Southern guerrilla warfare: I led the Red Seventh Army Corps to amassed a million troops.

Mr. Zhou was unaware that he was about to be subjected to all-round, all-encompassing "surveillance" within the ranks of the revolution for freedom and democracy.

The "crime" is—smoking is harmful to your health!

He recalled his previous attempts to reduce smoking, and suddenly felt a wave of discomfort throughout his body, so he changed his sitting position.

"It's really tough. Alcohol is one thing, but when I'm writing and I'm lacking inspiration, I always have a cigarette. Otherwise, I get writer's block and can't squeeze out a single word. How about this, I'll try to smoke less..."

Zhou Zeyuan glanced at Mr. Zhou, his eyes filled with the doctor's compassion for the patient.

"Don't worry, Comrade Qiu Bai's smoking cessation will be gradual. I won't confiscate all your cigarettes right away."

"Aim to reduce your smoking by 30% within a week. Halve it for the next two to four weeks. Finally, I'll allow people like you with lung disease to smoke two cigarettes a day, no more than that."

Upon hearing this, Mr. Zhou's face fell, his expression resembling that of a child whose New Year's money had been confiscated.

He turned to look at Yu Qiubai beside him, "Qiubai, without cigarettes, how are you able to write anything?"

Yu Qiubai shrugged: "I'm busy with official duties all day long, where would I find the time to write articles? When people are busy, they don't even have time to smoke. Occasionally, when I feel like smoking, the cigarettes are still on my bodyguard. A maximum of two a day, that's a hard and fast rule."

As for why the guards dared to control him, it was certainly not because Zhou Zeyuan was backing him up, but because his wife was backing him up.

In this regard, bodyguards all over the world share the same attitude—they listen to their wives, not their bosses.

Mr. Zhou turned back to Zhou Zeyuan and asked, "So... how long will this last? After I recover, will I be able to fully recover?"

Zhou Zeyuan picked up his pen again, added a line of small print to the prescription, and said without looking up, "Theoretically, once your body is properly cared for, you can smoke five to ten cigarettes a day."

Mr. Zhou's eyes lit up for a moment.

But Zhou Zeyuan immediately added, "The problem is that the relapse cycle of pulmonary tuberculosis is very long."

"The remaining germs can remain dormant in your body for up to several years."

"The damage to the lungs caused by tuberculosis is irreversible. Even if cured, extra attention to lifestyle habits is still necessary."

He finished writing the last stroke, put down his pen, and said, "Mr. Zhou, you should just accept your fate. Unless you don't want to live anymore, you should quit smoking. After you quit, in a year or two, you won't think about this anymore."

"Huh? What do you mean a year and a half? Does that mean it will take you a year and a half to cure my illness?"

Zhou Zeyuan slammed his hand on the table in dissatisfaction. "Go out and ask around. Faced with such a difficult incurable disease, let alone a cure, who can guarantee that they can suppress the disease for a year or two?"

"Don't be so unconvinced. If I hadn't spent two years treating Comrade Qiu Bai and gained some experience, you would have stayed with me for at least two or three years."

Mr. Zhou hesitated, his expression extremely conflicted.

Mr. Cai leaned forward with concern: "Will it really take that long? Mr. Zeyuan, can't you prescribe a medicine for him so he can go back to Shanghai and brew it himself?"

Zhou Zeyuan shook his head: "Of course not. The condition is constantly changing. A prescription that works in one stage may not work in the next."

"I also need to make constant adjustments based on the patient's actual condition. Sometimes, if the medication is prescribed even slightly wrong, it could be a matter of life and death."

Is this an exaggeration?

That includes free shipping.

Zhou Zeyuan's lies came out of his mouth without warning, but they were all white lies.

Firstly, he genuinely cared about people's health; secondly, their revolutionary team was simply too weak in terms of writing skills.

I desperately want a sharp pen tip!

Mr. Zhou remained silent for a long time, then said with reluctance, "But I still have to go back to Shanghai; there are many things waiting for me there..."

"Go back what?! Are you out of your mind?" Just as Zhou Zeyuan was about to speak, Mr. Cai suddenly slammed his hand on the table, interrupting him.

The old man stood up, his beard and hair bristling, and pointed at Mr. Zhou's nose, giving him a good scolding.

He took a breath, his voice softening slightly, but his tone remained unwavering: "Is writing more important, or is your life more important?"

"Besides, you can still write articles in Quzhou. Anyway, the things you write can't be published in Shanghai, so you'll actually feel more at ease here."

As Mr. Cai spoke, he looked around at everyone in the main room.

Mr. Huang nodded repeatedly, and Boss Chen echoed his agreement.

Mr. Zhou was speechless after being bombarded with this barrage of questions, and could only reach into his pocket for his cigarette case.

She had only touched it halfway when she met Zhou Zeyuan's gaze, and she awkwardly withdrew her hand.

Zhou Zeyuan mentally gave the old gentleman a thumbs up and then added, "Mr. Zhou, I've heard that your articles are consistently extremely sharp and satirical, sometimes even attacking your own people when you're really into it. I haven't heard any criticism in a long time, so I'm quite interested in it."

Mr. Zhou looked up at him, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, as if he were re-evaluating the young man.

Everyone around was stunned, looking at Zhou Zeyuan as if he were a monster.

That's a really ruthless person!

It's one thing to insult yourself, but to invite someone else to insult you, and to invite the one with the strongest fighting power.

Is this a case of masochism or the compassion of a healer?

Of all these, Yu Qiubai's gaze was the most unique, a mixture of three parts amazement and seven parts gratitude.

His voice was softer than usual, with a hint of pleading as he said, "Yucai, just stay here and keep me company. We can discuss literature when we have time."

Mr. Zhou then stopped being stubborn, as his most respected elders and closest confidants had already spoken up to persuade him.

General Zhou is usually so busy with military affairs, yet he still took the time to treat me. To refuse would be ungrateful.

"Alright, I can't stay in Shanghai after this trip anyway, so it's good to have some peace and quiet in Quzhou." Mr. Zhou looked up at the ceiling and sighed deeply.

Zhou Zeyuan was already thinking about how to arrange the work of this great writer next.

Who says you can't work while recovering from an illness?

He only promised that Mr. Zhou could write whatever he wanted.

But he didn't promise that you could stop writing if you didn't want to.

It didn't matter if they didn't smoke or have inspiration; the intellectuals in the Northern Expeditionary Force against Japanese aggression were eager to receive literary guidance from great writers.

I don't expect to produce a few literary giants, but it would be excellent if they could learn a little of that cold and critical writing style.

Don't assume that revolutionaries don't need to learn critical thinking; on the contrary, revolutionaries need self-criticism even more.

This thing is like the Sword of Damocles, hanging over the heads of our own people, a constant warning.