Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

The bridgehead over the boundary river.

The cold wind was still biting, but at this moment it seemed to carry an inexplicable sense of chill and... awkwardness.

A temporary negotiation tent was quickly erected in the open space in the middle of the bridge. Half of it belonged to the Chinese side, and the other half to the Soviet side.

But this so-called "equality" seems so ridiculous in the face of the one-sided massacre that just ended.

In that less than an hour-long battle, the smoke from the battlefield had not yet dissipated, and the smell of burnt meat mixed with the unique stench of the frozen earth relentlessly entered everyone's nostrils.

Just a hundred meters away from the tent, the wreckage of more than a hundred T-34 and KV-1 tanks lay pitifully on the wasteland, like a group of dead steel behemoths.

Some were still burning, emitting thick black smoke; some turrets were blown off and stuck in the frozen ground dozens of meters away; others looked like soda cans that had been smashed flat by a giant sledgehammer, their original shape completely unrecognizable.

This is a revolutionary, dimensional-reducing attack.

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was so heavy it was almost palpable.

Two groups of people sat on either side of a simple folding table.

On one side was He Yuanchao.

He only brought two people with him.

Li Yunlong sat there with an air of authority, one foot, clad in a leather military boot, even brazenly resting on the table's crossbeam. In his hand, he toyed with a PPSh submachine gun he had salvaged from a Soviet corpse, his rough thumb clicking and rattling the safety catch.

Those large, copper-bell-shaped eyes, carrying a lingering murderous intent and undisguised contempt, swept across the necks of the Soviet generals opposite them as if they were prey, a mocking smirk playing on their lips.

It was as if he was calculating how many heads he could pierce if he fired this burst.

Zhao Gang sat to He Yuanchao's left, still maintaining his refined and scholarly demeanor. He held a black-covered notebook and a Parker pen, his back ramrod straight. Though his gaze behind his glasses was gentle, it conveyed an undeniable firmness and the composure of a victor.

And on the other side.

It was Zhukov, and the entire staff of the Soviet Far Eastern Front.

There were seven or eight generals, all adorned with medals, sitting upright and solemnly, their former arrogance completely gone.

Beneath their large military caps, fine beads of sweat seeped from their foreheads. Although there was no fire for warmth inside the tent, which was as cold as an icebox, the cold sweat still flowed uncontrollably.

No one dared to breathe loudly, for fear that even the slightest extra noise would attract a burst of bullets from the bandit on the other side.

Zhukov's face was very ugly, as if he had just swallowed a dead fly, or as if he had been slapped hard across the face but still had to put on a smiling face.

His imposing marshal's uniform and the medals that brought him so much glory on the European battlefield now seemed like prison clothes that made him restless, so heavy that he couldn't straighten his back.

Just a few hours earlier, he was full of vigor, standing on the command vehicle, giving orders with great confidence.

He dreamed of drinking from the Yellow River, of planting the red hammer and sickle flag all over Northeast China, of expanding the red sphere of influence to within the Great Wall, and of establishing unparalleled achievements.

And now.

Reality dealt him a devastating blow.

All he could think about was how to get back alive.

How can we save the lives of these hundreds of thousands of Far Eastern troops?

And what terrified him most was how to explain this to the furious and suspicious leader in Moscow.

The black smoke outside the window, like black ghosts, constantly reminded him that the seemingly young and handsome commander sitting opposite him possessed the ability to destroy his entire army group in an instant.

That unknown weapon, that terrifying precision, that destructive power like the scourge of God…

They were simply not something the current Soviet Red Army could contend with.

The deathly silence lasted for a full five minutes.

"Cough cough..."

Zhukov broke the silence first, trying to regain some dignity as a marshal of a great power. He adjusted his posture and cleared his throat.

But he found his throat was extremely dry.

He spoke in that habitual, somewhat bureaucratic, dull Russian:

"General He, we deeply regret the misunderstanding that just occurred."

"This was just an accidental clash on the front lines. It could have been due to poor communication, or it could have been an unauthorized action by a junior officer. We need to remain calm, for the sake of the friendship between our two countries, and for the unity of the international anti-fascist alliance..."

The translator had just opened his mouth, ready to translate this passage into Chinese.

"Stop."

He Yuanchao raised a hand, interrupting the translator indifferently, without even glancing at the translator.

He didn't even look up, just casually straightened his cuffs, and then spoke in an outrageously fluent Russian.

His pronunciation was clear and articulate, even carrying an aristocratic air reminiscent of the upper echelons of Moscow during the Tsarist era—elegant, yet full of irony.

"Marshal Zhukov, everyone is quite busy, let's save ourselves the trouble of diplomatic rhetoric."

He Yuanchao raised his head, his eyes piercing.

"A misunderstanding? Over a hundred heavy tanks charging in battle formation, and you call that a misunderstanding? Three divisions of infantry following closely behind, and you call that an accidental clash?"

"So, if I blast these 140-plus high-explosive shells over your heads, turning your hundred-plus precious tanks into scrap metal, can't that be called... a loud noise? A celebration of our 'friendship'?"

This series of rhetorical questions, like a barrage of bullets, hit Zhukov squarely in the face.

He Yuanchao leaned forward slightly, his deep, cold eyes fixed on Zhukov. It was not the gaze of an ordinary young man, but the gaze of a superior who had experienced mountains of corpses and seas of blood and controlled absolute power.

An invisible pressure instantly filled the entire tent, making the air feel thin.

"As a soldier, I don't like beating around the bush; I prefer to be straightforward."

"Since you're here, let's not talk about friendship. We welcome friends with good wine, but if wolves come... humph."

He Yuanchao sneered and tapped his fingers lightly on the table twice, making a tapping sound.

"Talking about friendship costs money, and it hurts feelings even more. Let's talk about... compensation and territory instead."

"After all, this is an opportunity you delivered to your doorstep, isn't it?"

Before he could finish speaking...

"Snapped!"

He Yuanchao suddenly waved his hand and slammed a huge, already rolled-up map heavily onto the marching table!

Dust flew everywhere.

Several Soviet generals shuddered in fright and instinctively shrank back.

That's not an ordinary battle map.

It was a specially made historical map that marked all the ancestral lands of China that had been seized by Tsarist Russia and Soviet Russia through unequal treaties since the late Qing Dynasty...

On the map, it extends north of the Heilongjiang River, east of the Ussuri River, and even includes the massive Sakhalin Island!

Those names that once caused countless Chinese people heartache and sleepless nights—Outer Northeast! Sakhalin Island! Shuangchengzi! Khabarovsk!

And then there's that name that makes every Chinese person's heart bleed—Vladivostok!

At this moment, these areas were all heavily circled by a large red marker!

The bright red ink marks, like bleeding wounds or vengeful swords, pierced the eyes of every Soviet citizen present.

"this……"

Zhukov was stunned.

The generals behind him also came closer, and when they saw the area drawn on the map, their faces instantly changed from pale to ashen, and then turned a deep liver color.

This is not just a ceasefire line in a border conflict.

This is practically ripping off a huge chunk of the Soviet Far East!

"General He! What do you mean by this?!"

A Soviet major general could no longer contain himself; this was an utter disgrace!

He slammed his fist on the table, pointing at the map, his fingers trembling: "This is blatant territorial extortion! This is an open provocation against Soviet sovereignty! This is robbery!"

"These are old accounts from hundreds of years ago; you have no right to bring them up! According to the current line of actual control..."

"We absolutely cannot accept this! The great Soviet Red Army will fight to the last man, but will not cede an inch of land!"

The major general roared until his face turned red and his neck bulged, as if he was trying to use his voice to cover up his inner fear.

"Bang!!!"

A loud bang!

Before He Yuanchao could speak, Li Yunlong slammed his hand on the table!

The slap was delivered with tremendous force, nearly shattering the poor folding table on the spot. The teacups on the table were shaken so badly they bounced up and rolled all over the floor with a clatter.

The commotion was even louder than the gunshots from before, so much so that the Soviet major general, who was roaring, swallowed his words and almost bit his tongue.

Li Yunlong jumped to his feet, slammed the heavy PPSh-41 rifle in his hand onto the table, and pointed the muzzle directly at the major general.

He glared with eyes that had slain countless enemies, his murderous aura surging forth as if it were tangible, and roared:

"What's all the noise about?! Huh?!"

"This is fucking China! This is my territory! Who the hell let their belt slip and let your thing show?!"

"Do you even have the right to speak here?! If you dare glare at our commander again, or slam your fist on the table again, I'll gouge your eyes out and stomp on them! You believe me?!"

Li Yunlong's bandit-like aura, as if he had crawled out of a pile of corpses, combined with his roar like a booming bell, made the Soviet major general's head buzz.

The major general stared at the dark muzzle of the gun and at Li Yunlong's expression, which looked as if he were ready to pull the trigger and kill someone at any moment. His face turned red, his chest heaved violently, and he couldn't utter a single word.

He felt as if he were facing not an officer, but an enraged tiger.

Zhukov's brows furrowed deeply; he sensed the resolute will emanating from these Chinese soldiers.

He Yuanchao smiled, his expression remaining calm and composed.

He waved his hand, gesturing for Li Yunlong to sit down, as if trying to soothe a raging lion.

"Yunlong, sit down. We should be more 'civilized' when dealing with guests. After all, we are a country of etiquette, although that applies to people."

Li Yunlong snorted coldly, glared fiercely at the person opposite him, and then sat back down in his chair, cursing.

He Yuanchao put away his smile and gently tapped the three characters "Vladivostok" on the map with his slender fingers.

笃.

笃.

笃.

The voice wasn't loud, but it felt like each word was a tap on the heart of a Soviet citizen; the tone was calm, yet every word was sharp and cutting.

"Whether it's a provocation or not is not for you to decide."

"It's not up to Stalin to decide."

He Yuanchao raised his eyelids, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

"It's my cannons that call the shots."

"Truth always lies within the range of cannons. You should understand this better than I do."

He held up three fingers.

My requirements are very simple.

"First, all the land within this red circle must be returned immediately and unconditionally! This has been our ancestral land since ancient times; it has only been temporarily seized by robbers. All Soviet personnel, along with your administrative agencies, must return to the area north of this red line within twenty-four hours!"

"If you don't leave, I'll help you leave. Of course, by then, what will leave will probably be an urn containing your ashes."

"Secondly, to compensate us for the emotional distress caused by your 'malicious intrusion' and the 'misunderstanding' it triggered, the frightened plants, and the depletion of our ammunition..."

At this point, He Yuanchao paused, a greedy glint flashing in his eyes—the ruthless determination to recoup his losses with interest after being terrified of poverty.

"I want... 200,000 tons of high-grade fuel oil! 500 tons of precision special steel! And... all your heavy industrial equipment in this area, down to the last screw, must be handed over completely intact!"

"Especially those machine tools from those large arsenals, if one is missing, I'll take one of your tanks as payment."

Hearing this, Zhukov's heart clenched painfully. Two hundred thousand tons of fuel oil! That was practically drinking the blood of the Soviet Far Eastern Army!

However, He Yuanchao's voice continued, showing no sign of ending.

"Third, and most importantly."

He Yuanchao's eyes suddenly turned cold, and at that moment, it seemed as if the temperature in the entire tent had dropped to absolute zero.

"From today onwards, put away your greedy claws."

"If I ever see another Soviet soldier cross this line, even by a single step..."

"Then next time, what falls on your heads won't be those regular high-explosive shells."

He leaned forward, close to Zhukov, and whispered in a low voice, like a devil's whisper:

"But rather, it's a... little gift that can instantly turn a Moscow winter into a sweltering summer."

"I imagine Comrade Stalin must have been quite interested in the news about the 'Sudden Disappearance of the Tokyo Imperial Palace,' perhaps even dreaming about what it was?"

"He wouldn't mind... so I'll give him a free performance in Red Square, would he?"

"boom!"

These words struck like a thunderbolt in the minds of all the Soviet generals!

"you--!!"

Zhukov's pupils suddenly contracted to their maximum size! His hands unconsciously gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

Threat!

This is a blatant nuclear threat!

Although, to this day, intelligence agencies around the world have not yet figured out the principle behind the "divine punishment" that destroyed the Japanese Imperial Palace and caused hundreds of thousands of people to vanish instantly.

But that destructive power, that indefensible terror, is a nightmare that every major power's top leaders are frantically researching!

They called it "God's wrath".

If this happened in Moscow's Red Square, above the Kremlin...

The entire Soviet Union's high command system would be instantly paralyzed, or even destroyed!

Who can afford to pay this price?

Zhukov dared not think any further.

Cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking his underwear and leaving him feeling sticky and extremely uncomfortable.

He looked into He Yuanchao's calm eyes, and saw the crazy yet confident light in them.

His intuition as a top commander told him that this young man was not joking.

He's serious!

He's really daring! And capable of doing it!

A long, deathly silence fell over the tent.

The only sounds were the rustling of the wind blowing the canvas and the heavy breathing of everyone present.

I don't know how much time has passed, maybe as long as a century.

Zhukov seemed to have all his bones removed, as if the Soviet war god who was once known as the "firefighter" and "symbol of victory" had completely collapsed at this moment.

He slumped into the chair, his eyes turning dull and lifeless.

His straight back finally bent slowly in the face of that irresistible force.

This is the first time since the birth of the Red Empire.

This was also the first time since the Soviet Red Army was formed.

At the negotiating table, without suffering a complete defeat, he was forced to lower his proud and noble head by being pointed at.

Humiliation, resentment, but mostly a sense of powerlessness.

"I... don't have the authority to agree to so many things..."

Zhukov's voice was hoarse, as if he had aged ten years in an instant, "The cession of territory requires the approval of the Supreme Soviet..."

"But I will convey your request to Moscow word for word."

"However... I, as the commander-in-chief at the front, can issue the order for the withdrawal and cessation of hostilities now."

Zhukov looked up, a pleading look in his eyes. "And... those industrial equipment... they're the foundation of our Far East industry. Can we discuss it? We can use something else..."

"cannot."

He Yuanchao coldly uttered two words, leaving no room for negotiation.

He suddenly stood up and straightened his military uniform.

"I'm not doing business with you, I'm informing you."

"Tell Stalin that my patience is limited."

"If I don't see the desired outcome before sunrise tomorrow, my armored formation will continue its northward march."

"If you don't want to be dignified, then I'll help you be dignified."

"Let's meet again in Chita or Irkutsk. Or... on the ruins of Moscow."

After saying that, He Yuanchao put on his military cap, turned around, and walked out of the tent without looking back.

That kind of contempt is more hurtful than any words.

Li Yunlong had been waiting impatiently for a long time. He stood up and gave the trembling generals opposite him one last fierce glare.

Suddenly, his gaze swept across the room and he saw a bottle of special-supply vodka that was still unopened next to Zhukov.

"Hey, this wine is pretty good."

Li Yunlong grabbed the bottle of vodka, stuffed it into his coat pocket, and said nonchalantly, "Consider this interest! I'll have a taste for you guys!"

Then, laughing loudly, he strode away with an air of indifference, as if he didn't recognize anyone.

"Hahaha! That's great! That's fucking great!"

Looking at the backs of this group of people who resembled "robbers," and listening to the unrestrained laughter coming from outside.

Zhukov closed his eyes helplessly, leaned back in his chair, and felt his heart clenching with pain.

He knew that the world in the Far East had changed.

Everything has changed completely.

The polar bear that once ran rampant on this land, acting as if no one else existed, has finally met its match and encountered a real adversary.

An awakened, ferocious fangs bared, and wielding the power of thunder... an Eastern dragon!

……

The next morning.

Just when everyone thought Stalin would be furious and might even launch a full-scale war.

The highest directive from Moscow has arrived.

It's just a short line of text.

"For the sake of internationalism and to avoid greater sacrifices, we accept it entirely."

We accept it all!

These four words were like a heavy hammer blow, shattering the last vestiges of dignity of the Soviet army.

It wasn't because Stalin became more benevolent, nor because he suddenly became more reasonable.

Rather, it's because...

On the very night of the negotiations, He Yuanchao, in order to "enliven things up" and also to show the other party what "strength" really meant, decided to...

Under the cover of darkness, he launched a newly developed missile into a desolate permafrost region in Siberia...

Medium-range ballistic missile!

Furthermore, this missile did not carry a real nuclear warhead, but rather a high-yield fuel-air explosive (thermobaric) bomb.

But this is enough.

When that small, yet awe-inspiring, mushroom cloud flashed on the screen of the Soviet air defense radar station, when the towering flames illuminated half of the Siberian night sky, and then the shockwave data shattered the observer's glasses.

All the arrogance, all the insistence, all the bargaining, vanished in that instant.

Great powers, whether they are red or white.

They only understand one language—the range and tonnage of the cannons!

Truth exists only in the trajectory of missiles.

……

Looking at the large, even somewhat disheveled, Soviet convoy retreating.

Looking at the abandoned camps and the mountains of industrial equipment left behind as agreed, I saw...

More importantly, it was a sight to see the Soviet flags that had flown over this land for far too long finally being lowered.

Li Yunlong stood on that redefined boundary line, letting the cold wind ruffle his collar.

This tough guy who never sheds a tear, this iron-willed soldier who never blinked in the hail of bullets, couldn't help but shed tears at this moment.

His lips trembled as he looked at the ground beneath his feet and at the faint outline of Vladivostok in the distance.

"They're back...they're all fucking back..."

"Vladivostok...it's been so many years...I never thought I'd live to see this day again..."

Li Yunlong wiped his face hard, his voice choked with emotion.

The blood of countless martyrs and the hatred of countless generations have finally been washed away at this moment.

He Yuanchao stood beside him, his hands behind his back, looking at the frozen coastline in the distance.

There, the sea and sky are vast.

That place is the sea passage that the Chinese nation has lost for too long.

His eyes were calm and deep, as if this earth-shattering victory was merely the first step in his plan.

"This is just the beginning, Brother Yunlong."

He Yuanchao's voice sounded exceptionally clear in the wind.

"Our goal is not just to get these back."

"It's about taking back everything that's been lost, whether it was lost a hundred years ago or hundreds of years ago."

"Even...more."

The time has come for this world to rearrange its order.

He turned around, his cloak fluttering in the wind.

"Let's go back to Beiping."

"The negotiations are over, but we still have a long way to go."

"It's time to show off that 'big guy' in our house and teach the world another lesson!"

"Target—Lop Nur!"

"Let the world hear the roar of the Chinese dragon!"