CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 64 Writing in the Republic Era (Final)

Zhang Tongjue fixed his gaze on the young man before him.

He already looked terribly frail.

His face was deathly pale, cheeks slightly sunken, lips darkened. After long illness, a faint bitterness of Chinese medicine lingered around him. The cyan robe hung loosely on his thin frame, as if a single gust of wind could topple him.

“You’re the Watchman?”

Le Jing nodded lightly, answering calmly: “Yes, I am.”

Just as Zhang Tongjue was scrutinizing him, he too was studying Zhang Tongjue. At this moment, Zhang Tongjue was no more than a man in his thirties—though, by the standards of the Republic, he was already considered middle-aged.

His body was plump, a beer belly protruding. On his chubby face hung a kind and amiable smile, making him look like a friendly neighborhood uncle. No one would ever associate him with a ruthless gangster who had killed countless people.

“You’re Zhang Tongjue?”

“What, don’t I look the part?”

“Indeed, you don’t,” Le Jing replied seriously. “The old saying is true: you can know a man’s face but not his heart.”

Zhang Tongjue didn’t get angry. Toward those on the brink of death, his temper was always mild.

He looked at Li Jingran with tolerance, even showing a warm smile, though his gaze carried a trace of probing curiosity. “So, what brings you to me?”

“Nothing much,” Le Jing smiled faintly. “Just that before I die, I wanted to see what kind of person was trying to kill me. Now that I’m about to die of illness, are you happy?”

It didn’t surprise Zhang Tongjue that Li Jingran knew—otherwise, why would Li Jingran have come to him at all? He had his own guesses as to who might have told him, but he wasn’t worried about what Li Jingran could do. His men had already searched him thoroughly before letting him in. They could guarantee he carried no weapon whatsoever.

What could an unarmed, gravely ill youth possibly do to a man trained in martial arts since childhood, surrounded by bodyguards?

So, to Le Jing’s question, he returned a subtle, self-satisfied smile and, for once, answered honestly: “To tell the truth, I am rather pleased. You surviving would’ve been too dangerous—it would have caused great trouble for this country.”

The boy arched a brow, piercing straight through him: “Trouble for the country? I don’t think so. More like trouble for the current government, isn’t it?”

Zhang Tongjue’s gaze darkened slightly, but he still smiled as he replied: “Without the government, there would be no Republic of China. Do you think if the government collapses, the people of this country can remain unaffected?”

The youth shook his head in disagreement. His amber eyes met Zhang Tongjue’s directly, unwavering, resolute, shining with brilliance: “No. You’re wrong. It’s the people who create a nation, and it’s the people who choose a government. If a government fails and cannot solve problems, then naturally the people will choose a new one to replace it. Even if this process comes with bloodshed and war, it is still the result of the people’s will.”

Zhang Tongjue drew a deep breath, suppressing the impulse to simply shoot him dead on the spot. He reminded himself—Li Jingran was about to die anyway. There was no need to lose his temper over the ramblings of a dying man.

Earlier that noon, Zhang Tongjue had been dining in his usual private room at a restaurant, when he was told someone wished to see him. If it had been any random nobody, he would have driven them away immediately. But the visitor was no ordinary man—it was the Watchman. So he agreed to meet.

The name Watchman had once been a thorn in his side.

He had first heard of the writer through the novel Memoirs of Prostitutes.

He had read it himself—indeed, it was a good work. But its content still carried the intellectuals’ usual weakness and naivety.

Did the Watchman really believe that just by writing such a novel, he could improve the plight of prostitutes? That he could push China to abolish the prostitution system?

In the end, Memoirs of a Courtesan did nothing more than squeeze a few tears out of its readers.

What truly made him take the Watchman seriously, even consider him dangerous, was the novel that followed—The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs.

That work wasn’t long, only twenty or thirty thousand characters, yet he read it very slowly. It chilled him in waves, leaving him deeply unsettled.

When he finished, his first thought was that this novel must be banned immediately.

He had seen something terrifying in it, something he couldn’t quite put into words. The only certainty was that if this work were to spread, it would, in one way or another, affect his opium trade.

Zhang Tongjue had never underestimated the power of ideas and public opinion. As someone who had lived through the revolution that toppled the imperial dynasty, he understood better than anyone the fearsome force of thought.

He realized then that perhaps he had misjudged him. Though the Watchman might seem naive and fragile, his writing carried power and persuasion—enough to pose a threat.

So he sent men to investigate the Watchman.

He soon learned that the man’s real name was Li Jingran, from the Li family of Fengtian. After quarreling with his family, he had come to Beiping alone, bringing only his young sister, to make a living. The Li family held some wealth and influence back home, but here in Beiping, their reach didn’t extend.

So Zhang Tongjue instructed Chen Si to contact Zhang Minchang, the Beiping police chief, and have the Watchman detained for a few days—to give him a taste of hardship and make him understand what should and should not be said.

At the time, Zhang Tongjue hadn’t truly considered the Watchman a threat.

Many scholars had written bold, forbidden works. Li Jingran was hardly unique among those advocating for an opium ban. The real reason Zhang Tongjue wanted him arrested was simply that The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs had made him uncomfortable, so he wanted to teach the writer a lesson.

Later, when he heard that Li Jingran had been released thanks to Marshal Xue, he only raised his brows in mild surprise, inwardly sighing at the young man’s luck.

It seemed Memoirs of a Courtesan had at least some use—it had won over Marshal Xue’s former concubine, now reformed, who lobbied on Li Jingran’s behalf.

But even with Marshal Xue’s intervention, Li Jingran’s release didn’t mean his troubles were over. Nor did it mean he could keep writing such “forbidden” works.

And sure enough—

Soon after came news of Li Jingran’s ban.

After all, even Marshal Xue’s soldiers’ pay still depended on the revenue from the opium tax.

Amidst his busy affairs, Zhang Tongjue quickly pushed aside the name Li Jingran. It wasn’t until the following year, after he had returned to Shanghai, that he heard the name again.

The entanglement between him and the Li family had become the talk of the town, even making headlines in the Shanghai newspapers. Naturally, he also read Li Jingran’s response article, The Path of a Beast. And it was precisely this piece that lodged itself like a thorn in his heart.

The Last Man Who Doesn’t Take Drugs, The Path of a Beast—why was it that at such a young age, Li Jingran always wrote articles that unsettled him?

It was then that he recognized what sort of person Li Jingran was: a boy born with rebellion in his bones—absolutely not to be underestimated.

But The Path of a Beast hadn’t harmed his interests, and he wasn’t the kind of pervert who killed just because of personal displeasure. What truly ignited his murderous intent came later.

A Party contact reached out to him with a task: find out who the author of The Rise of the Dynasty was—and kill him.

Zhang Tongjue had carried out no small number of jobs for those above him.

The Rise of the Dynasty was incredibly famous! Not only was he following it, but many of his brothers in the gang were also obsessed with it.

Of course, he wouldn’t let personal feelings interfere with business. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder—why did his superiors want Lin Zhongqi dead?

The reason was simple: because hidden within The Rise of the Dynasty was a red specter.

With that knowledge, he reread the work carefully.

That very night, he couldn’t sleep.

His mind churned with surging killing intent toward Li Jingran.

Li Jingran must die. He realized this with absolute clarity.

Inside the body of this mere seventeen-year-old boy lurked a terrifying monster! His thoughts were the most dangerous weapon in the world!

Such dreadful ideas, packaged with such skillful and gentle prose, made them seem harmless, even natural. Even Zhang Tongjue himself had never realized it before!

Had the contact not awakened him, would he too have been unknowingly brainwashed into becoming a believer of that red ideology? And how many people across China had already been?

The thought alone left him restless, sleepless.

The Watchman must be killed—quickly!

And so he immediately plotted the assassination. But unexpectedly, what seemed a foolproof plan was derailed—because a traitor had appeared among them!

Liao Fang!

That insignificant man he had never paid attention to turned out to be a spy sent by others!

He ruined the assassination, allowing Li Jingran to escape.

“You know why I came to see you today?”

Li Jingran’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. He pulled his drifting gaze back to the frail youth before him. The anger that had just risen in his chest was suddenly replaced by satisfaction.

So what if Liao Fang had risked everything to save Li Jingran? In the end, wasn’t he still going to die of illness?

Curling his lips, Zhang Tongjue said cheerfully, “Weren’t you here to see me?”

A strange gleam flashed in the boy’s eyes, and he gave a secretive smile.

Something about that smile unsettled Zhang Tongjue. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because you guessed wrong.” Le Jing burst out laughing. “This time, I came to kill you.”

As soon as his words fell, countless gun barrels rose from behind Zhang Tongjue, all aimed at the boy. Zhang Tongjue waved them down, signaling them not to be nervous. Looking at Le Jing, he chuckled. “Just you?”

The boy panted heavily, his cheeks flushed crimson like cherries, as if burning with fever. Zhang Tongjue didn’t even need his bodyguards—he could crush him with a single finger.

Le Jing sighed helplessly, shaking his head with a hint of disappointment. “You’re right. I can’t kill you now. If I move even a little, I’ll be riddled with bullets, right?”

Zhang loosened his collar, finding it slightly hard to breathe. He smiled smugly. “Good that you understand.”

“So…” Under the aim of countless guns, Le Jing staggered to his feet. Meeting Zhang Tongjue’s disdainful gaze, he smiled brilliantly. “Have you ever heard of a commoner’s fury?”

“Wha—”

Zhang Tongjue’s voice was cut off by sudden gunfire downstairs. He froze for a second, and before he could react, his eyes locked with the boy’s blazing stare—wildfire seemed to roar inside them.

Not good!

Alarm bells went off in his head. Instinctively, he tried to stand, but dizziness overwhelmed him. His limbs weakened, his breath faltered.

“What did you do to me?!” His face twisted as he glared at the boy.

Le Jing’s vision was already blurred—he could no longer see Zhang’s expression clearly. But from the ragged breaths, he knew the man was suffering too.

How could he not be?

After all, before coming upstairs, he had changed into clothing soaked in concentrated cyanide. In this era, no one knew much about cyanide poisoning, and the faint scent of bitter almonds it carried raised no suspicion.

Cyanide—a deadly chemical. Ingest it, touch it, inhale it—it kills. Which meant, right now, Le Jing himself was a walking poison.

Gasping, convulsing, he knew he had acute cyanide poisoning. Two minutes at most, and he would be dead.

But it didn’t matter.

Because in a few minutes, Zhang Tongjue would die too.

“Are you finding it hard to breathe? Your vision blurry?” Le Jing wheezed between heavy breaths, grinning. “Do you know why I came to you? Because I’m dying. And of course—I came to take you with me!”

Zhang Tongjue’s eyes bulged in rage. “You poisoned me?! When?!”

Le Jing laughed wildly and hurled himself toward him. “You think I’d tell you?”

“You fools! What are you waiting for? Kill him!!!”

Bang bang bang bang bang… Gunfire roared. Hot bullets slammed into Le Jing’s body, each impact a dull, heavy thud.

So much pain.

Was this how Huang Jiguang felt?

Forcing his eyes open, Le Jing gazed through the window. He seemed to glimpse the bustling streets below, seemed to glimpse a peaceful world a century later.

Suddenly, a line from the Bible floated into his mind: I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness.

And yet—what regret.

In the end, he still hadn’t lived to see the dawn…

Darkness swept over him, mercilessly crushing his world.

When Liao Fang stormed the second floor with his men, this was the sight that met him:

The youth’s pale-blue robe had long since turned crimson, riddled with countless bullet holes. Arms spread wide, he faced the raging storm of gunfire. Frail, thin, yet standing tall—his body swayed like a leaf in the wind.

“No!!!”

With a heart-wrenching cry, he watched as the boy’s body finally collapsed to the ground, splattering blood like a crimson flower.

Li Jingran’s amber eyes stared blankly, dimmed of all light, a faintly wistful smile still lingering on his lips.

On August 24, 1926, the renowned revolutionary and writer Li Jingran was gunned down by Qing Gang reactionaries. He was seventeen years old.

_{I don’t even know how to steady my hands as I type this. This arc has left me in tears. Watching Le Jing’s short yet blazing life burn out like this… it feels like I’ve lost someone real. He was only seventeen, and yet he carried the weight of an era, the sharpness of words that could shake an empire, and the courage to give his own life so others could one day see the dawn he himself never reached.}

_{Freedom is never free. It has always been bought with the blood of those who dared to defy, who dared to dream. Every country that breathes the air of liberty today does so because of countless martyrs who laid down their lives, nameless or remembered, their youth buried in gunfire and smoke.}

_{Le Jing may be fictional here, but his funeral feels grander than any real ceremony—a requiem sung by history itself. His sacrifice echoes the truth we often forget: that the price of freedom is always written in red.}

_{Rest well, Le Jing. You didn’t live to see the dawn, but you became the fire that lights the path toward it.}