CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 63 Writing in the Republic Era (62)

When Zhou Dezhang stepped into the bedroom, his eyes immediately fell on the boy lying on the bed, barely clinging to life. A surge of absurdity welled up inside him.

How could it be that in just a few short weeks, the boy had become so gravely ill?

The boy caught sight of him, pulled at the corner of his lips, and gave a bitter smile. “What’s wrong? Surprised that I’ve fallen this sick?”

Zhou Dezhang nodded, his gaze at Le Jing carrying a hint of shock and dread. “How did you waste away so much? What illness is it? What did the doctor say?”

Le Jing lowered his eyes. That bitter smile at his lips carried a mocking undertone. “Doctor? Naturally, he told me to prepare for the end.”

Zhou Dezhang was struck dumb with horror and blurted out, “Quack! Utter nonsense!”

He reached out, grasping the boy’s cold right hand, and vowed with absolute certainty: “Just wait, I’ll find you the best doctor in all of Beiping. You will be cured!”

But Le Jing’s fingers tightened, halting Zhou Dezhang as he was about to turn away.

To Zhou Dezhang, the boy’s smile suddenly seemed faintly eerie. He beckoned him closer, speaking softly: “Junyu, let me tell you a secret.”

“What secret?”

The boy’s smile didn’t waver. He lowered his voice and said: “The Rise of the Dynasty—I wrote it. I am Lin Zhongqi.”

Zhou Dezhang froze, completely stunned. He asked instinctively, “What did you just say?”

The boy gave a light cough, his gaze distant as though immersed in some unknown memory. He didn’t answer Zhou’s question, instead murmuring to himself: “It’s because I am Lin Zhongqi… that the assassination was aimed at me. And so…”

He gave a tragic smile. “…I must die of illness.”

Zhou Dezhang had no idea how he made it home.

The entire way, he drifted like a lost soul. Only when the servants cried out in alarm did he realize one of his shoes had fallen off somewhere.

For a man who always prided himself on his appearance, this was an unprecedented humiliation.

He shut himself up in his study, staring blankly at the little pond outside, his face ashen.

That tragic smile on the boy’s sickbed kept replaying in his mind, filling him with dread—and indignation.

Had the times grown so dire?

Had those people sunk so low that they couldn’t even tolerate the existence of a seventeen-year-old boy?

Had the nation already descended into such darkness?

What wrong had Li Jingran committed?

What was so wrong about The Rise of the Dynasty?

It was nothing more than a work that enlightened the common people, keeping those men from freely enslaving and oppressing them!

It was nothing more than a work that spoke truths others dared not voice!

Li Jingran was only seventeen! With his talent and mind, he could have done so much—so much—for this nation and its people!

But now, he was to be cut down by the hands of scheming ambition.

Zhou Dezhang closed his eyes in pain, recalling their conversation just a few hours before.

“I’ll arrange for you to be sent to America immediately for treatment!” Zhou Dezhang’s face was grave, but he still tried to comfort the boy on the bed “Don’t worry, I know plenty of people. We’ll definitely manage—”

His pale assurance was cut short by the boy’s soft laughter.

Meeting those eyes, Zhou’s heart pounded like a drum.

From the very first moment, the boy’s body had radiated weakness, his aura tinged with the twilight of death—like autumn leaves, like the setting sun, evoking only ominous thoughts.

But it was at this very moment, just as that laughter rose, that the dying boy’s amber eyes suddenly flared with brilliance, blazing with defiance like a lion’s: “I refuse.”

“…What?”

“I won’t go abroad. I’ll stay right here. If they want to kill me, let them try.”

Zhou Dezhang panicked. “Don’t be reckless! As the saying goes, as long as the green hills remain, there will always be firewood to burn! You’re still young! You have a long road ahead!”

The boy shook his head and smiled, his eyes shining with yearning. “Junyu, do you remember why Master Tan chose not to flee to Japan, but instead stayed and went to his death with pride?”

The muscles in Zhou Dezhang’s face twitched and contorted. He already understood the boy’s resolve. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his lips trembled soundlessly.

“All reforms in every nation are written in blood. Today, China has yet to see blood spilled for reform—that is why our country does not thrive. If blood must be shed, then let it begin with me.”

The boy’s eyes gleamed with longing as he whispered, “When I first read these words as a child, my blood boiled with passion. I wished I had been born decades earlier, to die alongside Master Tan.”

These words drained much of his strength, and he caught his breath. Seeing Zhou Dezhang’s stricken face, he deliberately teased with a smile: “This has been my dream since childhood. Now that I finally have the chance to fulfill it, Junyu, please grant me this wish.”

Looking into the boy’s calm, untroubled smile, Zhou Dezhang suddenly realized there was nothing left to say.

Li Jingran had already resolved to die.

He was only seventeen, and yet he possessed a courage and vision that would put countless elder men to shame.

Like Master Tan, he regarded death as nothing at all.

With the will to kill the enemy but powerless to turn the tide—yet to die for a cause, what an honorable death, what joy!

Master Tan…

He let out a bitter smile, bowing deeply to Li Jingran. “I… am not as good as you,” he murmured. “This damned world is truly rotten.”

“It will get better.” The youth on the sickbed looked at him with eyes full of hope. “Although I won’t be able to see it, this world, this country, will definitely become better and better.”

Zhou Dezhang doubted. “Will it?”

“Yes.” Though sorrow flickered in the youth’s eyes, his answer was firm. “Otherwise, Mr. Tan’s death and mine would have no meaning.”

…
…

Zhou Dezhang snapped out of his memories. Carefully, he took an envelope out of his pocket.

On the snow-white envelope, three large ink-brushed characters stood out: Final Testament.

It was Li Jingran’s last letter.

He had asked Zhou Dezhang to publish it in the newspaper after his death.

Even if Li Jingran hadn’t asked, Zhou Dezhang would have done so anyway.

A brilliant young man like Li Jingran must not die silently, without a trace.

The people needed to know—that there was once a youth named Li Jingran who gave up his chance to escape, offering his life so that China might have a better future.

The people needed to know—how dark this country was, how despicable and cruel its government was, what shocking atrocities had been committed on this very land!

Yet…

Zhou Dezhang’s tears streamed down; his heart twisted as though cut by knives. At last, he broke down and sobbed bitterly.

Jingran…

He wasn’t even twenty yet, hadn’t even received a courtesy name!

He hadn’t even entered university!

The first half of his life had been full of hardship, never once truly treated with kindness.

He possessed unmatched brilliance, yet it could only shine like a flower blooming briefly at night.

Can a nation, a government, that forces minors to die—truly have a future?

…
…

That very afternoon, after Zhou Dezhang left, an unexpected visitor arrived.

Looking at that plain, ordinary face, a name suddenly leapt into Le Jing’s mind. “Liao Fang…?”

Overjoyed, Liao Fang stepped forward, somewhat flustered. “I didn’t think sir would still remember me.”

Le Jing smiled and nodded. “Back then, I did set the dogs on you… Has your wound healed? Didn’t scare your daughter, I hope?”

Liao Fang’s eyes reddened with emotion, his voice choked. “Healed, all healed. Didn’t scare my daughter either. Before I came, she was still begging to hear the storyteller on the street talk about your Wandering Adventures.”

“I didn’t expect you to come visit me.” Le Jing gave a faint smile. “What brings you here?”

Liao Fang hesitated, then crouched beside him, whispering, “Sir, let me send you away—go to America for treatment.”

Le Jing looked at him in surprise, saying nothing.

Liao Fang, misunderstanding his silence, hurried to explain. “I truly want to save you, sir. The elder brother I follow in the Green Gang still has some influence. He can arrange for you to board a ship to America. They won’t be able to reach you there!”

Looking at Liao Fang’s anxious face, a sudden clarity flashed in Le Jing’s mind. “That night, the one who threw me the note—it was you?”

Liao Fang gave a small nod.

“And the one who tripped me that day…” Le Jing studied him closely.

After some hesitation, Liao Fang nodded again.

Understanding everything now, Le Jing felt a sudden urge to laugh aloud.

That day, he had only given Liao Fang money for treatment and let him go in order not to offend the Green Gang, all calculated coldly, without a shred of kindness.

Who would have thought—that such a seed sown in passing could bear such good fruit?

In Nakamura Ryota’s timeline, it must have been through Liao Fang’s faction that he fled to America.

Unfortunately, even after fleeing there, he still couldn’t escape their assassination.

“Who was it?” he asked in a strained whisper. “Who was behind the attempt on my life that day?”

This time, Liao Fang hesitated for a long while before softly uttering the name.

It was a name powerful within the Green Gang, from the same “Tong” generation as Liao Fang’s backer, and one that would later become infamous in history.

For after the founding of the nation, he was executed by firing squad.

Because he was a lackey of that so-called Blue Sky White Sun Party, involved in conspiracies, sabotage, and assassinations.

And upon hearing that name, a peculiar idea suddenly stirred in Le Jing’s heart.

He asked Liao Fang, “Isn’t Zhang Tongjue—your assassin—at odds with your elder brother? Do they have a grudge?”

Liao Fang, puzzled, nodded.

Le Jing wasn’t surprised. Struggling, he tried to rise from the bed. Liao Fang rushed to support him. “Sir, what are you doing?”

“Please help me to the desk. I want to write a letter.”

With Liao Fang’s support, Le Jing slowly made his way to the chair, sat down, and with trembling hands wrote a few lines on paper. Then he sealed it in an envelope and handed it to Liao Fang.

“Could I trouble you to deliver this letter to your elder brother?”

Though Liao Fang didn’t understand his intention, he thumped his chest and swore, “I’ll definitely deliver it. You don’t know, my elder brother loves reading your Rise of the Dynasty. If your request isn’t too difficult, he’ll surely agree.”

“Oh, and about going to America—”

Le Jing cut him off with a smile. “That can wait until your elder brother receives the letter.”

“But… sir, your health…?”

Le Jing smiled reassuringly. “Until I receive a reply, I’ll do my utmost to stay alive. Don’t worry.”

No matter how humiliating, how difficult, how sickening life felt—he would live on.

Because he had already planned for himself the grandest funeral, already devised the most magnificent way to die.

Did Zhang Tongjue understand the fury of a common man?

The wrath of a common man may leave two corpses and blood spilled within five paces.

Since death was inevitable, why not make his death more worthwhile?