A Life of Attributes Starting as a Nobleman in the Republic of China Era

"A lamp that has burned for two thousand years. Without this lamp, China would have perished during the Five Barbarian Invasions. Without this lamp, the Mongol hooves would have crushed your civilization to dust. Without this lamp—" His voice softened, "you wouldn't have survived to this day."

"But things are different today," he said. "The Great Japanese Empire doesn't need a half-dead China. We need a China that is completely extinguished."

He lifted the bronze pot.

"Stop!" Chen San shouted, taking a step forward.

"Don't come any closer," Akutagawa said, his voice suddenly turning icy. "If you come any closer, I'll collapse. Three steps away, I'll tilt my hand, three seconds, and it'll all be over."

Chen San stopped. Blood was still dripping from his dagger, and his knuckles were white from gripping it too tightly.

The stone chamber fell silent. The light of the eternal lamp pulsed slowly, like a giant heart, or perhaps taking its final breath.

"Mr. Akutagawa," Chen Che began. His voice was calm, as calm as if he were lecturing on a trivial piece of history in class. "You say this lamp has burned for two thousand years, protecting China's national fortune for two thousand years. But have you ever considered this question?"

Akutagawa did not respond.

"You said the lamp was out for sixty years during the Yuan Dynasty, which lasted ninety-seven years. It was relit during the Ming Dynasty, which lasted two hundred and seventy-six years. The Qing Dynasty reduced the wick size, which lasted two hundred and sixty-eight years." Chen Che said, enunciating each word clearly, "Where did you get these numbers?"

Akutagawa was slightly taken aback.

"The inscriptions of the Mohists".

Who wrote the inscriptions of the Mohist school?

"...the Mohists."

"The Mohists are human beings," Chen Che said. "Humans can lie."

Akutagawa frowned.

"You mean—"

"What I mean is," Chen Che said, "how do you know that the connection between this lamp and the fate of the nation isn't something the Mohists fabricated? What do the Mohists do? They're experts in mechanical arts, defensive strategies, and debate. What they excel at is building a wall between facts and lies, making it impossible for others to tell which side is true."

He took a step forward. Akutagawa's hand trembled, the liquid nitrogen in the copper kettle sloshed, and a wisp of cold white mist rose from the spout.

"Stop right there," Akutagawa said.

Chen Che stopped. But he didn't stop talking.

"When the Mohists migrated eastward, three hundred of them were trapped underground, their food and supplies exhausted. They wanted to live, but they couldn't get out. So they made up a story—this lamp is connected to the fate of the nation; as long as the fire burns, their lives are with it; if the fire goes out, the nation perishes. Why did they make up this story? Because they needed to use it to control future generations. Every generation of Mohist leaders was bound by this story, and every sixty years, they used their own blood to add fuel to the lamp. They weren't protecting the fate of the nation; they were protecting their own lives—no, they couldn't even protect their own lives. One hundred and twenty people were trapped underground and died, just so that this lamp could continue to burn."

His voice rose.

"Mr. Akutagawa, you have been deceived by the Mohists. This lamp is just a lamp. It has burned for two thousand years because the Mohists used the best materials, the most sophisticated technology, and the most ruthless sacrifices. It has nothing to do with the fate of the nation."

"Then why—" Akutagawa's voice turned shrill, "why did the Yuan Dynasty only last ninety-seven years when its lamp went out? Why did the Ming Dynasty burn for two hundred and seventy-six years when its lamp was lit?"

"Coincidence," Chen Che said. "History is just a bunch of coincidences pieced together. The Yuan Dynasty was short-lived because the Mongols didn't know how to govern an agricultural civilization. The Ming Dynasty was long-lived because Zhu Yuanzhang designed a system that was rigid and durable enough. The Qing Dynasty—"

He paused for a moment.

"The Qing Dynasty lasted for 268 years because they were both thoroughly and incompletely Sinicized. It had nothing to do with this lamp."

The stone chamber fell silent again. The eternal lamp still pulsed, its orange light dancing on everyone's faces like the beat of an ancient heart.

Akutagawa stared at Chen Che for a long time.

"Young Master," he finally said, "do you even believe what you're saying?"

Chen Che remained silent for a moment.

"I don't believe it," he said.

Akutagawa was stunned.

Chen Che took a step forward. This time, Akutagawa didn't call for them to stop.

"I don't believe this lamp has nothing to do with the fate of the nation," Chen Che said, his voice low and firm. "I don't believe that 120 people were trapped underground just to fabricate a lie. I don't believe that 60 years of bloodshed and 2,000 years of waiting were just a hoax."

He took another step forward.

"However, I don't believe this lamp is a machine—that the nation prospers when the lamp burns and perishes when it goes out. That's not how a nation's destiny works. A nation's destiny is people, living people, and the choices and sacrifices of the living. The Mohists chose to trap 120 people underground to their deaths; that was their choice. Qin general Bai Qi captured Ying, and the Chu people migrated east; that was their choice. You ran from Tokyo to Zhabei, carrying guns and liquid nitrogen; that was also your choice."

He took another step forward. Now, he was only one step away from Akutagawa.

"Mr. Akutagawa, you want to extinguish this lamp. You think that if this lamp is extinguished, China will be finished. But you are wrong. China is not this lamp. China is the hand of those Mohists—trapped underground waiting to die—carving their final inscription on the wall. China is that giant who, once every sixty years, adds oil to the lamp with his blood. China is Zhou Banxian, Old Sun, Chen San, and Zheng Debiao."

His voice suddenly became very soft.

"China is me. China is the person in front of you who doesn't believe what he says, but still insists on saying it."

Akutagawa's hands trembled. The liquid nitrogen in the copper kettle vaporized violently at room temperature, and white, cold mist gushed from the spout, enveloping the top of the stone pillar. The cold mist met the heat of the eternal lamp, hissing like two snakes entwining.

"You say the Mohists deceived you," Chen Che said, "but have you ever considered that you're also deceiving yourself? You make this lamp seem so important because you need it to be important. If China's national destiny is just a lamp, and once it's extinguished, everything is over—then your task is simple. A pot of liquid nitrogen, a second, and it's all over. Then you go back to Tokyo, write a report, get promoted to professor, get your degree, and live out the rest of your life with a clear conscience."

He looked directly into Akutagawa's eyes.

"But things aren't that simple. China isn't that simple. You've been in China for six years, you know that."

Akutagawa's hands trembled even more violently. The copper kettle shook in his hands, the liquid nitrogen level rising and falling at the spout, threatening to spill over at any moment.

"Mr. Akutagawa," Chen Che took his final step, walking up to Akutagawa and placing his hand, palm up, beneath the copper kettle. "Give me the kettle."

Akutagawa looked at his outstretched hand. There were no weapons or tools in that hand, only palm lines and calluses—an ordinary, living person's hand.

The light of the ever-burning lamp pulsed between the two men. The orange light shone on Akutagawa's face, revealing the fine wrinkles around his eyes, the gray hair at his temples, and the dry, chapped skin on his lips. Six years of life in China, six years of travel, digging, research, insomnia, and anxiety—all were etched on his face.

He suddenly felt very tired.

"Young Master," Akutagawa said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "I spent six years in China searching for one thing—why China couldn't be defeated. I thought the answer lay in this lamp. But now…"

He looked at Chen Che's outstretched hand.

"Now I stand here, holding a pot of liquid nitrogen, facing a lamp that has burned for two thousand years. I'm thinking—if I extinguish it, will China really perish?"

"No," Chen Che said.

How did you know?

"Because the lanterns will be lit again."

Akutagawa's eyes widened slightly.

"If the Mohists could do it once, they can do it a second time," Chen Che said. "This isn't some kind of destiny; it's technology. It's mermaid oil, immortal grass, geothermal systems, blood tanks, and copper valves. The Mohists could make these things, and so can we. If the lamp goes out, we'll build another one. A nation's destiny isn't about inheritance, it's about creation."

His outstretched hand remained motionless.

"Mr. Akutagawa, give me the pot. Then go back to Tokyo and tell your superior—China's destiny isn't beneath the ground in Zhabei. It's above China, beneath China's feet, on every inch of China's land. You can't find it, you can't steal it, you can't extinguish it."

Akutagawa looked down at the hand for a long time.

Then, he placed the copper kettle in Chen Che's palm.

The copper kettle was cold. Cold mist of liquid nitrogen drifted from the spout, swirling around Chen Che's fingers, like something cold and alive making its final struggle. Chen Che closed his fingers, grasped the kettle, removed it from in front of the stone pillar, and placed it on the ground.

Akutagawa stood there, his hands hanging limply at his sides, as if his spine had been removed. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no sound came out.

"Mr. Akutagawa," Chen Che said, "you should go back to Tokyo."

Akutagawa nodded. He turned and slowly walked towards the entrance of the stone chamber. As he passed the Japanese soldiers lying on the ground, he stopped and spoke a few words in Japanese. His voice was low and the content was indistinct, but there was a weary, almost tender quality to his tone.

Two Japanese soldiers who were still able to move struggled to their feet, helped their wounded comrade up, and followed Akutagawa, disappearing at the end of the slope.

Only Chen Che and his group, along with the eternally burning lamp, remained in the stone chamber.

Chen San walked over and pushed the stone door of the stone chamber shut. The door made a dull thud as it closed, as if something had been shut out.

"Young Master," Chen San turned around, "what about this lamp...?"

Chen Che walked to the stone pillar and looked down at the bowl of flowing light. The orange-red light was reflected in his pupils, like two small flames burning.

"Let it keep burning," he said.

"Just leave it like this?"

"Um."

"What if the Japanese come again in the future?"

Chen Che was silent for a moment. Then he turned around and looked at Old Sun.

"Old Sun, can this stone door be sealed shut?"

Old Sun stepped forward, touched the edge of the stone door, looked at the mechanism on the hinge, and nodded.

"Yes. This door was designed to be sealed from the inside. If you remove the brass pin on the hinge, the door will fall into the groove in the ground, fitting perfectly, just like it was cast in stone."

"Then seal it off."

They returned the way they came. The blood grooves in the passageway had cooled, their dark red luster completely gone, returning to ordinary stone grooves. The rust on the bronze valves, which had remained unchanged for thousands of years, had solidified again, as if everything that had just happened was merely a dream.

Chen San walked at the very back, glancing back every now and then. The depths of the passageway were pitch black, and he couldn't see anything, but he always felt that something was watching them from the darkness—not something malicious, but an ancient, weary gaze that could finally find peace.

By the time I climbed up to the edge of the pit, it was almost dawn. On the eastern horizon, a pale white light was slowly spreading, as if someone had lit a lamp on the horizon.

Chen Che stood on the edge of the pit and took a deep breath of the cold morning air. The acrid smell of the earth was gone; only the scent of soil, withered grass, and smoke from distant houses filled the air.

Zheng Debiao was the last to climb up, covered in dirt, with a cut on his face from a pebble; the blood had already dried. He plopped down on the ground, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

"Young master," he said, "are you really going to leave that lamp down there?"

"Send men to seal off the cave entrance. As long as the Chen family exists, the light will never go out."