We agreed on the twelve zodiac animals, but you've transformed into the Monkey King?

Amidst the rising and falling slogans of "Down with the traitors!" outside the window, Zhang Sulin slumped into a grand chair.

It turns out that when it comes to real military industry interests, he, one of the so-called three tycoons of the Qingmen, is as insignificant as a feather.

"General He issued a statement this morning," the White officer said, delivering the final ultimatum, "The arsenal is the lifeblood of the Anhui clique. Anyone who dares to stir up trouble at this critical juncture and disrupt the stability of the arsenal will be executed first. Even if it's the Emperor himself, he will kill them without hesitation."

The White officer stubbed out his half-smoked cigar in the valuable antique inkstone.

"Boss Zhang, you should stay in your mansion and 'recover' during this time. Don't step out of this door. As for that Wen Xiao..." The white officer narrowed his eyes, "Once this storm passes and the arsenal's machinery is running smoothly, the Marshal will naturally settle accounts with him."

After saying this, he pushed open the study door and strode away.

Zhang Sulin was left alone, slumped on this isolated island surrounded by public opinion.

……

Day 11, 8:00 AM. Hankou Road, first floor lobby of Shenbao Building.

The rear door of the ambulance slammed shut with a loud bang, completely severing the upward curve of Meng Huai's lips that he was forcing open through the crack in the door.

A puff of blue smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, and the car turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Panpan stared at the empty street corner for a while.

With a "bang," the door latch slammed shut. The cold rain and the distant tire tracks were all shut out.

Morning light streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, casting a slant of light onto the scattered scraps of newspaper on the floor. Dust motes swirled in the light.

The printing, which had been going on non-stop all night, finally came to a stop.

Dozens of young students leaned haphazardly against the Roman columns and stair steps in the hall. Their faces were covered in paint and exhausted.

No one spoke; only the sound of scattered, heavy breathing remained.

Panpan waded through the piles of scrap paper and walked straight to the oak table in the center of the hall.

She stepped onto a stack of newspapers and stood there. She looked around at the young, fearful yet passionate faces in the hall.

Tears streamed down her face without warning, but before she could speak, she bit her lip hard and wiped her face haphazardly.

"Classmates..." Panpan's voice trembled, but her words were clenched through her teeth, "Four years ago, in May, we did the same thing, taking to the streets and shouting until our throats were hoarse. We thought that with the words 'victorious nation,' with the 'justice' and 'civilization' in the mouths of foreigners, we could stand tall. And what was the result?"

A cold, sorrowful smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"The result was that Clemenceau and Lloyd George clinked champagne glasses at Versailles, casually signed their names, and handed over the Shandong Peninsula as a piece of fat meat to the Japanese invaders! Meanwhile, our gentlemen didn't even dare to stamp a document refusing to sign!"

All the young people in the hall had tears in their eyes.

This old wound is etched in everyone's heart and has never healed.

"Last night, gunshots rang out again. Our prized 'Sober' and 'Article' couldn't even withstand a single bullet!"

Panpan's voice echoed under the high dome.

"Our teachers taught us that 'literature is an eternal pursuit.' But look at Shanghai! All the printed words sing praises to the frivolous affairs of the powerful and wealthy, and the pages are filled with embellishments that paint a rosy picture of peace! This world is unreasonable, lawless, and utterly devoid of conscience!"

She ripped off the white silk scarf around her neck, raised her hand, and slashed it with a sharp blade, leaving a bloody gash in her palm.

The last pure white was then completely stained with blood.

"Abandon the last vestiges of delusion in your hearts! The land is already morbidly ill, rotten to the core! To hope for the pity of warlords? To yearn for justice from the great powers? That's a pipe dream! Only the truth can awaken this land! Only the blood-stained pens in our hands!"

All the gentleness and fragility in Panpan's eyes vanished, and she raised her bleeding fist high:

"Students! Even if we die from bullets, or our buildings crumble, we must use our pens as swords to forge a bloody path!"

The chair was violently pushed aside, and dozens of young people suddenly stood up.

"Use the pen as a sword! Forge a bloody path!"

"Forge a bloody path!!"

The word "awakening," which seems so light and airy in history books, has now been embodied in the fiery spirit unique to the youth of this era.

Burn away all the old, entrenched forces; there is no turning back.

Wen Xiao leaned against the iron gate, watching these teenagers who had never even touched a gun, swallowing hard.

He suddenly realized that he was the pathetic coward.

Just as this tragic yet passionate atmosphere was stirring in the air—

"What are you doing?!"

The door was flung open, and a furious scream shattered the solemnity of the hall.

Mr. Zhao, the editor-in-chief of Shenbao Newspaper, arrived at work with several executives and editors in suits. When they saw the usually spotless newsroom, a symbol of "civilization and objectivity," it looked like a refugee camp that had just been looted.

When the sour smell of the heated machine, the smell of cheap tobacco, and the smell of blood mingled together, Editor-in-Chief Zhao's face turned green.

"Bandits! This is utterly banditry!" Editor-in-Chief Zhao trembled with rage, pointing at Wen Xiao and the students on the ground as he cursed, "Who gave you permission to use the rotary press on the ground floor without permission?! Do you even know this is the *Shen Bao* newspaper! This is the largest newspaper in the Far East with decades of objective and clean reputation! You thugs have ruined the newspaper's century-old reputation!"

He turned and yelled at the executives behind him, "Go! Call the police station right now! Arrest all these thugs who broke into private homes and damaged private property! I want them to pay for the machine wear and tear and the paper loss from last night! If they can't pay, they'll go to jail!"

The students stood up angrily, about to argue their case.

The doors to the lobby were pushed open by two bodyguards in black, one on each side.

"Tap, tap, tap."

Shelly walked in with the crisp, rhythmic sound of high heels.

She wore a sharply tailored beige haute couture trench coat, her long hair meticulously styled in an updo, and her makeup as exquisite as a freshly sharpened dagger. Her expensive French calfskin high heels were blatantly displayed on the filthy ink-stained floor.

"Miss Shelly?"

Editor-in-Chief Zhao was stunned. As a high-ranking official in Shanghai's press, he certainly recognized this Chinese female manager of Jardine Matheson & Co., and one of the major financial backers of the Shen Bao newspaper.

Shelly stopped and turned her head slightly.

Her beautiful almond-shaped eyes sized up Editor-in-Chief Zhao.

"Editor-in-Chief Zhao, I have always thought..." Shelly's red lips parted slightly, her voice clear and elegant, "What supports your newspaper's so-called 'century-old reputation' is the integrity and backbone of its intellectuals."

She chuckled softly, her gaze sweeping over the executives: "Seeing this mess today, I finally understand. It turns out your backbone is strung together with abacus beads."

"You—" Editor-in-Chief Zhao's face turned a deep shade of liver. "Miss Shelly, this is an insult to civility!"

"I'm teaching you how to keep clear accounts."

Shelly was too lazy to listen to his nonsense anymore. She pulled out a few pieces of paper with red stamps from her Hermès handbag and slapped them unceremoniously onto the front of Editor-in-Chief Zhao's crisp suit.

It was like a resounding slap in the face.