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

The procession continued forward, stopping when it passed a square.

Someone climbed onto the stone platform in the center of the square and began to give a speech.

The young man giving the speech was wearing a Zhongshan suit with a Northeastern University badge pinned to his chest, and his voice trembled slightly from excessive excitement.

But every word was like a match thrown into gasoline, instantly igniting the emotions of everyone present.

Fellow countrymen! Students! Today is a festival for every Chinese person!

"Lushun, that place once stained with blood, thirty years have passed, and today we have finally taken it back!"

"The great victory at Fengcheng! Ten thousand Japanese soldiers were crushed to dust by our tanks today!"

"Do you know what this means?"

"This means that we Chinese can finally stand tall! This means that the Japanese pirates are not invincible!"

"This means that as long as we stand united, no aggressor can stand on our land and swagger around!"

Thunderous applause and cheers erupted from the crowd.

Some people threw their hats into the air, some pounded their chests with their fists, and some shouted:

"Good! Well said."

"Who brought us these victories?"

The speaker paused for a moment, then suddenly raised his voice, "It's the Second Marshal! It's General Zhang Xueming, the Second Marshal!"

"He led the soldiers of the Northeast Army, fighting with their blood and flesh to forge the dignity of a nation!"

"I may not acknowledge anyone else, but the Second Marshal is my hero, a hero of Northeast China, a hero of China!"

"Long live the Second Marshal! Long live the Northeast Army!"

The shouts from the crowd seemed to tear the clouds apart.

Another person jumped onto the stone platform in the square. He was wearing work clothes covered in oil stains and looked like a factory worker.

His voice was louder than the student's, and he spoke more bluntly:

"Folks! I'm a rough man, not good with fancy words! But I have to say a few words today!"

"I spent most of my life at the Shenyang Arsenal. None of the guns and cannons we made ever landed on the enemy. I hated it!"

"But today, today I don't hate anymore! Because the guns and cannons we made ourselves can finally kill the Japanese devils."

"The Second Marshal routed the Japanese invaders! I'm happy for him, and I'm happy for every Chinese person!"

He paused for a moment, then shouted even louder:

"From this day forward, my life belongs to the Second Marshal! If the Second Marshal tells me to build artillery shells, I will build artillery shells! If the Second Marshal tells me to go to the front lines, I will go to the front lines!"

"Anyway, I might as well keep my life. As long as I can work for the Second Marshal and fight the Japanese for our China, it's worth dying for!"

Another thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd.

People kept joining the speech group, including returned overseas Chinese from the south, students who had traveled thousands of miles back from overseas, workers who had worked as laborers in Japanese factories, and farmers who had witnessed the atrocities committed by the Japanese.

They speak different accents, come from different social classes, and have different experiences and backgrounds, but at this moment they stand on the same land, shouting the same name and cheering for the same person.

They were among the first to awaken in this era.

While most people were still asleep, their souls were already pierced by the suffering of the nation and its people, and they were desperately searching for a way to save the country and ensure its survival.

Many of them had despaired because the country had been impoverished and weak for so long that no hope could be seen.

The outside world was advancing rapidly, while China was like a caged beast chained up, being slaughtered, humiliated, and trampled underfoot by the great powers.

But they never gave up.

They searched for hope in despair and for light in darkness.

They traveled thousands of miles to Northeast China, not for fame or fortune, but simply because they believed that on this land, there was a man named Zhang Xueming who was using his own way to revitalize the nation.

Today's news is the best reward for all their perseverance.

A young man from Guangdong squeezed through the crowd for a long time before finally reaching the front and seeing the banner displaying the results of the battle.

He stood there, arms crossed, looking up at the sky, his lips moving as if he were talking to someone in the heavens.

Someone asked him what was wrong, and he smiled and said:

"I was telling my father, 'Father, you died in the Sino-Japanese War, and today you can finally rest in peace.'"

In a corner of the square, a boy wearing thick glasses squatted on the ground, holding a telegram he had just copied from the radio, looking at it and reading it over and over again.

He was a student in the Department of Chemistry at Peking University, specializing in gunpowder and explosives.

Before coming to Northeast China, his mentor advised him to stay and continue his research, saying that his talents should be put to use in the laboratory.

He said something to his mentor at the time:

"I went to Northeast China to do research."

"It's just that my research has moved from the laboratory to the arsenal, and my experimental results are sent directly to the battlefield for testing."

He was squatting there, reading the telegram aloud and laughing so hard his glasses were askew.

"120,000."

He pushed up his glasses. "120,000. The explosives I made will definitely kill even more."

Standing next to him was a tall, thin young man, a recent graduate of the Baoding Military Academy, wearing a brand-new military uniform without his rank insignia.

He and several classmates set off from Baoding, hiking and hitchhiking for nearly twenty days.

His current state is completely different from that of the chemistry student.

He didn't squat, but stood straight, his hands clenched into fists and hanging at his sides, his body trembling slightly.

It was an excitement that made one eager to rush to the battlefield, an instinctive reaction of a military academy student upon hearing the sound of war drums.

His classmate patted him on the shoulder and asked:

"nervous?"

"It's not nervousness."

He took a deep breath. "It's urgent."

"Fengcheng is over, Lushun is over, but I haven't been on the battlefield yet."

"I was afraid that by the time I arrived, the Second Marshal would have already wiped out all the Japanese soldiers."

His classmate laughed and said:

"Don't worry, there are plenty of Japanese soldiers."

"In the Kingdom of Bhikkhu, there are still 70 million Japanese devils, enough for you to fight for a lifetime."

He nodded, but his fist remained clenched.

The revelry in Fengtian City continued until late at night.

The shops on both sides of the street all lit up with lanterns, illuminating the entire street.

Some people were banging drums and gongs in the street, some were setting off firecrackers that they only set off during the New Year, and others had set up a temporary stage in the square to sing Northeast drum songs.

The song was not a traditional tune, but rather a song with improvised lyrics, telling the story of the Second Marshal fighting the Japanese invaders.

The old man singing the storytelling ballad had a hoarse voice, but he still sang with all his might because the audience surrounding him was three or four layers deep, and everyone was cheering loudly.

"The two marshals led their troops to Lushun, paying tribute to the heroic souls at the tomb of Wan Zhong! With blunt blades, they slew the Japanese devils, avenging their blood debt with blood!"

"A battlefield was set up at the foot of Fengcheng Mountain, where armored troops displayed their prowess! Smoke rose before Luofeng Slope, and 80,000 Japanese pirates had nowhere to escape!"

Every line of the song elicited cheers, with some throwing coins and silver dollars onto the stage, and others even taking off their jade pendants and throwing them up.

"Here's a tip for the old gentleman! Sing it two more times, I love it!"

The candied hawthorn vendor pushed his cart through the crowd. Even after selling out, he couldn't bear to leave. He would pull his empty cart to the side of the road and join the crowd in calling out "Ershuai" (a nickname for a handsome man).

On the streets of Fengtian City, a self-organized student propaganda team is distributing leaflets.

The leaflet was printed with Zhang Xueming's letter to the people of the whole country. It was printed overnight by students using a hand-cranked mimeograph machine. The ink was not completely dry yet, and you could smell a strong odor when you held it in your hand.

But at this moment, this scent is better than any perfume.

A little boy, about seven or eight years old, wearing a cotton-padded coat, took a flyer from a student, ran home excitedly, and stuffed the flyer into his grandfather's hand.

The old man is over seventy years old and is a native of Fengtian. He witnessed the tragic state of Wanzhong Tomb thirty years ago.

He put on his reading glasses and, by the light of the kerosene lamp, read the leaflet word by word. Then he carefully folded it and stuffed it under his pillow.

The little boy asked:

"Grandpa, why did you hide it?"

The old man patted his grandson's head and said:

"This is a family heirloom."

His illiterate wife, standing nearby, asked:

"What does it say on it?"

The old man took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and said:

"It says above, 'Our China is saved!'"