Chapter 33: Stock 1

In the summer of 1919, Guangzhou Cheng was stiflingly hot and humid. Outside the barracks, the leaves of the old banyan tree were shiny with oil from the sun, and the cicadas' cries rose higher and higher, tearing apart the afternoon stillness.

Jiang Ruiyuan burst in like a gust of wind, sweat still on his forehead, but his eyes were shining, as if he had seized some tremendous opportunity. He slapped a few colorful paper slips onto the table with a crack, his voice brimming with barely contained excitement: "Jingxing, I can feel it—my chance has come!"

Li Yuxuan was squatting on the ground, head down, disassembling a machine gun. Hearing the voice, he looked up with an oil-stained face, still holding a gun barrel in his hand, a bit puzzled: "Young Master, what chance?" He thought it might be about the student movement or army reorganization.

"Look at this!" Jiang Ruiyuan's finger jabbed forcefully at the papers. "Stock exchanges are springing up like mushrooms all over the country now! Modu, Yanjing, Wuhan—even Guangzhou has opened two! Look at these quotes, a different price every day. This realm of vibrant life and all things competing to flourish is right before our eyes."

Li Yuxuan leaned in for a closer look. They were a few stock quotation sheets, densely printed with words like "Modu Securities & Commodities Exchange," "Flour Stock," "Textile Stock," and the like, red and green numbers interwoven, dizzying to the eye. His heart sank, and his brow furrowed involuntarily: "Young Master, may I ask one thing—who led you into this stock market?"

"Oh, Zhang Jinjiang." Jiang Ruiyuan said it casually, picking up the kettle on the table and taking a gulp of cold tea. "He ran an exchange in Modu and said the tricks of the trade are simple—buy low, sell high, and you make money. Jingxing, put your mind at ease. This business is a sure thing, no losses. Once we've saved up enough money to buy guns and cannons, why put up with this humiliation in the Yue Army?"

Watching him beam with excitement, Li Yuxuan felt as if a wad of cotton were stuck in his chest, heavy and oppressive. He sighed inwardly, recalling how just a few days earlier, when the May Fourth Movement was at its peak, Jiang Ruiyuan had been shouting slogans alongside the students, delivering water and food, looking every bit the fervent hot-blood. Yet he also clearly remembered, while sorting through old items a few days ago, catching a glimpse of Jiang Ruiyuan's early diary, where in black and white it read, "I want to go to Russia to join the Revolution and see how they overturn Heaven and Earth." "So none of that was sincere?" he couldn't help grumbling to himself, still forgetting to put down the gun barrel. "Commandant, aren't you a Revolutionary? A Revolutionary doesn't focus on revolution but goes off to speculate in stocks instead? What kind of ambition is that?"

He recalled the Jiang Ruiyuan he first knew, braving a hail of bullets in Shanghai to stage an Uprising, that reckless drive that had once made him feel he had chosen the right man to follow. But now... looking at the jumping numbers on the quotation sheets, a chill crept into his heart.

In the end, though, he didn't voice these words. He knew Jiang Ruiyuan's temper—once he set his mind on something, nine oxen couldn't pull him back. Rather than waste his breath, it was better to wait and see—that Zhang Jinjiang was a shrewd man; surely he wouldn't let him fall too hard.

From then on, Jiang Ruiyuan's mind was almost entirely on stocks. Either he was holed up in Guangzhou's exchange, or he was scribbling calculations over quotation sheets. Even when summoned by Sun Xiansheng to discuss military affairs, he was somewhat distracted.

Li Yuxuan still drilled the few dozen old brothers, though occasionally Jiang Ruiyuan would drag him over for "consultation."

"Jingxing, look—shouldn't we sell this textile stock? I heard the war in Europe is over, and foreign cloth is about to come in."

"Jingxing, what do you think—can we add to our position in flour stock? There's a drought in the north, so grain prices are bound to rise."

Li Yuxuan could only give vague responses: "Young Master, you know the business. You make the call." But inwardly he couldn't help sighing—back in the day at the Weixian Arsenal, when he said he wanted to build mortars, Jiang Ruiyuan approved the funds without batting an eye. Now, talking about buying stocks, he was willing to stake even his family's fortune. This change was truly disorienting.

During this time, some in the Yue Army inevitably mocked Jiang Ruiyuan for "neglecting his proper duties." Even Chen Jiongming had obliquely said he was "too restless in his thinking." Jiang Ruiyuan just chuckled at that: "Once I make big money, I'll let you all share in the glory."

Li Yuxuan watched him swing between joy and worry with the stock market's ups and downs—sometimes happily treating everyone to a meal because he'd gained a few points, sometimes sighing and groaning because prices had fallen. He found the man before him somewhat unfamiliar. Was this still the same person who had sworn before the Spirit Hall to "raise the banner for Big Brother"?

Time passed swiftly, and before they knew it, it was the spring of 1920. A fine drizzle fell over Guangzhou Cheng, but the exchange's quotations took a sharp downturn—first flour stocks plummeted, then textile stocks followed in a dive. Most of the stocks Jiang Ruiyuan held were trapped; far from making money, he had lost his principal.

That day he returned from the exchange, unusually silent, sitting alone by the table, flipping through his old diary. When Li Yuxuan went in to bring him water, he caught a glimpse of Jiang Ruiyuan staring intently at a certain page. The handwriting on that page was slightly blurred with age, but still legible: "Today I see that the Sect's affairs cannot be resolved within the country. Gather thoughts and leave the Sect for other paths; if I lose my ambition, I will keep myself pure alone, and not associate with our kind."

Li Yuxuan's heart stirred. He had happened to see that passage a few days ago too, and at the time had only thought it was written with considerable spirit, carrying a touch of scholarly pride and aloofness. Seeing it now, it seemed more like Jiang Ruiyuan was seeking a way out for himself.

"Well, it's fine as long as he can turn back," he said silently to himself. Although the stock speculation had been a foolish affair, at least he hadn't lost the old brothers' capital, nor had he neglected the real business—those few dozen soldiers brought from Shanghai, trained by his own hand, were already among the rare elites in the Yue Army. Even Chen Jiongming wanted to borrow them as bodyguards.

Jiang Ruiyuan closed the diary and looked up to see Li Yuxuan. A rare hint of embarrassment showed on his face: "Jingxing, I was muddleheaded before. I made you worry for nothing."

"It's nothing, Young Master." Li Yuxuan pushed the water glass forward. "Who hasn't misjudged things at some point? If stocks won't work, we'll think of another way. Isn't Sun Xiansheng talking about establishing a Military Academy? I think that's the real business."

At the mention of the Military Academy, Jiang Ruiyuan's eyes suddenly lit up again: "Right! The Military Academy! I've mentioned it to Sun Xiansheng many times—we need to set up our own Military Academy, train officers who truly follow orders. Once the academy is running, we'll send all the old brothers to be instructors, and then..."

The more he talked, the more energized he became. The shadow of his stock market failure was swept away, and he seemed to turn back into that "Young Master" with light in his eyes.

Li Yuxuan watched his spirited expression and suddenly felt that perhaps he himself had been too stubborn before. Men are not saints—who can be without fault? Jiang Ruiyuan could lose himself in the stock market, could waver in difficult times, but that stubbornness in his bones, the desire to accomplish something, never seemed to truly die out.

Just as his diary said, "If I lose my ambition, I will keep myself pure alone," but when had he ever truly "kept himself pure alone"? From Xikou to Modu, from Wei County to Yangcheng, he had always been stumbling along this path called "Revolution." Even if he took detours, even if he battered himself bloody, he always found a way to turn back.

The rain outside the window had stopped at some point. Sunlight struggled through the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the damp ground. Jiang Ruiyuan had already picked up a pen and was sketching a blueprint for the Military Academy on paper, muttering to himself: "There needs to be a drill ground, a shooting range, and it'd be best to build an armory too..."

Li Yuxuan leaned against the doorframe, watching his back as he bent over the desk writing furiously. The disappointment in his heart had long since vanished. Perhaps following such a "Young Master"—sometimes clear-headed, sometimes muddled—was the truest face of this chaotic era: no eternally correct choices, only the courage to keep trying and erring, and the resilience to get back up after falling.

He turned and walked out of the barracks, mentally planning to wipe down that repaired Heavy Machine Gun once more. No matter how stocks rose or fell, no matter how the world changed, the gun barrel in one's hand was the most reliable support.