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

The pine and cypress trees in front of Wan Zhong's tomb rustled, as if the wronged souls who had been sleeping for thirty years were responding.

In the sky, the sun was half-hidden by dark clouds, and the light it cast was an eerie grayish-white.

The wind grew stronger, making the military flags flutter and the hair of the overseas Chinese kneeling on the ground become disheveled, with tears streaming down their faces.

The dulled blades were distributed to each soldier.

Each one was rusted and dull like a piece of iron.

This kind of knife won't kill a person instantly when it strikes.

It can tear flesh, saw through bones, and cause the victim to die slowly in extreme pain.

Zhang Xueming wanted to make these beasts taste all the suffering that the Chinese people had endured in the past.

At the same time, it can also help the Northeast Army to toughen up and increase their killing intent.

The first one to be pulled out was the old man's son.

A middle-aged man in his forties, wearing glasses, looked refined and cultured.

He was dragged to the edge of the mass grave by two soldiers and forced to kneel down.

"Father! Father, save me!!"

He shouted at the old man who was tied to the ground.

The old man struggled frantically, the rope digging into his flesh and drawing blood, but he was completely unaware.

He started cursing, cursing in Japanese and Chinese, until his voice cracked.

Zhang Xueming stood to the side, listening quietly with a faint smile on his face.

A Northeast Army soldier walked up behind the middle-aged man and raised his knife.

The knife was rusted and its blade was full of nicks, making it look particularly menacing in the grayish-white sunlight.

The soldier took a deep breath and then slashed down with his sword.

The knife landed on the back of the neck, but did not sever it.

Blood splattered out, and the middle-aged man let out a shrill scream before collapsing to the ground with a deep, bone-revealing wound on the back of his neck, but he was not dead yet.

He struggled in the pool of blood, like a fish thrown ashore, flailing his limbs and making incoherent sounds.

The people around were terrified.

Upon witnessing this scene, some of the overseas Chinese kneeling on the ground collapsed to the ground, some began to vomit, and some frantically tried to stand up and escape, but were knocked back by the soldiers with their rifle butts.

The cries were deafening.

Zhang Xueming frowned slightly as he looked at the middle-aged man struggling in the pool of blood.

"The knife is too dull."

He walked up to the soldier, took the dulled blade from his hand, and weighed it in his hand.

"let me."

Zhang Xueming walked up to the middle-aged man and looked down at him.

The man was not dead yet. He was lying on his back, staring wide-eyed at Zhang Xueming, his eyes filled with fear and pleading.

His lips were moving, as if he was trying to say something, but his throat was blocked by blood and foam, and he could only make a series of indistinct gurgling sounds.

Zhang Xueming, expressionless, raised his knife.

The cut was swift and clean, striking directly through the opening and severing all the remaining cervical vertebrae.

Its head rolled to the ground, spun twice, and stopped in front of the old man.

The old man looked at his son's head, and the expression on his face could no longer be described by human words.

That was the ultimate pain! The ultimate despair! The ultimate madness.

He let out a howl, a sound that no longer came from his throat, but was torn from the depths of his soul.

"You beasts!! You deserve to die a horrible death!! You deserve to die a horrible death!!!"

He rolled around on the ground desperately, his body, bound by ropes, writhing like a maggot, his face covered in mud, blood, and tears.

Zhang Xueming turned around and looked in the direction of Wan Zhong's tomb.

"Next."

His voice was as calm as a stagnant pool.

The second person to be pulled out was the old man's wife.

The woman was about sixty-five years old, wearing a dark blue kimono, her hair was disheveled, and her makeup was ruined by tears.

When she was dragged to the edge of the mass grave, she was already limp. Two soldiers had to support her arms to keep her from collapsing to the ground.

She saw her husband's head in front of her father-in-law, and then she let out a piercing scream.

Zhang Xueming simply waved his hand.

The soldiers pinned her to the ground.

It was another knife with a dull blade.

The blade flashed, and screams echoed through the sky. Then, with another slash, the screams abruptly ceased.

The third.

the fourth.

the fifth.

The old man's family, his grandson, his son-in-law, his grandson-in-law...

One by one they were dragged out, and one by one they died beside the mass grave.

The dull blades struck flesh and bone with a dull thud.

Blood flowed down the earthen walls of the mass grave, turning the loess soil dark red.

The Northeast Army soldiers took turns carrying out the mission, replacing their swords when they became dull. After killing thirty or fifty people, the next batch of soldiers would take their place.

No one hesitated or showed mercy.

A flame burned in everyone's eyes—a flame of vengeance for the nation and its people, a flame that had raged for thirty years.

Those expatriates who hadn't yet been killed were forced to kneel on the ground and watch all of this unfold.

Someone has gone mad.

There was a woman who, after watching her husband being dragged out and hacked to death, suddenly burst into laughter, laughing until tears streamed down her face and her whole body convulsed.

Then he collapsed to the ground and never got up again.

Someone was scared to death.

An elderly man's eyes widened as he watched his grandson being dragged away. He clutched his chest, convulsed twice, and then fell silent.

More people are crying.

She cried her heart out, she cried until the sky darkened.

The cries mingled together, echoing above the mass grave like a symphony from hell.

Zhang Xueming stood there, listening quietly.

His face showed enjoyment.

The wails of these beasts sounded to him as beautiful as celestial music.

Thirty years have passed.

Thirty years ago, in that massacre, more than 20,000 Chinese people were killed by the Japanese devils using various cruel methods at the foot of this mountain.

Those screams, those wails, those pleas for mercy, those curses, must still echo in this valley, just like they do now.

But at that time, nobody cared.

The invaders, brandishing their butcher knives, grinned maliciously amidst the pools of blood.

And now.

Zhang Xueming looked at the decapitated corpses, the bodies convulsing in pools of blood, and the faces contorted with fear.

He finally smiled.

Thirty years have passed; fortunes have changed.

The old man, who was tied to the ground, had stopped cursing; his voice was completely hoarse and he couldn't make a sound.

He just stared wide-eyed as one loved one after another died before his eyes.

Those eyes no longer held madness or hatred; only numbness, emptiness, and deathly stillness remained.

He had stopped struggling and lay motionless on the ground like a dog whose bones had been removed.

But his eyes remained open.

He watched as his eldest son was hacked to death, as his second son was hacked to death, and as his three grandsons died by the knife.

Each time a loved one dies, his body convulses violently, as if he has been stabbed with an electric baton.

But he couldn't make a sound, or even shed a tear; he had already cried all his tears.

Zhang Xueming stood to the side, occasionally glancing at him.

Seeing those empty eyes, a slight smile would appear on Zhang Xueming's lips.

This is what he wanted.

He wanted to make this old man experience all the pain and despair.

In endless pain and despair, after watching all his loved ones die one by one in front of him.

Then came his death.

The killings were happening slower than expected.

Since it was a blunt knife, sometimes it took four or five blows to kill a person.

They fought from afternoon until dusk, and from dusk until late at night.

Torches were lit, illuminating the mass grave as if it were daytime.

The flickering firelight reflected on Zhang Xueming's face, on the stone tablet of Wan Zhong's Tomb behind him, and on the more than 20,000 blood-stained blunt knives.

Zhang Xueliang was already vomiting uncontrollably, and looking at Zhang Xueming's face was like seeing a demon.

Only today did he realize just how much his younger brother hated the Japanese and how crazy he was about killing them.

Looking at each mutilated corpse on the ground, Zhang Xueliang suddenly had a thought.

This is no longer killing Japanese soldiers, but torture.

If one day, my younger brother also hates me as much as he hates the Japanese, will I end up like the Japanese?

Or... something even worse?

The air was thick with the stench of blood, so strong that it was almost impossible to breathe.

The bodies in the mass grave were piled up like mountains.

Blood flowed down the edge of the pit, turning the bottom into a blood-red pond.

The uniforms of the Northeast Army soldiers were soaked in blood, and their boots were filled with blood plasma.

But they didn't stop.

The commander-in-chief said to start by killing that old man's relatives.

Then kill his family first.

Then they kill the others.

More than 22,000 heads.

One by one, with a blunt knife.

At the tomb of Wan Zhong.

Let the spirits of the fallen heroes in heaven take a good look.

The descendants of the Chinese people in later generations have avenged them today.

The torches crackled and burned, their flickering flames swaying in the night wind, illuminating the entire valley in a dim, ever-changing light.

In the firelight, the stone tablet at Wan Zhong's tomb reflected a dark red luster, as if it had been soaked in blood.

The names engraved on the monument for thirty years seemed to pulsate in the firelight.

Those 20,000-plus names.

Those innocent souls who were slaughtered.

On this night.

Their revenge has finally come.

At this most joyous moment, Zhang Zuoxiang's telegram arrived in great urgency, signaling a major event.