Chapter 227: From the Military

In deep autumn, the northern capital's night was cool as water; a small courtyard by the lakeside office, planted with chrysanthemums, kept the study lamp lit until late night.

A silhouette stood by the window, the cigarette's blue smoke curling and rising slowly in the lamp light. Outside, the wind stirred a few golden ginkgo leaves that twirled and gently fell onto the stone floor. On the spacious desk lay the military intelligence report of the Northeast Border, a map of the neighboring country's situation, and a Canada urgent telegram.

"The person has arrived," the guard whispered from outside.

"Please come in."

A dust‑covered General Officer strode in. His uniform was neat, yet his brows bore the fatigue of long travel; he had hurried from Xibei.

"You've worked hard, sit quickly," the person by the window said, turning and shaking his hand firmly.

They sat on the sofa. After tea, the door was lightly closed, leaving only the two of them inside.

"You've understood the neighboring country's situation, right?"

The General Officer nodded: "Roughly clear. Since the enemy landed, the front line has moved north, now having crossed the original demarcation line and is pressing toward the border."

"We've been receiving successive aid requests from that side," he said, taking a document from the desk, "Friends from the north have also sent word, saying that if we act, they will provide air cover and equipment support."

The General Officer took the Document, his eyes scanning quickly, his brows gradually tightening: "Your thought is…"

"At the daytime meeting, opinions were very divided." He relit a cigarette, "Some comrades think we must act, otherwise the gates will be left wide open; some comrades say we have just settled, with countless troubles, we cannot endure a great war. I want to hear your honest words."

The General Officer remained silent for a long while, then rose and walked to the map. His finger started at the border river's source, traced southward across the neighboring country's interior, finally stopping at the famous landing point.

"From a purely military standpoint, this is not the optimal moment," his voice low, "Our main forces are largely in the Southern Direction, and border defense troops number less than two hundred thousand. The enemy enjoys air superiority, naval superiority, equipment superiority…"

He listened quietly, without interjecting.

"But," the General Officer suddenly turned, fire flashing in his eyes, "If we do not act, letting the enemy press to the riverbank, what situation would that be? The Northeast industrial base would be under artillery fire day and night. The people on the Southeast island would inevitably stir restlessly. More importantly—how would the international community view us? They would think we are still that weak, easily bullied nation!"

His eyes lit up.

"I've led troops for many years and know war requires blood," the General Officer walked back to the sofa but did not sit, "Comrades hope to return home to farm, hope to build, that's the reality. Yet some battles, if not fought today, will demand Tenfold Cost tomorrow."

"What a 'Tenfold Cost'," he inhaled deeply, "I and several other comrades have tallied the numbers. If we dispatch troops, military spending would consume at least thirty percent of the budget, and construction would be affected. Our soldiers are also flesh and blood born of their parents."

The General Officer nodded: "The difficulties are all very real. But I recall you once said, 'One punch opens, a hundred punches won't follow.' At this moment, this one punch—should we strike or not?"

He paced in the study. The light cast his silhouette on the wall, sometimes elongated, sometimes shortened. Outside, the wind grew louder, whistling.

"If we truly must dispatch troops," he stopped abruptly, "who will take command?"

The General Officer was startled, then understood the deeper meaning. He straightened his back: "So the concerned comrades are unwell. If you trust me, I am willing to go."

He stared at this old comrade who had walked with him through hard years, his gaze complex: "This departure is unlike before. The opponent is the strongest army in the world, the sky is cold, the ground frozen, people far apart, the supply line stretches thousands of miles…"

"No matter how hard, it's easier than crossing snow mountains and grasslands back then," the General Officer said calmly, "We made it through then; what's frightening now?"

His palm pressed heavily on his shoulder, holding there, not letting go for a long time. The two stood silently, outside the window a long deep‑autumn night, inside the room a crossroads of a nation's destiny.

Three days later at dusk, a young man rode a bicycle into the courtyard. He wore work clothes, his face still stained with oil, having just finished a shift at the mechanical factory in the east of the city.

"Father."

He lifted his head, showing a gentle smile: "You're here. Have you eaten?"

"I ate at the factory." The young man approached, seeing the map and documents spread on the table, his expression turning serious, "Is the decision made?"

He did not answer directly, but asked back, "What are the factory workers saying?"

"Everyone is very angry, saying outsiders are too oppressive," the young man said, "In the workshop today they also said, if the country needs, we workers can go to the front line."

He nodded, indicating his son to sit: "Facing this situation: dispatching troops may drag the country into a protracted war; not dispatching troops leaves the border never at peace, and the international community looks down on us—what would you choose?"

He thought for a moment: "Father, I cannot answer this well. I lack your insight and experience. But I know one thing: our people can no longer be manipulated. When I was abroad those years, I saw firsthand how other peoples resist invasion. If we avoid resistance out of fear of sacrifice, how could we have today's independence and self‑reliance?"

A hint of satisfaction flashed in his eyes, then dimmed again: "But war costs lives. Many soldiers are only in their early twenties, some just married, some have elderly mothers at home…"

"Father," he said earnestly, looking at him, "I recall you said that struggle always entails sacrifice. Back then, mother, uncle, and many seniors—all sacrificed, didn't they? If we fear sacrifice and refuse to fight, we might still be kneeling today."

The study fell silent. He rose and walked to the window. Night had deepened, the lake reflected sparse lights, breaking into specks of gold.

"If… I decide to dispatch troops," he said, back to his son, his voice a bit low, "what would you think?"

He also stood up: "I support! Father, I have a request—"

"Speak."

"If we dispatch troops, I wish to be among the first soldiers to go," the young man's voice was clear and firm.

He suddenly turned: "What did you say?"

"I said, I want to go to the front line," the young man repeated, his gaze unwavering.

"Nonsense!" his voice rose for the first time, "Why would you go to the front line? You're trained in mechanics; you should be building in the factory!"

"Father, I'm not just a technician, I'm your son," the young man became emotional, "I'm the son of hundreds of thousands of ordinary citizens; with a single order we go to the battlefield, what reason do I have to stay behind?"

He was stunned. Looking at the youth before him, already taller than himself, he suddenly recalled many years ago, by a small river in the Southern Direction, the child who had tugged at his sleeve and asked him. Time had flown, too fast to grasp.

"Child," his voice softened, "don't blame your father, okay? You just got married, and now I'm sending you— is that too unkind?"

He stepped before him: "Do you remember? When you were twenty‑eight, you did something great—participated in the pivotal conference that founded our enterprise. I'm also twenty‑eight this year, and should do something for the country."

His eyes reddened slightly. He turned away, not wanting his son to see his emotions. Outside, a bright moon was slowly rising, its clear light bathing the courtyard.

"Father has owed you so much," after a long while he whispered, "Your mother passed when you were eight, you endured so much hardship… later you spent ten years abroad… finally returned, only a year after starting a family…"

"Don't say that." He made the gesture he often did in childhood, now grown it felt clumsy, "You have given everything for this country, for the people; we, your children, are not even in time to be proud of you."

He grasped his son's hand. Those hands that had signed countless documents now trembled faintly.

"This matter must be discussed with her."

"She will understand."

Moonlight filtered through the window lattice, spreading a thin layer of silver frost across the study floor. In the distance a faint broadcast could be heard, the evening news reporting on production and construction across the regions. This newborn nation was trudging forward with difficulty, and ahead on the road lay a mountain range that still had to be crossed.