Chapter 125: Founding Ceremony

The spring of 1949 was roused by the swish‑swish of brooms.

Just as dawn broke, the alleys of Beiping City bustled; soldiers in earth‑yellow uniforms wielded big brooms, clearing the years‑long piles of trash bit by bit.

Ping Le peered through the door crack: "Brother! The soldiers are helping Grandma Wang clear the drainage ditch!"

Li Ping'an was simmering braised soup, its fragrance drifting through the street: "Promoting hygiene is good; we should lend a hand too."

Sure enough, within a few days Beiping City changed its look. The trash piles were cleared, the foul sewers filled, even the long‑blocked drains were flushed. The common folk first watched from afar, then each grabbed a broom to help.

At noon that day, a crowd gathered before the braised meat stall. The vegetable seller Lao Sun Tou spat words like fire: "Unbelievable! Last night the grain store boss Zhang was taken away! They say he was mixing sand into the rice!"

Everyone erupted into a clamor. Li Ping'an's meat‑cutting knife landed steadily on the board: "It's deserved."

Ping Le whispered: "Brother, what happens if sand is mixed in?"

Execution. A flash of blade, a pork bone snapped. In these days, anyone who does such a vile deed deserves death.

The little girl stuck out her tongue in fright. At that moment a few soldiers escorted a man in a black silk robe past; the townsfolk clapped and cheered: "Even Lord Liu Yanwang meets his day!"

That man had once been the head of the Qing Gang, a bully, but now hung his head, all his former aura gone. When they left, Madam Zhang lowered her voice: "I heard they've been rounding up tyrant agents lately; the vegetable market's been ringing with gunshots every day!"

After night fell, Li Ping'an changed into a crisp outfit. His Divine Perception spread like a net, lighting every corner of Beiping City in his mind.

In a hidden house in Nan Cheng, three secret agents were burning documents. The flames leapt up, then suddenly went out. In the darkness, silver glints flashed a few times, and the three collapsed softly. Li Ping'an gathered the confidential files, his Divine Perception swept the Secret Room—inside the wall lay two boxes of gold bars and a bronze ding from the Shang‑Zhou period.

In the Eastern Diplomatic Quarter of the former foreign concession, a certain assistant was packing cultural relics. Suddenly the lights went dark, and when they returned, an embroidered handkerchief lay on the table, embroidered with the phrase "Injustice will bring its own ruin." The assistant, terrified, sat on the floor; when he looked again at the relics to be moved, they had already vanished.

Such incidents kept happening for seven or eight days. Each morning brought fresh news: a secret agent chief died at home, a traitor disappeared, a tyrant turned himself in… The common folk clapped with delight, saying Heaven had opened its eyes.

One day in early August, Political Commissar Zhou Zhengwei arrived abruptly. He sipped the braised broth and clicked his tongue: "Strange, the recent sweep of secret agents has been unusually smooth. So many guys scared themselves stiff before we could even catch them."

Li Ping'an added broth: "A thief's conscience is weak, huh."

Zhou Zhengwei looked at him pensively: "Some scenes are clean and swift, like the work of professionals. It reminds me of the old Flying Eagle Team's style…"

Ping Le interjected suddenly: "Brother Zhou, Tiananmen Square is being set up!"

The conversation drifted off. Yet as he left, Zhou Zhengwei said: "There's a grand ceremony on October 1st; bring your sister to watch. The new China is about to be founded."

Those four words kept Ping Le so happy she couldn't sleep well for days. She fetched her prettiest floral jacket: "Brother, we must go early that day!"

On the night of September 30, Li Ping'an had a strange dream. He saw his parents in new clothes standing in clouds, laughing; he woke with the corners of his eyes still wet.

Before dawn, Ping Le was yanked up. The little girl's braids were slick, the ends tied with a red ribbon: "Master Su said this is a momentous joy!"

The street was already a sea of people. Candy sellers, sugar‑painting artists, dough‑shapers all emerged; children rode on adults' shoulders, everyone wore a smile.

Brother! Look! Ping Le pointed at the Tiananmen gate tower, "So many red lanterns!"

The sun had just risen, the glazed tiles glittered gold. Li Ping'an hoisted his sister onto his shoulders, his gaze sweeping over the dense crowd, spotting a line of people on the tower.

Suddenly, the salute guns boomed. Twenty‑eight blasts shook heaven and earth; Ping Le covered her ears, yet her eyes shone brilliantly.

Then came the flag‑raising ceremony. When the "March of the Volunteers" sounded, the sea of people boiled. Some wept, some laughed, more sang along—though most were off‑key, the fervor could melt steel.

Li Ping'an felt heat on his shoulder. Ping Le cried, "Brother, can our parents see us?"

"They can." His voice was a bit hoarse, "They will certainly see."

The roar at the parade's start pushed the celebration to its peak. Tanks, cannons, perfectly ordered troops… Ping Le counted in a daze: "Brother! We even have airplanes now!"

Silver Eagles flew overhead, scattering countless leaflets. People scrambled for them; Ping Le snatched one, printed with the five‑star red flag.

At that moment Li Ping'an squinted. His Divine Perception swept the crowd, fixing on a spot—several men in top hats were quietly pushing outward.

"Le'er, stay right here." He handed his sister to the lady at the nearby stall, "Brother'll be back in a moment."

Following the flow in the opposite direction, he soon zeroed in on those men. They slipped into a dead‑end alley, changing clothes. The leader snarled: "Damn it, when night falls we'll blow up their celebration banquet…"

Before he finished, a sharp pain at the back of his neck made him faint. The others, still stunned, also collapsed. Li Ping'an retrieved the explosives from their bodies, his Divine Perception scanning nearby—sure enough, more explosives were hidden in the trash heap at Hu Tong Kou.

After disposing of the dangerous items, he drew a flying eagle on the wall with chalk. It was the old special‑forces signal; anyone from Zhou Zhengwei's unit would understand at a glance.

Returning to the square, he arrived just as the crowd parade was underway. Ping Le rushed forward: "Brother! You missed the best part!"

Li Ping'an hoisted his sister back onto his shoulders: "It's not too late to watch now."

The sun set, turning Tiananmen Square into a joyous sea. Strangers linked arms and danced; students sang "Without the Communist Party there would be no New China," the candy‑skewer vendors handed out free candied hawthorn sticks…

Ping Le whispered: "Brother, from now on it'll all be good days, right?"

"Yes. All good days."

On the way home they met Political Commissar Zhou Zhengwei hurrying with his men. Their eyes met; Zhou Zhengwei pointed at the flying eagle motif on the wall and gave a slight nod.

At night, Ping Le fell asleep clutching the newly acquired national flag. Li Ping'an fiddled with the radio in the courtyard, suddenly catching a broadcast from the Yan'an station: "The Central People's Government of the People's Republic of China was founded today…"

The voice seeped through the paper windows, startling Ping Le awake. The little girl rubbed her eyes and asked: "Brother, who's speaking?"

"Chairman Mao." Li Ping'an whispered, "He's telling all of China that liberation has arrived."

Moonlight bathed the courtyard, distant cheers still echoing. Ping Le suddenly said: "Brother, will our braised meat stall be open tomorrow?"

"It will." Li Ping'an stared at the stars, "In the new era we still have to eat, right?"

"But… I want to change the name."

"Change to what?"

"Call it Peaceful Braised Meat." Ping Le's eyes sparkled; "Brother's called Ping'an, now the world is peaceful too."

"Alright." Li Ping'an ruffled his sister's hair, "Tomorrow we'll put up a new sign."

When night deepened, he entered the Spiritual Spring Space. The relics and treasures collected these days piled into a small hill, the most conspicuous being the Shang‑Zhou bronze ding.

His fingertips brushed the ding's patterns, a sudden feeling stirring within. He took out a set of engraving tools and delicately carved inside the ding:

"In the year of Ji Chou, mid‑autumn, the new China was founded. All the people rejoiced, the relics returned to their lineage."

After stepping back two paces, the bronze ding emitted a faint glow, as if alive, humming softly.

When he emerged, dawn was already hazy. Ping Le was busy in the kitchen, fresh steamed buns smelling fragrant.

"Brother! Come quick!"

The sun just rose, the first ray hitting the newly hung sign. The four characters "Peaceful Braised Meat" glittered gold, with a small five‑star beneath.

Li Ping'an inhaled the morning air deeply. The air held no gunpowder scent, only the aroma of cooking smoke—the most ordinary taste of peaceful times.

From the Alley came the sound of street sweeping, lighter than usual. The tofu seller's shout came from far to near, mixed with children's laughter as they chased each other in play.

A new day has begun.

The first day of New China.