Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

Just then, the cadres from the prefecture arrived at the factory gate. When the prefectural party secretary learned that Slava was there, he personally led a group to greet him.

So Slava and his entourage began to tour the factory area, planning to greet the state party secretary when they reached the main gate.

As Slava walked, he looked around the place where he had worked for months—the machines, the workshops, the corners where he had shed his sweat.

At this moment, he felt calm and relaxed. He knew that the future was bright and he had plenty of time to realize his ambitions!

“Speaking of which,” Slava said half-jokingly to the people around him, “I’ve never been this popular in my entire life.”

The officials around him smiled obsequiously.

But at that moment, the factory manager in the team suddenly realized something, and his expression changed.

He suddenly remembered what was written on the wall at the corner of the factory gate.

During the period when Slava's "identity was questionable," a large slogan was painted on the wall at the factory gate to show that the factory "firmly supported the central government's decision."

Now, Slava and his group are walking towards the main entrance and will soon pass the corner.

The factory manager panicked. He pretended to have something to do and quickened his pace, rushing to the corner of the gate first. Then he used his body to try his best to block the words on the wall.

Slava rounded the corner. Just then, the convoy of the state party secretary arrived at the factory gate.

"beep beep"

The prefectural party secretary and the cadres he brought got out of their cars and quickly came forward to shake hands with Slava.

"Good afternoon, General Secretary!" "Good afternoon, General Secretary!"

One by one, the cadres greeted Slava, their faces filled with enthusiasm and respect.

Slava smiled and shook hands with them one by one: "Hello everyone, comrades!"

The scene was very lively, with the cadres brought by the prefectural party secretary surrounding Slava and exchanging pleasantries; the atmosphere was harmonious.

Just then, the prefectural party secretary noticed a strange situation—the factory director stood by the wall at the corner of the gate, his body pressed against the wall in an awkward posture, neither going forward to greet him nor leaving.

The prefectural party secretary was somewhat annoyed. What was wrong with this factory director?!

The General Secretary is here, and instead of going forward to greet him, he stands by the wall like a wooden stake. What kind of behavior is this!

The prefectural party secretary beckoned to the factory director: "You're the factory director, right? Come here!"

The factory manager's face turned extremely ugly. He knew he couldn't escape it any longer.

He opened his arms, making a gesture of warm welcome, and slowly walked over from the wall, shouting as he did so, his face contorted with embarrassment.

"A warm welcome to General Secretary Ivanov!"

But as soon as he left the wall, the words on the wall were completely exposed to everyone.

It was written in large red letters on the wall:

"Down with Ivanov, the traitor to the Party!"

The air froze for a moment. The prefectural party secretary's face changed, the factory's party secretary's face changed, all the surrounding cadres held their breath, and the factory director was ashen-faced, standing there at a loss.

Everyone was waiting to see how the newly rehabilitated General Secretary, who was about to take charge of the entire Soviet Union, would react to this slogan that insulted him.

"Oh, it's nothing, just a little hardship." Slava looked at the large red characters and smiled with relief.

He stepped forward and shook hands with the factory manager, who was nearly paralyzed with fear. Then, pointing to the slogan on the wall criticizing him, he said sarcastically:

“Our cadres haven’t done anything wrong.”

Everyone around was stunned.

“After all, we’re following Comrade Gorbachev’s orders,” Slava continued. “We’re all good comrades who are loyal to the Party.”

He paused for a moment, then said with a meaningful tone, "However, I think everyone still needs to distinguish right from wrong and not just do whatever others say."

He thought for a moment, seemingly trying to find an accurate definition for this phenomenon.

"What's this called—what's it called again?"

He couldn't recall it for a moment, so he turned and casually asked the prefectural party secretary beside him:

"Is it called dogmatism?"

The prefectural party secretary adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, his face serious, and answered without hesitation:

“Oh, General Secretary Ivanov, whatever you call an ideology, that is it.”

Slava laughed, and the surrounding cadres also laughed awkwardly but with a sense of relief.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The tour ended, and it was time to board the bus and leave. Slava stood beside the car, turned around, and said goodbye to the workers who had gathered in the factory.

It was these workers who secretly brought him hot water and helped him during his darkest days, and who refused to believe the Party Committee's slander against him. In the simplest of ways, they protected the dignity of a wronged man.

He will not forget them.

Looking at the workers, Slava solemnly said, "Comrades, Ivanov will never forget the help you gave me when I was in trouble."

His voice was filled with genuine emotion.

"Here's what we'll do—May Day is coming soon. On my behalf, I'd like to invite everyone to go to Moscow for the May Day holiday. It's on me."

The workers were taken aback at first, then burst into enthusiastic cheers and applause.

Slava waved to them and then got into the car.

The convoy slowly drove away from the factory in the Ural Mountains. Slava took one last look through the car window at the place where he had worked for months, experienced the darkest moment of his life, and undergone a spiritual transformation.

The pile of firewood he had chopped, the axe, the workshops, the slogans on the wall that he hadn't had time to wipe off, and the workers who waved goodbye to him—all of these would become a part of his memory that he would never forget.

These experiences made him who he was.

The car drove onto the road leading to Moscow.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

May 1st is International Labor Day.

Slava's car drove into Moscow that day.

Director Nian and he sat in the back of the car.

Moscow was grand and bustling that day. International Workers' Day was one of the most important holidays in the Soviet Union, and the entire city was immersed in the festive atmosphere—

Red flags fluttered, slogans lined the streets, and the parade marched through wide streets, with people dressed in festive attire and smiling faces.

Comrade Gorbachev's sudden retirement seems to have had no impact on people's lives, as if he were more useful to the people in death than in life.

A grand celebration is taking place in Red Square, with a procession of workers, students, and people from all walks of life carrying banners and marching in unison.

The May sun shone brightly and warmly on this city that had just experienced a change of power but remained orderly.

Slava and Director Nian sat in the car, looking out the window at the grand Labor Day scene.

“Look,” Director Nian said, cracking sunflower seeds as he looked out the window at the crowds marching, “the common people have no idea what happened the day before yesterday. In their eyes, it was just an ordinary Labor Day.”

“That’s for the best,” Slava said. “Isn’t everything we do precisely so that they can have a peaceful holiday like this?”

The car moved slowly. The two sat side by side, looking out at Moscow.

“Brother,” Director Nian suddenly spoke, his tone unusually serious, “now you are about to officially take over this country.”

The Central Committee plenary session in half a month, the Party Congress in a month—you have to come up with a new direction.

What kind of path do you intend to take? Every General Secretary has a different understanding of socialism, what about you?

Slava did not answer immediately.

He looked out the car window at the marching crowds, the fluttering red flags, and the banners with various slogans, and remained silent for a while.

"What exactly is socialism?" he said slowly. "We in the Soviet Union have been working on it for many years, but we still haven't fully figured it out."

His gaze fell on a group of workers walking by outside the window, laughing and joking.

"Gorbachev's original intentions may have been good—he wanted to rejuvenate the cadre and fight corruption. These directions were not wrong in themselves, but later the model became rigid and went astray."

He turned reform into self-negation, and openness into an out-of-control upheaval, nearly dragging the country into the abyss.

Slava paused for a moment, then turned to look at Director Nian, his eyes hardening.

"I think we should still prioritize economic reform."

"The alliance has been ruined over the years and is becoming more and more backward. If we don't work hard to develop the economy and improve people's living standards, and instead continue to spin around in these empty debates in coffee shops, this country is really doomed."

His tone gradually became firm.

"Therefore, my approach is to take economic modernization as the center, informatization as the strategic lever, and the 'three benefits' as the criterion for judgment. Under the premise of maintaining the socialist system and national stability, we will follow a pragmatic and technology-enabled path of socialist modernization."

Director Nian listened quietly, stopping his sunflower seed-eating.

"It's too long."

She pondered Slava's words, then a smile curved her lips.

"In the past, we had Stalin's 'basic socialist construction,' Brezhnev's 'developed socialism,' Khrushchev's 'beef stew with potatoes' socialism, and Gorbachev's 'humanitarian and democratic socialism.'"

She looked out the window at the country whose fate was being changed by Slava and herself, under the May Day sun.

“What we’re doing,” Director Nian said, “let’s call it modern socialism.”

Slava laughed.

“To achieve socialist modernization,” he repeated, “Okay, let’s call it that.”

The two looked at each other and smiled.

Outside the car window, Moscow was a sea of ​​red flags and teeming with people on May Day. This city, this country, after a silent but transformative power transition, stood at a new historical starting point.

Together, they are about to lead this vast nation down a path that has never been trodden before on another timeline.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The special vehicle drove through festive Moscow and finally entered the Kremlin.

The car stopped in front of the Senate building. Slava got out and walked step by step along the corridor.

Walk past that walnut wood room—just two days ago, a fierce battle took place in this small room with dark walnut wood paneling.

This is where Gorbachev fought, where he struggled fiercely, and then was shattered.

It is said that "Xuzhou has been the site of more than fifty large-scale battles throughout history, the rights and wrongs of which are difficult to discuss. But historians have all noted that it was precisely on this ancient battlefield that the rise and fall of countless dynasties were determined, one after another."

"I think this Walnut Wood Hall is the same. Every change of General Secretary of the Union has inevitably been decided here. This Walnut Wood Hall can be considered an ancient battlefield of the Soviet Union," Slava said to Ligachev, who came to greet him.

“You have a good understanding of Eastern culture,” Ligachev praised.

"Haha, Eastern wisdom, huh? As I walk through the hall into the General Secretary's office, that's called 'Conquering the Central Plains.'" Slava paused at the door of the walnut wood hall and glanced at the room.

He didn't linger and continued walking to the door at the end of the corridor.

The General Secretary's Office.

Slava stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and then grasped the doorknob.

Then he pushed open the door.

Behind the door is the General Secretary's office, the core of power in this superpower, the birthplace of countless major decisions, and the place where Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev... one Soviet leader after another sat.

And now, this office awaits its new owner: Velikoslav Ivanovich Ivanov.

On the wall, the mentor's portrait gazes into the distance, looking toward a path never before imagined.

“Heh…” Slava chuckled, glanced back at the road behind him, then turned and walked towards his spot.

The door slowly closed behind him.

Chapter 69: Irrefutable Evidence!

Slava stood in the room where he was about to work, looking around.

This is a typical office of a high-ranking member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union—a nearly standardized layout that remained largely unchanged for decades, from the late Stalin era to the Gorbachev era.

The centerpiece of the office was a large, dark walnut desk with a green felt cover. On the desk sat a Soviet-style telephone set—the true symbol of power in the entire office.

Six telephones were placed side by side: the ATC1 high-frequency leased line, known as the Kremlinka, connected the Politburo members, ministers, and the First Secretaries of the constituent republics;

Then there's ATC2, which connects to a slightly lower-level cadre;

There is also a rotary dial telephone for direct dialing of senior leaders, who only have a version without a dial pad and can only answer calls;

There is also a direct line connecting the General Staff, the KGB Chairman, and the Minister of Defense;