On the eve of the fall of Liaodong, he led his troops in a remonstrance against the young marshal.

"I had no choice but to call out to my lord."

"Call me, my husband!"

"Come with me to my boudoir to share our tender moments."

The soft, melodious singing entered his ears, and Zhang Xueming suddenly opened his eyes.

Above them was a huge crystal chandelier, its dim light illuminating the gilded and painted dome.

He was lying on a mahogany armchair with a soft satin cushion beneath him. On the small table beside him was a covered teacup, the aroma of which mixed with the scents of sandalwood and opium, filling his nostrils.

Where is this?

Zhang Xueming sat up abruptly, his gaze sweeping across the surroundings like lightning.

He remembered that he was a Chinese agent, working in an underground base in Japan, carrying out a mission to destroy Japan's nuclear project.

During the mission, he finally managed to infiltrate the area, and just when the mission was about to be completed, the Japanese engineer chose to perish together with him, detonating the nuclear reactor.

Then when he opened his eyes again, he was sitting in the theater.

On the stage, a female lead was waving her water sleeves, her red lips opening and closing as she sang a play she couldn't understand.

A dozen or so square tables were set up below the stage, filled with people, all dressed in silk and adorned with jewels.

The men had beards and wore mandarin jackets or Zhongshan suits, while the women had permed hair, wore cheongsams, and the jade bracelets on their wrists gleamed with a faint green light under the lamp.

They were all dressed in Republic of China era attire, and all were high-ranking officials and dignitaries.

Zhang Xueming looked down and saw that he was also wearing a dark blue Zhongshan suit, with a Kuomintang badge pinned to his chest and a pair of shiny black leather shoes.

He spread his palms out, revealing long, slender fingers and several thin calluses on his palms, but these were not calluses from guns, but rather from holding a pen.

This is not his body.

This realization struck Zhang Xueming like a bolt of lightning, causing him to leap up from his chair, which tilted backward and nearly tipped over.

He gripped the back of the chair, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk, trying to find any familiar face among the people there.

No! Not a single one!

His actions startled those around him.

Several men at the next table turned around, frowned, and sized him up with displeasure in their eyes.

"sit down!"

A deep voice came from beside him, carrying an unquestionable tone of command.

Zhang Xueming turned his head away.

The person who spoke was sitting to his right, across a coffee table.

He was a young man, who looked to be in his early thirties. He was wearing a crisp yellow woolen military uniform with a gold star indicating his rank as a general pinned to his collar, a military belt around his waist, and riding boots.

He had two meticulously trimmed mustaches, a regular face shape, thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, and fair skin that comes from years of pampered living.

He exudes an imposing aura without being angry; just sitting there, the air pressure around him seems to drop several degrees.

But who is Zhang Xueming?

He spent three years in hiding in Japan, and no fewer than a hundred Japanese politicians and high-ranking officials died at his hands. What kind of ruthless characters hadn't he seen?

The young general in front of him gave him the impression of being pretentious.

That kind of authority is something that's put on, something that's been flattered, something that's supported by the uniform and rank, not something that seeps out from the very bones.

A truly powerful and cunning person has an unconcealable coldness in their eyes, like frost forming on a blade.

Although the man's eyes were sharp, his true nature was hollow, like a paper tiger forced onto a high platform, trying to maintain an imposing posture but constantly worried about being exposed.

The dark circles under his eyes, in particular, revealed his bluster and cowardice. Zhang Xueming could tell at a glance that this man was definitely addicted to opium and had his body hollowed out by it.

Zhang Xueming opened his mouth, about to speak.

Just then, a sharp pain exploded inside his skull without warning.

It felt like a red-hot iron awl had pierced my temple, through my skull, through my brain, and through every fold of my memory.

Zhang Xueming's face turned deathly pale in an instant, the veins on his forehead bulged, his jaw clenched, and his teeth made a grinding sound.

He gripped the armrests of the armchair tightly, his fingernails digging into the mahogany, making a soft clicking sound.

He forced himself not to cry out.

In this life and the previous life combined, Zhang Xueming has never uttered a sound of pain in front of outsiders.

"What's wrong? What happened?" the woman with wavy hair stood up and screamed.

"Quick, call a doctor!" someone shouted at the theater entrance.

The young man in military uniform frowned, a hint of impatience and worry flashing across his face. He waved, and two guards in gray uniforms immediately jogged over.

One person grabbed Zhang Xueming's arm and half-dragged, half-supported him as they carried him out of the theater's main hall.

After passing through a moon gate and around a rockery, the guards carried Zhang Xueming into a west wing room.

The room was small, with a large carved rosewood bed covered with brocade bedding, and a painting of a tiger descending a mountain hanging on the wall.

The guards put him on the bed. One of them ran out to call a doctor, while the other stood guard at the door, his hand on the pistol at his waist, his eyes fixed on him.

Zhang Xueming couldn't care less about any of that at that moment.

Memories flooded his mind like a burst dam, carrying countless unfamiliar images and sounds, scattering what was originally his own memory into pieces.

The amount of information was so overwhelming that his brain was about to explode.

Zhang Xueming clutched the brocade quilt cover, his hair and clothes completely soaked with sweat, looking as if he had just been pulled out of the water.

He was breathing heavily, his pupils dilating and shrinking, and his eyes were bloodshot.

This process lasted a full fifteen minutes.

When the last memory flooded his mind, Zhang Xueming collapsed onto the bed as if all his strength had been drained, his chest heaving violently.

He stared at Cheng Chen above him with his eyes wide open, and finally realized who he was.

Zhang Xueming.

He time-traveled back to September 18, 1931, becoming Zhang Xueliang's younger brother, the second son of Zhang Zuolin, the leader of the Fengtian clique, a graduate of the Northeast Military Academy, and currently the director of the Tianjin Municipal Police Bureau.

The man in the yellow woolen military uniform sitting in the theater listening to his mother's "The Universe's Edge" was his elder brother, the young marshal of the Northeast Army, Zhang Xueliang.

September 18th.

This date was like a red-hot branding iron, searing his heart.

He remembered clearly that the Japanese would take action tonight, bomb the Liutiaohu section of the South Manchurian Railway, frame the Northeast Army, and then use that as a pretext to bombard Beidaying.

His older brother, the young marshal, would then issue an order.

No resistance!

Three words were all it took to send 300,000 Northeastern troops slinking back into the interior, handing over a million square kilometers of black soil to the Japanese invaders, and turning 30 million people from Northeast China into slaves of a conquered nation.

Thinking of this, Zhang Xueming gritted his teeth.

It felt like there was a burning cotton ball stuffed inside my chest, both stuffy and hot.

He wished he could rush back to the theater immediately, grab Zhang Xueliang by the collar, pull him up from the armchair, and slap him hard across the face to bring him to his senses.

The Japanese were about to invade, and what was he doing? Smoking opium, taking concubines, and watching operas in Beiping!

Is he qualified to be the commander of the Northeast Army?

Zhang Xueming was filled with hatred and his anger was boundless.

But when he thought about his current situation, it was like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head, calming him down.

He is now all alone in Beiping.

He was nominally the director of the Tianjin Municipal Police Bureau, but this time when he came to Beiping, he only brought two attendants with him, and they were both stopped outside the theater.

The theater was filled with Zhang Xueliang's guards, at least a whole guard battalion, all armed and loyal.

Let alone beating up Zhang Xueliang, he could even get a gun pointed at his head if he touched Zhang Xueliang.

What should I do?

Zhang Xueming lay on the bed, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug deep into his palms.

He felt incredibly frustrated and furious.

There was a feeling of watching disaster strike helplessly, and he was powerless to stop it.

Time is like an hourglass; every grain of sand that falls pushes him toward that irreversible abyss of history.

Just when he was in utter despair, a cold, mechanical voice exploded in his mind.

[Ding! Congratulations, host, you have transmigrated and awakened the Points System. The Points System has been successfully bound.]

"This is... a cheat code?!"