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

When Bian Yun opened her eyes again, it was already the morning of January 14, 2026.

First, there's the sound.

It wasn't the sound of cannons, screams, or the muffled thuds of poison gas shells from the battlefield of 1937.

The first thing that catches the eye is the light.

Soft, filtered morning light streamed in through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the observation room.

The light was clean, without smoke or dust, only a faint, golden warmth.

In Bian Yun's arms, the five-year-old girl he had brought back in 1937 stirred slightly.

Her breathing was still very weak; the burns from the poison gas made each breath a faint, crackling sound. But her small hands unconsciously gripped Bian Yun's clothes tightly.

It's an instinctive attachment to safety.

Like a child falling into the water grabbing onto a piece of driftwood, like a lost young animal approaching its mother.

"Hmm..." the little girl mumbled incoherently.

Her eyelashes trembled a few times, and then she slowly opened her eyes.

Those eyes, which should have been clear and bright like those of a five-year-old child, were still somewhat unfocused, and the pupils were somewhat sluggish in their reaction to light due to the effects of the poison gas and drugs.

She stared blankly at the ceiling at first.

The ceiling was spotless, the lighting was soft, and there were no stains or cracks.

Then, she turned her head slightly and looked at the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside the window, Shanghai on January 14, 2026, is slowly stretching out in the winter morning light.

Here, the houses are intact and stand upright.

The sky was clear, with no black smoke or airplanes.

Further away, the Huangpu River flows quietly. The water glistens with a faint golden light in the morning glow, and sightseeing cruise ships glide slowly across the surface, their hulls painted with bright blue and white stripes, like moving candies.

The air... only carries the faint, cool scent of the morning breeze.

In the little girl's memory, the city was burning houses, collapsed walls, terrified crowds running through the streets, bombs falling from the sky, and yellow smoke that filled the air, stinging her eyes and burning her throat.

For a child who had just been brought out of the poison gas battlefield of 1937—

Like a dream.

"Big brother..." she said weakly, her eyes still fixed on the view outside the window, "Is this...heaven?"

Bian Yun looked down at her and said softly:

"No, this is not heaven."

"This is the new China of later generations."

Before he could finish speaking, the door to the observation room was gently pushed open.

A middle-aged woman in her forties.

She was wearing a clean, crisp white coat with a name tag pinned to her chest that read "Chief Physician".

But at this moment, what she was holding in her hands was neither a medical record folder nor a stethoscope.

It is a bouquet of flowers.

A bunch of golden sunflowers, their petals full and outstretched, like tiny suns.

The doctor walked in and then knelt down.

Squat down to eye level with the little girl.

"Little friend," the doctor said softly, "welcome to the new China."

She handed over the bouquet of sunflowers.

The little girl stared blankly at the flowers.

Then, she looked up at the older sister in a pristine white uniform with a gentle smile on her face.

He looked up at Bian Yun again.

His eyes were filled with confusion, and a hint of timid, disbelieving expectation.

"Take it," Bian Yun said softly.

The little girl timidly reached out her hand.

The hand was wrapped in gauze, and traces of yellowish-green medicine and pus seeped from the edges of the gauze.

The skin was covered with ulcers from ruptured blisters. The hands were small and thin, with prominent knuckles due to long-term malnutrition.

Her hand paused in mid-air, as if afraid of getting something dirty.

Then, she carefully accepted the bouquet of flowers.

The movements were very light and slow, as if receiving a fragile and precious treasure.

Her hands were shaking.

But she held the flower tightly.

Holding it in my arms is like holding a lost doll that I've found again.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a large crowd had unknowingly gathered.

They stood there, watching silently.

Looking at that tiny child lying on the hospital bed.

Looking at the bunch of golden sunflowers in her arms.

Looking at the weak smile on her lips.

No one speaks.

They were conveying the same message through their eyes:

"Child, don't be afraid."

"You're safe."

"There are many people here who will protect you."

The little girl seemed to sense those gazes.

She turned her head slightly and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window.

I saw the people standing outside the window.

I saw the expressions on their faces—no pity, no curiosity, just pure, gentle, and kind gazes.

The little girl felt that everything was so wonderful.

"Comrade Bian Yun," the attending physician stood up, his voice regaining its professional composure, "let's take care of the child for now."

Bian Yun nodded.

He bent down and carefully handed the little girl, along with the sunflower in her arms, to her.

The doctor's movements were skilled and gentle. She took the child, supporting the child's back with one hand and the back of the legs with the other, her posture so perfect it looked like she had practiced countless times, and indeed it did.

She quickly checked the little girl's pupil response, respiratory rate, and heart rate, while saying to the nurse next to her:

"Immediately transfer to the pediatric intensive care unit. Notify the heads of the toxicology, burn, and respiratory departments to prepare for a joint consultation."

"Yes!" the nurse replied immediately.

The moment the little girl was placed into the mobile hospital bed—

A young nurse walked over quickly and took something out of her pocket.

chocolate.

Milk chocolates with exquisite packaging and cute designs.

She crouched down and gently peeled off the wrapper, revealing the brown, smooth chocolate inside.

"Here, have something sweet." The nurse's voice was like soothing her own child. "Sleep for a while."

She gently put the chocolate into the little girl's mouth.

The little girl paused for a moment, then her taste buds experienced a flavor she had never tasted before—

sweet.

Pure, gentle, and sweet with a milky aroma.

It wasn't the kind of sweetness of the coarse maltose that was occasionally available in 1937.

The chocolate melts slowly in your mouth, with a silky texture, rich aroma, and a warm sweetness that envelops your entire being.

Her eyes widened.

Then, his eyes slowly narrowed, and the corners of his mouth—despite the broken blisters—tried, little by little, to turn upwards.

He revealed a weak, but genuine, smile that belonged to a five-year-old.

"After you wake up," the nurse tucked her in, "you'll be fine."

The little girl nodded.

It's light, but firm.

Then, she hugged the sunflower in her arms and closed her eyes.

The sweet taste of chocolate still lingers in your mouth.

Sunlight streamed through the glass and fell on her face.

The warm gazes from outside the window were like an invisible blanket, gently enveloping her.

This time, she wasn't in a deep sleep, but peacefully asleep.

I knew that when I woke up, the world was still there.

I know that when I wake up, those kind people will still be there.

I know that when I wake up, the pain will lessen, the wound will heal, and the sweetness will return...

……

What the nurse handed to the little girl wasn't chocolate, but the taste of the new China—

Let the taste buds of 1937, which only remembered the smoke and poison of war, taste the sweetness of peace for the first time. The gazes outside the window were not those of onlookers, but a nation's solemn promise to a child:

From this day forward, the skies of your childhood will be free of gunpowder, the air you breathe will be free of toxins, and the flavors of your memories will become increasingly sweet and increasingly bitter.

Until one day, you will forget what suffering tastes like, and only remember that this world was meant to be this gentle.

—Bian Yun, recording from the observation room