Not enough Japanese devils to kill? 1.4 billion people volunteer for the Battle of Shanghai.

Then, Bian Yun really did go in 1937.

Su Yue had no idea what happened to Bian Yun, who had traveled to 1937 for the first time.

But she remembered that when Bian Yun first traveled back in time, he was covered in blood, his hands were covered in wounds, and his face was covered in soot.

At that time, Bian Yun held Xiao Sichuan in his arms as if he were holding the whole world.

In his eyes, there was no fear, no regret, only a calm light.

He placed Little Sichuan on the stretcher and said to the doctor, "Save him."

Later, in Luodian, she remembered the image of Bian Yun carrying a rocket launcher and blowing up a Japanese tank with a single shot.

The figure was thin, but straight, like a flag.

He stood amidst the smoke and fire, among the soldiers from 1937.

She recalled the image of Bian Yun standing under the red flag at Wusongkou, saying to the soldiers of 1937, "Future generations, come to keep our promise."

She recalled Bian Yun's silhouette as he planted the flag on the rooftop in Hongkou. That red flag fluttered in the wind.

He stood at the foot of the flagpole, looking up at the flag and the sky tinged with the ash of gunpowder.

"We'll see him soon." Su Yue's voice was soft, but every word was clear.

Gu Yunshan looked at her, at the light in her eyes. That light wasn't worship, it wasn't love, it was trust. The kind of trust that allows someone to entrust their life to you, to place their hopes on you.

"Miss Su," he began, his voice hoarse, "what kind of person is Brother Bian Yun?"

Su Yue was silent for three seconds. What did she think about in those three seconds? She remembered Bian Yun's smile, Bian Yun's back view, and every word Bian Yun had said.

Then, she said four words.

"no sooner said than done."

Su Yue looked at him, at the brigade commander covered in blood, and at the large sword with its blade chipped.

Her voice was soft, but firm:

She paused, then continued, "When he returns, when he travels through time a few more times—you will be able to see the new China. Not just hear it from us, but see it for yourselves."

Chen Shitou squatted on the ground, his hand still wrapped in bandages. But when he looked up at Su Yue, his eyes shone like stars, like the lamp in his dream.

His voice trembled, his lips trembled, his whole body trembled: "Really? Sister Su, really? We...we can really see the new China with our own eyes?"

Su Yue looked at him, at this nineteen-year-old boy, at his still-childish eyes, at his face stained with gunpowder but unable to conceal his youthful innocence. She nodded.

"able."

One word was enough. Chen Shitou stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide, hand still clutching the bandage. Then, he laughed. As he laughed, tears streamed down his face.

He didn't wipe it; he just let it flow. He knelt on the ground, buried his face in his arms, and his shoulders shrugged.

He was crying, and he was laughing.

Those men in grey-blue military uniforms looked at him, at this child. No one laughed at him, no one said he was a good-for-nothing.

Because everyone wants to cry. Everyone wants to laugh, and everyone wants to see with their own eyes—the new China of the future.

The morning light grew brighter and brighter. It shone on the people standing there, on the blunted blade of the greatsword, on the family heirloom sword, and on the enormous Qilin tank.

In the distance, the burning battlefield was still emitting smoke.

But the smoke was no longer black; it was white, it was gray, and it was dissipating.

Because the sun has risen.

A new day has begun...