drove him almost insane.
Just then, his hand instinctively, almost spasmodically, reached into his clothes and touched a crumpled piece of paper that had been warmed by his body heat and whose edges were even soaked with sweat.
It was that note from the Japanese military police.
He gripped it tightly, as if it were a lifeline, his fingernails almost digging into the paper.
"Five bags of rice, twenty cans of food..."
The words of that Japanese military police sergeant, at this moment, were like a magical incantation, swirling and amplifying repeatedly in his chaotic mind, producing a deafening echo.
Five bags of rice can cook how many bowls of life-saving porridge?
Twenty cans of food, filled with real protein and fat, how much vitality can they restore to these dying children?
This means survival, it means these innocent lives can at least hold on for a little longer, perhaps until spring, until the situation might turn around.
But behind this curse lies a price paid in blood and humiliation.
This meant that he had to bow his head, bend his back, and extend his begging hand to those enemies who had destroyed his home with bayonets and flames, causing his family to be torn apart, his wife and children to be separated, and who had wantonly trampled on the dignity of him and his compatriots, to accept that little bit of "charity" that he had obtained in exchange for Xiu'e's pocket watch and his last bit of backbone, which was like food offered in contempt.
Dignity and life, a choice that seems not contradictory in peaceful times, were pushed to opposite ends of the scale by cruel reality in the cold winter of Nanjing in 1938, forcing him to make a choice.
On one end are the lives of eighteen children and a kind woman.
On the other end was his last shred of dignity and integrity as a man, a husband, a father, and a Chinese.
He suddenly raised his head, his gaze seemingly piercing through the dilapidated courtyard wall, over layers of desolate ruins, and landing in the direction deep within the city that he both feared and loathed—the direction where the Japanese military police were located.
Night was rapidly swallowing up the remaining light; that direction was pitch black, like a bottomless abyss with a gaping maw, radiating a chilling aura.
To go or not to go? The weight of this question almost crushed his spine.
Xiu'e, Xiao Juan, where are you?
He cried out silently in his heart, "If I were to bow down to the enemy who destroyed our family today to save these children, and use the food you left behind to prolong the lives of others... would you... if you have a spirit in heaven, forgive me?"
Will you understand the shame of my cowardly existence?
"Whoosh...whoosh..." The cold wind howled and whistled through the ruins like a ghost, swirling up the snow and black ash on the ground, slapping against Li Shouren's face with a sharp, icy chill, but he was completely oblivious.
He simply gripped the fateful note tightly with all his might, his fingernails digging deep into his palms with such force that tiny drops of blood seeped out and clung stickily to the note, yet he felt no pain whatsoever.
The road ahead is hidden in thick darkness, seemingly darker, longer, and more endless than this harsh winter night.
He stood there, like a stone statue being weathered, waging the most difficult and painful inner war of his life.
The note in my hand felt light, yet incredibly heavy.
It was early morning on the fifth day of the first lunar month. Before dawn, a layer of grayish-white fog enveloped Nanjing, making the already desolate ruins even more eerie.
Li Shouren barely slept all night. He got up quietly, glanced at the children huddled together in the corner, twitching in their sleep from hunger and cold, and then looked at Widow Sun, who was leaning against the door, looking so haggard that she seemed like she could be blown away by a gust of wind.
His gaze finally settled on the face of the youngest girl, who was breathing weakly and talking incoherently.
Can't wait any longer.
He took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale enough courage, and tightly gripped the slip of paper in his arms, its edges softened by sweat and the handwriting somewhat blurred.
This light piece of paper felt like a red-hot iron, burning his palms and sending a shiver down his spine.
"Five bags of rice and twenty cans of food."
This is the only way out, but also the ticket to the abyss of humiliation.
His inner turmoil was like boiling water; his dignity screamed, but his survival instinct silently drove his legs.
Finally, he gritted his teeth, pushed open the creaking, broken door, and stepped into the coldest darkness before dawn.
His steps were heavy, yet unusually firm; he did not look back.
He walked close to the shadows of the ruins, heading towards the Japanese military police headquarters in the city center.
The closer we got to our destination, the more noticeable the strange atmosphere became on the streets.
At this time of day, the streets are usually deserted except for a few Japanese soldiers on patrol and terrified sanitation workers.
But today, a muffled, rhythmic rumbling sound could be faintly heard in the air.
As Li Shouren turned the last street corner and was about to step onto the main road leading to the military police headquarters, the scene before him made him freeze instantly, and he subconsciously shrank back and hid behind a half-collapsed wall.
An unprecedented smell, a mixture of diesel exhaust, metallic friction, and a chilling, deadly odor, slammed into his chest like a tangible iron fist, almost suffocating him.
He instinctively shrank back, completely concealing himself in the shadow of a wall half-shewn off by a shell, his heart pounding wildly beneath his ribs.
The once familiar street has now become the intestines of a steel behemoth.
The lingering frost from last night was ground into dirty mud by countless heavy tracks and tires.
The rubble in the middle of the street was roughly pushed to both sides, clearing a passage wide enough for three trucks to drive side by side.
Along this passage, a chilling power is continuously flowing into this dead city.
The first thing to come into view was the steel vanguard.
Several tanks, which Li Shouren had never seen before and whose design was completely different from that of the Japanese tanks, slowly drove in a wedge-shaped formation.
Their low-slung bodies were covered in a dull gray paint, stained with mud and ice from the roadside.
The tank's cannon, much smaller than a regular tank gun, coldly pointed towards the ruins ahead, swaying slightly with the vehicle's movements.
The wide, toothed tracks rolled over the rubble, broken tiles, and even some frozen, blackened fragments of bone and wood of unknown origin, producing a harsh, dull, and teeth-grinding sound.
The friction of metal against stone, the complete shattering of the wooden structure, and a more unsettling, crunching sound, like bones being crushed.
The tank's diesel engine roared, spewing out thick black exhaust fumes that mixed with the cold water vapor, creating a murky haze on the street.