CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 59 Writing in the Republic Era (58)

Le Jing didn’t know who the gunman was.

And there was a good chance it wasn’t just one. Everyone in the auditorium was a suspect.

Right now, he was very close to the shooter—if the killer took just a few more steps, he could reach Le Jing’s position and finish him off.

The top priority now was to make the auditorium even more chaotic. Only in the midst of confusion could he slip away right under the assassin’s nose.

These thoughts flashed through his mind in the brief seconds it took him to dash behind the first row of chairs. Just as he was about to shout to stir up the scene, a strange voice suddenly rang out behind him:

“Someone fired a gun! There’s been a murder! Everybody run! Run!”

Then, it seemed like He Jingwen shouted: “Sir is up front! Everyone, protect Sir!”

Those two explosive shouts echoed through the hall like thunderclaps. The students, already stunned by the gunshot, instantly erupted into a frenzy!

Amid the rising screams, the surging crowd shoved and jostled its way toward the main doors.

Le Jing bit his lip. He could only gamble now. Rather than hiding, better to conceal a leaf in the forest. His clothes weren’t distinctive—many other students were also wearing Zhongshan suits of similar color.

Blending into the crowd would make it harder for the killers to find their target. He stood up and threw himself into the pressing tide of people, trying to slip out.

Just then, a few people pushed against the flow of the panicked crowd, calling out as they forced their way forward: “Sir! Sir, are you here? What happened with the gunshot? Are you all right?”

It was He Jingwen and several members of the Literature Club.

But at such a critical moment, Le Jing dared not trust anyone. Keeping his head low, he slipped through the throng like a fish swimming upstream.

“Sir! Are you all right?!”

Fu Kemao’s voice came from behind him. Le Jing ignored it completely, moving with the panicked stream of bodies toward the door.

Suddenly, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. Instinctively, Le Jing twisted the fingers back and slammed his elbow hard into the person behind.

“Ah! Ow, ow! Sir, it’s me—it’s me, Fu Kemao!”

The voice was familiar, but that didn’t mean Le Jing let go. He glanced sideways—Fu Kemao’s face was filled with worry and panic, not a trace of murderous intent.

Either he was a brilliant actor, or he truly had nothing to do with this.

Le Jing prided himself on being able to read people. From the few times they had met, he had come to understand that Fu Kemao was genuinely simple and straightforward. So, he released his grip.

“Stay away from me.” His voice was nearly lost in the din of the hall. “Someone wants to kill me.”

For once, Fu Kemao’s usually loud and boisterous tone was steady and reliable: “I saw. Don’t worry.” He pressed close to Le Jing’s back, panting slightly as he said, “I’ll cover you out. My surname is Fu—they won’t dare shoot me!”

But if the trigger slipped, a bullet wouldn’t care about surnames.

Still, this wasn’t the time to argue. Le Jing nodded firmly and said, “I owe you one.”

With Fu Kemao shielding him, Le Jing stumbled and squeezed his way out of the auditorium doors.

Outside, panicked students were running mindlessly, shouting in confusion:

“What happened? Who fired a gun?”

“Is someone dead?”

“Was there really a shooting?”

Le Jing knew he was far from safe. He quickly scanned the area, looking for a secluded spot to hide.

“Call the police! Someone sent assassins to kill Watchman Sir!” Fu Kemao cried out, shielding him like a mother hen protecting her chicks. “Sir’s been hit and is wounded! Brave comrades, please escort him to the hospital for treatment!”

The noisy crowd instantly fell silent. Countless eyes turned to Fu Kemao and the figure he was guarding.

Le Jing froze for a few seconds, stunned by Fu Kemao’s unexpected declaration. He snapped angrily: “What if the killers have accomplices lying in wait here?!”

Grabbing Fu Kemao’s arm, he whispered urgently, “Quick, let’s find somewhere to hide first!”

Le Jing didn’t know that the blood flowing from the scrape on his right rib had already seeped through the tear in his Zhongshan suit made by the bullet. The blood had spread into a large dark blotch on his clothes, making him look disheveled and pitiful in others’ eyes.

At this moment, his brain was working at lightning speed, calculating countermeasures. His sense of pain had already been subconsciously blocked out—every cell in his body was mobilized to guard against the unknown danger. He didn’t even notice that he was injured.

For the first time, Fu Kemao’s mind was spinning so fast. He shouted again to the restless crowd:

“Students who are willing to help Mr., please stand back-to-back, hold hands, and form a circle with Mr. in the middle! With so many of us, the assassin won’t dare act!”

As soon as his words fell, many young people eagerly responded.

Just like the words of that poem: How delightful to be young classmates, brimming with vigor; full of youthful pride, bold and unrestrained. Pointing to rivers and mountains, stirring words to passion, while treating nobles of old like mere dirt beneath the feet.

At seventeen, eighteen, or barely into their twenties, young people’s blood runs hot—they are easily stirred. And yet, the passion of youth is also the purest, the most sincere, the hardest to extinguish.

A single spark was enough to ignite these still-naive youths, who firmly believed in fairness and justice, who believed that evil could never triumph over good. They were willing to offer their light and heat to this indifferent world, even if it meant burning themselves out with no regrets.

Just as with the torches they had once raised in the flames of the May Fourth Movement, so too in this very moment when sinister forces trampled upon social justice and the law.

“An assassination in broad daylight—how audacious! Do they hold the law in no regard?!”

“Someone dares to kill in Peking University! A campus is a place of learning, yet they use it as a ground for murder. From this day on, can we students of Peking University still study in peace? Will scholars and experts still dare to come here to give lectures? Will anyone dare to speak out?”

“Gentlemen, today the reputation Peking University has built over decades rests on our shoulders! If we don’t want our name shamed, we must stand up and protect Mr. Watchman!”

“This matter isn’t just about Peking University’s reputation! This is a blatant trampling of law and morality by criminal forces! By protecting Mr. Watchman, we are defending justice and the law itself!”

“How could Tsinghua students stand idly by? If they want to kill Watchman, they’ll have to step over our bodies first!”

“And us from Yanjing University too! We will protect him as well!”

Le Jing’s gaze grew complicated as he looked at the heroic faces of these young people, emotions surging within him.

These were the youth of Huaxia.

These were the “post-2000s” of a century ago.

As long as there were such young people, no matter how many calamities struck, no matter how many times the nation fell into the abyss, it would always turn misfortune into blessing and climb back to the peak.

These young men and women were the backbone of Huaxia’s future.

What followed was an exceedingly rare sight on the campus of Peking University. A scene so special that it etched itself deeply into countless hearts; years later, recalling it would still stir excitement, shining as a glorious fragment in memory.

A dozen young people clasped hands, forming a thick human wall back-to-back. With their youthful bodies as shields, they encircled the wounded Le Jing in the very center.

Fu Kemao frowned at the blood still seeping from Le Jing’s wound and shouted:

“Is there a medical student here? Mr. seems to have been shot, he needs bandaging!”

Only then did Le Jing realize he was injured. Blood had flowed heavily from the scrape on his right rib. The long-ignored pain suddenly surged forth, the wound burning fiercely.

“Medical students? Is there any medical student?” The “human shields” shouted in all directions. Soon, several voices answered almost simultaneously:

“I study medicine!”

“I’m from the medical school!”

After a quick search, the human wall parted to let in a few young medical students.

At that time, Peking University didn’t have a medical school, so these students wore the uniforms of National Peking Medical University. They must have also come to attend the lecture that day.

Enduring the pain, Le Jing said to the students examining his wound:

“I wasn’t shot—it’s just a scrape.”

The medical students all let out a sigh of relief. One of them said:

“If it’s only a scrape, that’s much simpler. We didn’t bring professional kits, but we can at least do some basic bandaging. For proper treatment, you’ll still need to go to a hospital.”

As they bandaged him, more and more students gathered. After hearing the full story from the “human shields,” they too voluntarily joined, forming more rings around Le Jing.

They held hands and shouted resounding slogans:

“Protect Mr. Watchman!”

“Justice will prevail!”

“To sacrifice for righteousness is today’s call! Rise, fellow students!”

In the ringing cries, more students understood what had happened. The small group of seven or eight grew larger and larger, the circle expanding from just three or four meters in diameter, to seven or eight, and finally to concentric rings ten meters wide.

At the very center, Le Jing was supported carefully by Fu Kemao. For a moment, he almost felt like one of those old emperors in TV dramas, surrounded by countless attendants, waves of voices shouting like thunder.

Such commotion naturally didn’t escape the notice of the professors.

Soon, professors hurried over. After hearing what had happened from the students, these proud sons of heaven—some freshly returned from overseas study, some steady middle-aged men, some white-haired scholars—silently formed their own protective circle, shielding the students within.

At last, a frail old man shuffled forward.

He stood firmly at the very front of the human wall, his snow-white hair trembling in the breeze. Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms wide and let out a hoarse, cracking roar to the unseen enemy all around:

“I am Yang Jusi, the president of Peking University! If you want to kill, then kill me first!”

The next instant, a thunderous roar echoed back in unison:

“We, the teachers and students of Peking University, live and die with our president!”

Under the unyielding unity of all teachers and students, the police finally arrived, late as ever.

Le Jing finally let out a breath of relief. No matter the assassin’s identity or background, in front of the nation’s official law enforcement, they wouldn’t dare act recklessly.

He was finally safe.