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

Fengtian City was deserted as everyone flocked to the streets.

The smoke from the battle on the city walls had not yet dissipated, but the city gates were already crowded with people.

The crowds of ordinary people pouring in from the city, the student volunteers who came from inside the pass, and the men, women, and children who ran out from all the alleys in the city completely blocked the main streets of Fengtian.

Some people carried hoes, while others simply climbed onto rooftops, tree branches, and city wall battlements, craning their necks to look up at the sky.

Everyone in the city saw that aerial battle just now.

They crouched behind window cracks and hid behind door panels, watching with their own eyes as the Japanese planes, like locusts, swept in from the horizon, their wings covered with dense Japanese flags, the roar of their engines shaking the paper windows.

At that moment, everyone thought that Fengtian City was doomed.

Yesterday's bloody battle on the city wall could at least be fought with flesh and blood, but airplanes come from the sky, what can you use to block them?

But just when they were at their most desperate, a group of silver-winged angels appeared.

Like a flock of falcons emerging from the sun, they swooped down from the sky at such speed that their outlines were obscured, and only streaks of silver lightning could be seen weaving through the Japanese aircraft.

With each dive, a Japanese plane was shot down into a fireball, trailing black smoke as it plummeted from the sky.

One, two, three...

No one counted them, nor could they count them all; all they could see were the continuous bursts of firelight from explosions on the horizon.

One after another, black plumes of smoke rose up, stretching from Fengtian to the opposite bank of the Hun River, as if someone had drawn a long funeral banner in the sky with black smoke.

When the last Japanese plane was shot down on the horizon in the direction of Fuzhou Bay, the entire city of Fengtian was quiet for a moment, and then it boiled over like a pot of boiling water.

"We won! We won!"

A shirtless rickshaw driver stood on his rickshaw seat, waving his tattered straw hat and shouting into the sky, his voice hoarse from shouting.

An old man with a white beard stood in the middle of the street, leaning on a cane. Cloudy tears streamed down his wrinkled face, and after a long pause, he managed to squeeze out a sentence:

"If the old marshal is watching from heaven, look, look! Our Northeast Army can fight the Japanese devils from the sky now!"

A group of female students from Beiping hugged each other, laughing and crying. Their gray cotton robes were not yet dry, but no one felt cold at the moment, and everyone's face was flushed.

A middle-aged businessman in a suit squeezed through the crowd, stuffed a wad of silver dollars into a makeshift donation box set up by the roadside, and then turned to shout to the crowd:

"I'm from Harbin, and I'm in the leather goods business!"

"We've been suffocating under the weight of those Japanese tariffs for years, but today we've finally gotten our revenge! Use this money to buy some drinks for our pilot comrades!"

On the city gate tower, several wounded soldiers, whose bandages had just been wrapped, helped each other to their feet and gave a crooked military salute to the sky.

One of the one-armed veterans, with his only remaining right hand, raised an empty Liaoning 13 rifle and fired a shot into the air.

The gunshots were almost inaudible amidst the cheers, but he still grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by gunpowder smoke.

"We won! We won again! The Chinese are definitely stronger than those Japanese devils!!"

The atmosphere on the tarmac at Fengtian Airport was even more enthusiastic than in the city.

The ground crew dropped their oil drums and ammunition boxes and sprinted toward the silver fighter jets landing on the runway, throwing their hats into the air as they ran.

A mechanic, clutching the wrench he'd used for half his life, squatted on the ground and wailed.

In his life, he repaired French Bruegels, British de Havillands, and German Junkers. Every single one of them was ridiculed by Japanese pilots, who considered Chinese planes to be antiques in museums.

Today he finally saw it, saw his plane rout the Japanese invaders. He had personally refueled and loaded the planes, and he had personally sent them into the sky.

He squatted on the ground and cried like a child, but no one around him tried to pull him up, because several of them also had tears in their eyes.

At the foot of the command tower, a group of people formed a semicircle.

Zhang Zuoxiang stood at the front, leaning on his cane, looking up at the last Mustang fighter plane circling and landing in the sky. His lips were slightly parted, as if he were counting something.

Tang Yulin, standing next to him, had already started counting aloud. This chairman of Rehe Province, who had fallen out with the old marshal years ago and whose relationship with the young marshal was only superficial, was now pointing his finger at the sky, one plane after another, like a green recruit:

"One hundred and eighty-seven...one hundred and eighty-eight...one hundred and eighty-nine...one hundred and ninety!"

He lowered his finger, turned to look at Zhang Zuoxiang, and his expression was as if he had seen a ghost.

"Commander, a total of 198 Japanese planes have been lost!"

"Our Northeast Army shot down nearly two hundred Japanese planes!"

Zhang Zuoxiang did not answer him.

He was still looking up at the sky, his cloudy old eyes reflecting the silver Mustang fighter jet.

He knew perfectly well that it wasn't "the Northeast Army shooting down more than two hundred Japanese planes," but rather "Zhang Xueming's planes shooting down two hundred Japanese planes."

He witnessed firsthand the role of the Bragg Group in this air battle:

Li Changkong, leading fifty-six Blackgay and De Havilland aircraft, cut into the battlefield from the flank, relieving Zhu Wudi's siege and shooting down more than a dozen Japanese attack planes, making an invaluable contribution.

But what truly crippled the Japanese air force were those eighty-two silver Mustangs.

If it were just Li Changkong's Braggai squadron, today's air battle would have been a crushing defeat.

Trading dozens of old-fashioned fighter planes for dozens of Japanese attack aircraft would likely result in total annihilation in the end.

But with the Mustangs, the battle turned into a one-sided massacre.

The Mustang's speed, firepower, and climb rate completely overwhelmed the Japanese. In one battle, it shot down more than 150 Japanese planes while losing only 10 of its own, and all the pilots who parachuted back alive.

This was an unprecedented victory for the Northeast Army, and even in the history of the entire Chinese Air Force.

Zhang Zuoxiang, leaning on his cane, slowly turned around and walked to Zhang Xueming.

He was half a head shorter than Zhang Xueming, but when he looked up at his nephew, there was no longer a trace of the condescending scrutiny that came with age.

He was the old marshal's sworn brother, the assistant commander of the Northeast Army, and the most senior and prestigious person in this group. But at this moment, his tone of voice sounded like he was reporting military intelligence to his superior.

"Xue Ming,"

Zhang Zuoxiang's voice was hoarse, "Tell me the truth, where did these planes come from?"

Zhang Xueming looked at the white-haired old man and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

Of course, he couldn't tell the truth.

He reached out and took Zhang Zuoxiang's arm, his tone calm and resolute:

"Commander, I bought these planes from abroad through private channels."

"We can't say which country it is right now. The seller's identity needs to be kept confidential. If we reveal it, we won't be able to buy it anymore."

Zhang Zuoxiang stared into his eyes for a full five seconds.

Zhang Xueming's gaze was open and unwavering.

Zhang Zuoxiang nodded slowly. He could tell that Zhang Xueming wasn't telling the truth, but he didn't care.

The important thing is that Zhang Xueming was able to buy these planes, and that they could beat the Japanese to a pulp in the air.

This is enough.

"Could we buy another hundred?" Zhang Zuoxiang asked bluntly.

"able."

Zhang Xueming's answer was straightforward: "As long as the Japanese dare to come again, I can buy more."

"Not just airplanes, but also pilots, and ground crew, the whole crew."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over everyone present: Zhang Zuoxiang, Wan Fulin, Tang Yulin, Wang Yizhe, Rong Zhen, and the ground crew and pilots standing by the runway, eavesdropping.

"Commander-in-Chief, let me make this clear."

"If the Japanese think Fengtian is an easy target and want to bomb the city flat with their planes, then I will fight them off no matter how many they come."

"I shot down two hundred of their planes today. If they dare to come again tomorrow, I can shoot down another two hundred."

"I have the ability, and I have the determination."

"From today onwards, the skies over Fengtian belong to our Northeast Army."

Zhang Zuoxiang was silent for a moment, then reached out and patted Zhang Xueming hard on the shoulder.

"Good. Good lad."

Zhang Zuoxiang only said four words, then turned around and walked back to the edge of the tarmac, leaning on his cane, to continue watching the silver Mustang fighter jets.

But when he turned around, the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth looked like he was smiling.

Zhang Xueliang, standing at the edge of the crowd, did not utter a single word from beginning to end.

The red and swollen marks on his cheeks were still visible, the marks left by the slaps Zhang Xueming had given him at the theater a few days earlier.

Although it has faded somewhat, the pale blue fingerprints are still visible in the sunlight.

He was wearing a wrinkled yellow woolen military overcoat, two buttons were missing, and there was some dust on the cuffs that had been smeared on at some point.

His hair was unkempt, sticking out in a messy, uncombed manner, and his mustache had lost its usual carefully trimmed shape, making him look slovenly.

No one looked at him, no one spoke to him.

All eyes were on the silver fighter jets on the runway, and on Zhang Xueming.

His younger brother stood there, surrounded by the most powerful elders of the Northeast Army, worshipped by the pilots, and watched with eager eyes by the ground crew.

He, the nominal commander-in-chief of the Northeast Border Defense Army, deputy commander-in-chief of the Chinese Army, Navy and Air Force, and the successor of the Northeast Army personally designated by the old marshal, stood on the edge of the crowd, like a forgotten old dog.

He looked up at the last Mustang landing in the sky.

The silver plane reflected the golden light of the setting sun, its engine roaring deep and powerfully. The moment the landing gear touched the runway, the tires kicked up a small puff of white smoke, and then it taxied steadily to a stop in front of the hangar.

The pilot climbed out of the cockpit, removed his flight helmet, revealing a young yet aloof face.

There was no weariness or fear on that face, only a confidence and composure that emanated from its very core.

Looking at that face, Zhang Xueliang suddenly felt something sinking down in his chest.

He recalled what Zhang Xueming had said to him at the theater, with a gun pointed at his forehead:

"You spendthrift son, don't squander the wealth that the old marshal worked so hard to build up."

He thought it was arrogant, something only a madman would say.

At the time, he felt that the Chairman was right, that fighting was a dead end, and that only by being tolerant could one survive.

He devoted all his efforts to leading the Northeast Army into the interior of China and became the Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the Chinese Army, Navy and Air Force, surpassing the achievements of the old marshal. This was the best way to give back to the ancestors of the Zhang family.

But as he stood on the runway of Fengtian Airport, listening to the cheers of the city's residents and watching the old generals like Zhang Zuoxiang and Wan Fulin salute his brother with reddened eyes, he suddenly felt ridiculous.

The city's cheers, this historic victory, had nothing to do with him.

Just a few days ago, he was in a theater in Beiping listening to Mei Lanfang sing "The Universe's Edge," and he was still thinking about how to suppress the matter under the mediation of the League of Nations. He was also sending a secret telegram to the Chairman for instructions.

His younger brother, the good-for-nothing he always looked down on, beheaded more than a thousand Japanese soldiers on the walls of Fengtian and executed the traitor Zhang Jinghui in the Marshal's Mansion.

With a squadron of silver fighter planes that they somehow acquired, they shot down more than two hundred Japanese planes from the sky.

What if he didn't come back? What if Zhang Xueming hadn't taken him hostage? Where would he be right now?

He was probably still in a theater in Beiping, listening to a play, waiting for Chiang Kai-shek to send Chen Cheng to convey the order of "non-resistance," waiting for the Japanese to bomb Fengtian City into ruins, and then sending a telegram to the League of Nations expressing "deep regret."

and then?

The Japanese will occupy Fengtian, Changchun, Harbin, and the entire Northeast.

Three hundred thousand Northeast Army soldiers retreated without a fight, and thirty million Northeast people became slaves of a conquered nation. The machines in the Fengtian Arsenal were dismantled by the Japanese and transported back to Tokyo. The planes at Dongta Airport were painted with the Japanese flag and turned to bomb Chinese troops.

Every scene he has witnessed these past few days is the inevitable result of his original decision to "not resist".

If it weren't for Zhang Xueming, he would already be a sinner against China.

Zhang Xueliang suddenly felt his legs go weak.

He reached out and grabbed a metal stake used to tether an airplane on the side of the runway.