Chapter 31: Burned Out

In Wei County, summer arrived unusually early, and the workshop of the Arms Factory was sweltering. Li Yuxuan crouched beside the lathe, carefully calibrating the mortar's barrel, when he suddenly heard the curtain being drawn. Looking up, Jiang Ruiyuan entered wearing a faded old short shirt, his complexion gloomier than the sky outside the window.

Jingxing, Jiang Ruiyuan's voice was a bit hoarse as he crouched beside Li Yuxuan, "If my sworn elder brother dies, he has repaid me a mountain of gratitude; do you think I should go retrieve his corpse for him?"

Li Yuxuan's iron tongs paused for a moment, a few sparks scattering onto the cold floor. He saw Jiang Ruiyuan's blood‑red eye sockets, and his heart tightened: "Of course you should go. Between life and death, how can one stand by idly?"

Jiang Ruiyuan's knuckles whitened, the blue veins on the back of his hand standing out: "Fine, your words are enough."

Young Master, what exactly happened? Li Yuxuan set down his tools, an ominous foreboding churning in his chest. As for Jiang Ruiyuan's sworn elder brother, he had only heard of one—Chen Qimei, who oversaw revolutionary affairs in the Demon City.

The news had just arrived. Jiang Ruiyuan's Adam's apple moved, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion, "Brother Chen was assassinated in the French Concession and died. I must go to the Demon City to collect his remains."

Li Yuxuan inhaled a breath of cold air. Chen Qimei was the Backbone Members of the revolutionary party in the Demon City; this assassination was far from accidental, surely tied to the hidden currents of the Beiyang forces. Heading to the Demon City now would be tantamount to walking into a trap.

Seeing the unshakable stubbornness in Jiang Ruiyuan's eyes, he swallowed his words of warning, silently lifted the sidearm by the wall: "Young Master, wherever you go, I will follow."

Three days later, inside a stone‑gate courtyard in the French Concession of the Demon City, the air was so heavy it seemed frozen. Chen Qimei's corpse lay in the center of the main hall, a Blue Sky White Sun Flag draped over it. Several revolutionaries stood solemnly around, their faces a mix of grief and unease—everyone knew the assassin was still at large, and his appearance now could invite lethal retribution at any moment.

Young Master, where do you intend to bury Mr. Chen? Li Yuxuan lowered his voice, his right hand constantly resting on the gun holster at his waist, vigilantly watching for any movement outside the door.

Jiang Ruiyuan's eyes reddened, and he slowly placed three Incense Sticks into the furnace: "First return home, let my elder brother's leaves return to their roots."

Yet the next day, Jiang Ruiyuan made a decision that shocked everyone—he would set up a Spirit Hall in the Demon City to publicly receive condolences.

Young Master, that's overly risky. Li Yuxuan, anxious, pulled him to the corridor, "The wind is howling now, Beiyang's eyes are everywhere in the city. Setting up a public Spirit Hall now would be exposing our whereabouts."

Jiang Ruiyuan stared at the black‑and‑white photograph in the hall, his voice low yet firm: "Jingxing, my elder brother repaid my gratitude tenfold. Back then, when I raised the cause in the Demon City, he poured his resources into buying arms; when the Qing Court pursued me, he risked his life to hide me in the concession. Now he suffers this calamity, and if I don't even dare to set up a proper Spirit Hall, what face will I have before him in the Nine Springs below?"

He turned, his blazing gaze fixed on Li Yuxuan: "If you still consider me a brother, then stop urging me."

Li Yuxuan felt a lump in his throat, slowly lowering his head. Watching Jiang Ruiyuan's straight back, his heart was a swirl of emotions—such deep loyalty and righteousness, daring to step forward in peril, showing those who merely go with the wind what true blood‑spilling spirit is. Yet recalling the past few years, you secretly brought a woman back to Xikou, turned the household into chaos, even made your mother fall ill from anger, the domestic trifles piled like a mountain, and your temperament seemed truly headache‑inducing.

Knowing it was a dragon‑pond tiger‑den yet still charging in, disregarding his own safety, such recklessness truly deserves scolding, but seeing him stand before the spirit, meticulously returning respects to each mourner, the grief and resolve hidden in his eyes, one can only sigh—perhaps many will criticize him in the future, but now he is a good brother who would entrust his back to the other.

The Spirit Hall lasted three days; the number of mourners was not large, but they were all sincere comrades. There were Qing Gang brothers arriving with weapons as guards, former comrades who risked slipping out of the Beiyang garrison, and even a few elderly gentlemen with white hair and beard, trembling as they bowed before the portrait.

Li Yuxuan stood by the door, watching these strangers, and suddenly understood Jiang Ruiyuan's deeper meaning—the Spirit Hall was not only to console the dead, but also to send a signal to the living: the revolutionary flame has not been extinguished; as long as someone dares to stand up, hope will never be snuffed out.

Three days later, they quietly placed Chen Qimei's Coffin onto a passenger boat heading back to Zhejiang. As the ship left the Huangpu Jiang, Jiang Ruiyuan stood alone on the riverbank, gazing at the misty water, silent for a long while.

Only a few days after returning to the Demon City, a letter from Guangzhou arrived at the Arms Factory. Jiang Ruiyuan opened it and handed the paper to Li Yuxuan: "Sun Xiansheng's letter asks me to take over Brother Chen's former troops."

Li Yuxuan skimmed the letter quickly, his brows tightening: "Young Master, recruiting now would be fraught with difficulties." Since Chen Qimei's departure, his men have scattered—some absorbed by the Beiyang, some laid down arms to return to farming, and the remaining are wavering in Public Sentiment, "Even if we force enough numbers together, without food, pay, or equipment, we fear we cannot command the masses."

Jiang Ruiyuan was unfazed, picking up a brush to annotate the letter: "No problem, take whatever you can. Even if only one remains, we must carry the elder brother's Flag."

His brush paused, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes: "These brothers are true men who have lived and died alongside the elder brother; as long as we give them a way to live, they will dare to follow us to the end."

Li Yuxuan watched him write the eight characters "Reorganize the troops, stand by Guangzhou"—and suddenly felt that behind this seemingly impulsive decision lay a resilience he had never truly understood.

Time passed swiftly, and before they knew it it was 1917. The Demon City's small Arms Factory could now steadily produce mortars, and Chen Qimei's former troops had been gradually consolidated by Jiang Ruiyuan into a battalion stationed in the old barracks outside the Demon City.

That afternoon, Jiang Ruiyuan, clutching a sheet of paper, entered Li Yuxuan's room excitedly: "Jingxing, take a look at how this letter reads. It's for Sun Xiansheng, reporting our recent situation in the Demon City and our future plans."

Li Yuxuan took the paper; although the handwriting remained messy, it exuded a soaring spirit. From arms production to troop training, and his views on the Southern Protection Movement, it was written with clear logic.

"Well written, Young Master," he praised sincerely, "These past years your counsel to Sun Xiansheng has earned him much praise, hasn't it?" The replies he had seen alone numbered dozens, each line full of expectations.

"Yes, Sun Xiansheng praised my knowledge of military affairs and understanding of the people, and also urged me to pay more attention to the Southern situation," Jiang Ruiyuan's face broke into a smile.

Li Yuxuan set the paper down, pondering: "Indeed, didn't Sun Xiansheng say it himself? First protect the law, then the Northern Expedition, overthrow the Beiyang Government, and establish a true Republic."

"But this road is too hard to walk," Jiang Ruiyuan sighed lightly, sitting down in the living room, "Yuan Datou fell, and now Duan Qirui and Feng Guozhang have emerged, each wanting to claim kingship. With only this few men and a handful of guns, can we truly reach that day?"

Li Yuxuan watched his rare moment of bewilderment, suddenly recalling Roosevelt he had met in New York, the students he taught in Sanxiang, and the child in Xikou who already shouted 'Hit the bad guys.'

He sat beside Jiang Ruiyuan, picked up a pebble and tossed it at the courtyard wall: "Even if it's hard, we must go. Look at this Arms Factory—last year it could only patch things up, now it even manufactures mortars; look at those brothers—last month they were scattered like sand, this month they're marching in order. The road is forged step by step; as long as we never stop, there will always be a dawn."

Jiang Ruiyuan looked up, the haze in his eyes gradually clearing, the familiar flame reigniting: "You make sense. Let's go to the workshop and see; the new batch of shells is ready for test firing."

The two walked side by side out of the small courtyard, spring sunlight filtering through bare branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

Li Yuxuan understood that the road ahead remained thorn‑filled, but hope, after all, is always good.