Chapter 30: Awakening

The Battle of Songhu in the twenty-sixth year of the Republic of China was, to the foreigners in Shanghai, merely a topic of conversation to spice up their dull lives.

They stood atop the International Hotel, the tallest building in the city, sipping coffee while watching the warfare unfolding nearby through floor-to-ceiling windows. During this, they even found the leisure to critique the precision of the Japanese shelling and bombing. Perhaps some felt a flicker of sympathy for the plight of the Chinese, but it amounted to nothing more than a casual, airy "May the Lord bless them."

The price of a nation’s poverty and weakness was laid bare with brutal clarity in that moment.

Fortunately, we have since risen again... excerpted from the Hu Biao diary collection, "Hu Says"...

As the tension in Hu Biao’s tightly coiled nerves finally snapped, he lost consciousness completely, and thus, he naturally could not notice what was happening right beside him.

For instance:

Just a step away from the spot where he had lain as a human landmine for over two hours, there was a small puddle formed by shell craters and accumulated rainwater. Under the afternoon sun, some colorful, shimmering characters appeared on the surface of the pool:

*Selectee Hu Biao, ID number 4305****8, current trial mission complete; soul body immediately transferring back to Plane 10086.*

*A new mission will begin in one month.*

*Mission Rewards: Minor improvements to neural reaction and recovery capabilities; Master-level culinary skills for Roujiamo, oil-splashed noodles, and other dishes.*

*Incidental rewards for the Chinese branch of Plane 10086 have been determined and will be arranged for distribution shortly.*

*Evaluation: Keep it up, Hu Biao! You have evolved from a weakling into a slightly stronger weakling.*

These vibrant, multicolored characters, just like those that appeared in the water vat at the Special Service Company a day prior, lasted for only a few seconds. When a breeze blew by, the water surface rippled gently, and all the writing vanished entirely.

The entire process went unseen by anyone—it would have been difficult for anyone to catch—and one might wonder what the point of such fleeting messages was.

At the same time, in a part of Shanghai bordering the French Concession, another event somewhat related to Hu Biao occurred without his knowledge.

Thirty or forty minutes earlier, Annie, the top beauty of the Paramount Ballroom—the most famous pleasure den in the Far East—had walked into the Deyue Restaurant with a look of melancholy.

This was a three-story building specializing in Huaiyang cuisine, Annie’s favorite spot in Shanghai, where she would come to treat herself from time to time. Upon entering, she walked straight to her favorite table by the window on the second floor.

What weighed so heavily on her mind was, naturally, the war ravaging Shanghai. With the Japanese army closing in and hundreds of thousands of Nationalist soldiers fighting and dying every minute, countless compatriots were displaced, flooding into the concessions and selling their children just to afford a meal. Yet, business at the Paramount Ballroom seemed even better than before. If the patrons were all foreigners, it might have been understandable, as the war didn't concern them—but why were so many Chinese also throwing away money like water? Every time she saw such scenes, Annie’s heart was filled with a stifling gloom.

Although she was a woman and her profession was not considered particularly respectable in these times, that did not prevent her from loving her country and people, or from hoping for the nation’s prosperity.

"Miss Annie, you're here. What would you like to eat today?" a soft, Shanghainese voice asked, snapping her back to reality.

*Forget it,* she thought. *Don't dwell on those vexing things. In these chaotic times, I am but a woman, and there is little I can do.* Since she hadn't been to her favorite restaurant in days, she decided to enjoy a proper meal.

Without much thought, she reeled off several dishes: "A bowl of braised dried bean curd shreds, crab meat lion’s head meatballs, squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, bamboo shoot and pork soup, winter melon and clam soup, and a pot of yellow wine."

As a regular, her order was prioritized by the kitchen and served shortly. While eating, Annie couldn't help but wonder: which Nationalist soldier had happened upon her photo? Was he a dashing officer or a valiant soldier? What had he thought when he saw the photo and the message she had written? The thought felt strangely intriguing, and a part of her looked forward to an answer. After all, she was just a young girl who loved to daydream and harbored various hopes for the future.

As she ate, a beautiful curve touched the corners of Annie’s mouth, indicating she was in a much better mood.

Suddenly, however, cries of alarm erupted from the street outside: "My God! Those are Japanese planes! Why are they flying this way? Aren't they afraid of bombing the French Concession?"

"Oh no, the devils are dropping bombs! Run!"

Hearing the screams, Annie didn't even have time to finish her meal; she grabbed her delicate handbag and bolted for the stairs. But it was far too late.

A Japanese plane banked its wings and released a 50-kilogram bomb. By some cruel twist of fate, it struck the roof of the Deyue Restaurant. A massive explosion followed, and the building Hu Biao had been yearning for collapsed instantly, turning into a pile of rubble.

*******

When Hu Biao regained consciousness in a hazy state, the memories of everything at Position No. 7 still lingering in his mind, he sat up abruptly, as if rising from the dead.

But upon opening his eyes, he did not see the mud, corpses, and smell of gunpowder of Position No. 7. Nor was he in the field hospital where doctors and nurses were rushing about in his memories. Instead, he was in a room of no more than twenty square meters, containing four bunk beds and eight sleeping spots. A 30-watt fluorescent light was still on, illuminating everything clearly in its dim glow.

The guy in the next bed was cursing his teammates while playing a ranked game. Other beds were either empty or occupied by men snoring loudly under grimy quilts. The sound of their snoring, combined with the air thick with the scent of sweat, feet, and cigarette smoke, made everything feel hauntingly familiar.

Wasn't this one of those cheap, fifteen-yuan-a-night temporary rentals in Majuqiao that didn't even have a bathroom?

He picked up his phone, which was charging by the bed, and checked the time: 3:19 AM. Only a few minutes had passed since he had fallen asleep. Even his phone, which had been low on battery, had only charged to 33%.

The stark reality of it all finally hit him: the long march from Rugao in Northern Jiangsu, the few days of rest at the Special Service Company, and the day and night at Position No. 7—it had all just been an incredibly vivid dream on a winter's night.

This realization left Hu Biao with complex emotions. On one hand, not being transported to such a brutal era seemed like a blessing; compared to the environment of his dream, even this fifteen-yuan-a-day flophouse felt like heaven. On the other hand, he felt a strange sense of loss and regret. In the dream, he had been angry, he had roared, and he had fought like a wild beast. It was grueling, but he had felt alive—not like a walking corpse, a useless waste of space.

With these conflicting thoughts, Hu Biao instinctively pulled out a cigarette, tucked it between his lips, but didn't light it. He found himself lost in a trance.

After a long while, Hu Biao shook his head vigorously to clear his mind. *Forget it!* he told himself silently. *No matter how real that dream was, it was only a dream.* Life had to go on. He decided to just go back to sleep, enjoy the thousand yuan he had left, and lie flat for a couple of days.

Then, just as he yawned and adjusted his pillow—which he hadn't washed in who knows how long—he froze. He felt something underneath it.

He lifted the pillow and turned to stone. There, lying before him, were a pistol, a wristwatch, and two black-and-white photographs.

The pistol was the beautiful Browning M1900 that had belonged to Young Master Feng in his dream. The watch was the one Gao Yi had used to bribe the deputy company commander—the one Hu Biao had swiped while scavenging the battlefield and kept on his wrist.

One of the black-and-white photos was the one of Annie with the message on the back. The other was a group photo of the one hundred and sixty or so men of the Special Service Company, their expressions—some anxious, some joyful—frozen in time forever.