Song Dynasty: Yuan Dynasty, you didn't expect this, did you? I'm still alive.

The bloodshed was reported globally via shortwave communication, arousing great indignation among workers in the Eastern Song Dynasty.

There is a huge division within the Mexican party regarding whether to take the opportunity to revolt.

Some believe that the Mexican Party is not strong enough to support the revolution at this time, while others believe that the situation is already like a raging fire, and every minute of hesitation means that a worker will be oppressed by the capitalists.

Ultimately, Liezi overruled the objections of the majority and decided to launch an uprising, establishing the "Provisional Government of the Great Song Shangtong Society in America." He put forward slogans such as "Land to the serfs, factories to the workers, power to the Shangtong Society," "Purge the court of corrupt officials," and "Eliminate the capitalists," which quickly gained the support of the vast majority of plantation slaves, urban poor, and oppressed foreign laborers.

The Shangtonghui was a deliberative body aimed at unifying the will of the people, composed of representatives elected by workers, peasants, and soldiers.

Because there were so many royalists in the Americas, and even many members of the Mexican party were royalists, Liezi did not stubbornly target the emperor as the object of his revolution.

Many people know that the emperor was the biggest capitalist in the Eastern Song Dynasty, but the legacy left by the six emperors of the Eastern Song Dynasty was so rich that most Song people were grateful for his kindness.

Moreover, half of the compulsory education in the Eastern Song Dynasty was Confucian education, and the idea of ​​loyalty to the emperor influenced every Song person to some extent.

There is a common belief that if the current emperor is a tyrant, then it's better to replace him.

Moreover, the Emperor has long since handed over power to the cabinet headed by Hoover, so it's really going too far to pin the blame on the Emperor.

Liezi's strategy was to "instigate uprisings in central cities and seize power by armed force."

Once the three major industrial cities in North America are captured, the vast rural areas left behind will have virtually no fighting capacity.

Chicago was the first city to riot, and under the leadership of the Mexican Party, workers quickly took up arms and began to occupy the city.

Industrial Avenue. Dusk.

The first volley of bullets struck the stone wall of the post office, sending shards of stone flying all over the street.

Two Mark II machine guns swept downwards from the window, their fire flashing in the twilight, leaving a row of bullet holes in the cobblestone pavement. Pebbles flew up and hit my calves, stinging painfully.

This is an evolved version of the Linteja machine gun, which uses water cooling and has a faster and longer rate of fire than the original.

Two of them can hold off an attack by a hundred men.

The Mexican army's first assault team was pinned down under the arcade across the street. About thirty men crouched behind the pillars, bullets flying overhead and riddling the lime wall behind them with holes.

Some people were cursing, some were reloading, and some were curled up in a ball with their knees against their chests and their lips turning white.

Captain Cai Tie leaned against a pillar and glanced across the street.

On the third floor of the post office, there were two machine guns and about a platoon of security guards.

To charge headlong into something is suicide.

"Old Sun!" he shouted as he turned around.

Old Sun was lying on the windowsill of the second floor of the arcade building. His left arm was already bruised, and blood was dripping down his fingers, pooling on the windowsill.

He squinted one eye, the gun barrel resting on the window frame, his breathing slow.

The trigger was pulled, and the butt of the rifle bumped against my shoulder.

The machine gun on the left side of the opposite window stopped.

"There's one more!" Cai Tie shouted.

But Lao Sun had stopped moving; the shooting earlier had revealed his location.

Cai Tie stood up from behind the pillar, slung the shortened double-barreled shotgun over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and roared out a sound that drowned out all the gunfire in the street.

"The Mexican Party—"

He paused, as if trying to inhale the breath into his bones.

"To benefit the world, even unto death!"

The sound struck the stone walls on both sides of the street, bounced back, and hummed.

The thirty-odd people behind the pillars seemed to have been electrocuted.

A tall, thin worker was the first to stand up, raising his revolver above his head and letting out a shout.

Then came the third, and the fourth.

The sounds overlapped, out of tune, but loud enough.

Cai Tie was the first to rush out and confront the Mark machine gun head-on.

After the invention of firearms, this tactic of the commander rushing to the front was rendered obsolete.

The Song army generals all planned and directed operations from the rear.

This tactic was reintroduced in the Mexican army at this time, not because it was effective, but because the Mexican party had a strong belief in it.

They are the vanguard; how can the vanguard cower behind the masses?

When Cai Tie ran, he didn't look like a man in his forties. His boots sparked as he stepped on the pebbles, and he held his hunting rifle to his chest, the muzzle pointing forward.

The bullet grazed his ear, but he didn't duck.

The footsteps behind me grew louder and louder—more than thirty people poured out from behind the pillars, like a gray-blue tide, crossing the street and surging toward the post office door.

A worker was running when suddenly his knee buckled and he fell to the ground. The people behind him did not stop and stepped over him and his blood.

Some people fall, and others step over.

No one slowed down, no one looked back.

They weren't unaware that there were machine guns ahead—when they were pinned under the arcade, every nerve in their bodies told them how fast the bullets were.

But they knew one more thing:

Retreat might save your life, but living under the oppression of those capitalists is nothing short of a slow death.

Rather than that, we might as well give it our all.

The common people's hair is like chives, it grows back after being cut; their heads are like chickens, they crow again after being cut.

When the door was kicked open, the door panel flew off the hinges.

Cai Tie shot the last security guard standing behind the sandbag, knocking him over, and stepped into the hall, stepping on his chest.

The workers behind them surged in, like water pouring into a ship's hold, quickly flooding every corner.

The stairwell is still resisting.

Two men in dark blue uniforms fired their pistols downwards, the bullets hitting the lime ceiling above Cai Tie's head, sending dust falling down.

Cai Tie did not dodge.

He took a step forward, looked up, and fired a shot with his hunting rifle down the stairs.

The shotgun shattered half of the wooden railing, and the two figures leaned back, tumbled down the stairs, and landed motionless on the marble floor of the foyer.

The hall fell silent.

Someone was groaning in the corner, and lime dust was still floating in the air, choking people so much they couldn't open their eyes.

Cai Tie stepped over the broken glass to the back of the counter and kicked open the door to the postmaster's office.

A fat man in a silk shirt was climbing out of the window, with half of his body hanging on the windowsill.

Cai Tie walked over, grabbed him by the back of his collar, pulled him off the windowsill, and threw him to the ground.

"Tie them up. Send them to the square."

Two workers rushed in and dragged the fat man out.

The fat man struggled and shouted, his voice shrill and piercing—"I've donated money! Last winter I donated cotton-padded clothes to the workers!" No one paid him any attention.

A worker kicked him, but he kept shouting until his voice was gradually swallowed up by the gunfire in the street.

The Mexican army had occupied the post office, thus blocking most of Chicago's communication channels with the outside world.

To the north, the train station.

The fence surrounding the freight yard dispatch station is two zhang high, with barbed wire on top.

By the time the second Mexican team reached the base of the wall, it was already completely dark.

The moon was obscured by clouds, and only a few searchlights were moving around, their beams sweeping back and forth, illuminating the top of the wall brightly.

A young worker squatted down against the wall, his hands folded on his knees, and glanced back at his comrades behind him.

"Stand on my shoulders, and the world will benefit; I will not hesitate to die for you."

He smiled as he read those words, as if he had finally gotten the chance to say them.

The older man behind him glanced at him, said nothing, placed one hand on his shoulder, and took a step back.

Then he rushed forward, stepped on the palm of the man's knee, and with a sudden push, he was airborne, his ten fingers gripping the edge of the wall tightly.

He paused for a second while hanging on the wall, then used his arms to flip over and jump over the top of the wall.

The barbed wire snagged his sleeve, cutting a gash on his left arm, and blood trickled down his wrist.

He squatted on the wall and looked back. The young man was still squatting in the corner, smiling up at him.

The man on the wall waved down. "Go! Everyone up! Quickly!"

A dozen or so people stepped on the young man's knees to climb over the wall.

When the gate was opened from the inside, the security guard was still dozing off in his booth.

As the gunshot rang out, a dozen or so dark figures had already climbed over the wall, scattered, and crept towards the platform along the shadows of the trucks and coal piles.

The guards in the duty room were dragged out of their sleep. One of them tried to touch his gun and was hit in the face with a rifle butt, his nose collapsed, and blood splattered all over the wall.

The dispatcher was forced out of the duty room, squatted on the platform with his hands behind his head, and in front of him was the machine gun that the workers had just set up.

The people below raised their guns and cheered at him. The locomotive was stopped on the tracks, the boiler was still burning, and steam hissed out from under the wheels, enveloping the entire platform in a white mist.

Several freight cars were pried open, revealing crates of rifles inside.

Someone pried open a crate, held it above their head, and shouted towards the platform, "Brothers! Change your gear!"

The crowd surged forward, the sound of wooden crates being smashed echoing through the air, the smell of pine resin and gun oil mingling with the steam.

Hands covered in coal dust and engine oil reached into the wooden crate, grabbed the gun barrels, and pulled them out.

There was no order, no formation, only rapid breathing and occasional bursts of cheers.

This was the second step of the uprising; controlling the station cut off the supply lines to nearby troops, and Chicago was now in a precarious situation.

First Commercial Bank, West Street. A four-story granite building.

This is the most important goal tonight.

The copper door was tightly shut, the windows were welded shut from the inside, and a faint light shone through the crack in the door.

More than thirty workers surrounded the bronze door, using crowbars, sledgehammers, and iron bars in turn, but the door remained unmoved.

Someone brought a bucket of kerosene from a nearby shop, poured it on the crack in the door, struck a match, and threw it on top.

Flames leaped up and seeped into the cracks of the bronze door, burning for the time it takes to brew half a cup of tea.

The door opened—not from the fire, but because the person inside couldn't hold on any longer.

The person who opened the door wasn't the manager, but a trembling night guard with his hands raised, his gun already on the ground, his lips quivering as he tried to say something.

A worker shoved him aside and strode into the hall.

Marble floor. Mahogany countertop. Brass railings. The crystal chandelier overhead is still lit, its light shining on the gilded plaques on the walls—"Honesty is the foundation" and "Truth to be honest with everyone"—the eight characters appearing warm and lustrous in the yellow light.

A thin, elderly worker stood in the center of the hall, looking up at the crystal chandelier, and stood there for a long time, lost in thought.

He worked for more than ten years, receiving a few thin banknotes from the factory owner every month, which were handed in through a small window in the iron fence, like receiving alms.

I've never dared to walk down this street, let alone push open this door. Now he's kicked it open.

The Mexican army confiscated the bank's gold, which was intended to fund further revolution.

First, some people shouted "Long live the Shangtong Society," then some shouted "Land to the serfs," then some shouted "Factory to the workers," and then some shouted "Kill the capitalists."

In the end, all the voices merged into one tone, deep and uniform, like a thousand hearts beating to the same beat—"For the benefit of the world, even unto death."

The procession escorting the prisoners emerged from the street corner.

Seventy or eighty people were tied together with ropes. Some were wearing silk shirts, and some were wearing pajamas. The expressions on their faces changed from fear to confusion to numbness, flashing alternately in the firelight.

The Mexican soldiers escorting them stopped simultaneously without giving any orders, took two steps back, and left them on the open ground next to the fire.

Cai Tie stepped out from the crowd.

The gun in his hand had been replaced with a newly captured rifle, the stock still bearing the blood of its previous owner.

He walked up to the prisoners, scanned them, and grabbed a fat man by the collar.

"From the steel mill. Last winter, they cut heating fees, and three workers froze to death." He released his grip and gestured with his chin towards the nearby lamppost. "Hang it up."

The two men dragged the fat man to the gas lamp pole.

The rope was swung up, looped around the iron frame arm, and swayed twice in the wind.

The fat man began to struggle, shouting something, but his voice was drowned out by the noisy crowd.

His eyes widened the moment the rope was put on him.

The first one. The fifth one. The fifteenth one. By the twentieth one, Industrial Avenue was already filled with two rows of people hanging up.

The orange-yellow gaslight shone down from above, passing through the hanging bodies and casting a row of twisted, swaying shadows on the road.

The wind blew from the direction of the lake, and the rope on the lamppost swayed gently, making a soft, rhythmic creaking sound.

People started singing. At first, only a few people sang, but then everyone in the square started humming along.

"Arise, you starving and freezing slaves!"

Arise, wolves of the earth!

My blood is boiling with excitement.

Fight for the truth!

The old world was utterly destroyed.

Arise, slaves!

Don't say we have nothing.

We want to be the masters of the world!

This is the final battle; let us unite for tomorrow.

. . .

'

The Mexican-led insurgents quickly seized strategic locations such as the Chicago Post Office, train station, and banks.

That night, after several hours of fierce fighting, the Mexican army arrested all the officials, and Chicago fell into the hands of the insurgents.

. . .

Chen Binghe State was the location of the North American Governor's Office.

Governor-General of North America, Cheng Qi, learned of the Mexican army's occupation of Chicago immediately.

He didn't have any intention of concealing or underreporting information or surrendering.

Most of them have gone to the Americas. Even if some of his subordinates rebel and the court holds him accountable, where can they demote him to?

Let's focus on how to suppress the Mo army.

Cheng Qi immediately dispatched 5,000 Song soldiers to march along the railway toward Chicago.

The Mexican army was able to easily capture Chicago because the capitalists' guards were too weak in combat.

It's time to let them see the mighty Song army.

Cheng Qi will not give the enemy time to breathe or develop.