Chapter 34: Stocks 2

At the end of 1920 in Yangcheng, a damp cold north wind rolled with drizzle, beating the stock exchange's glass windows with a crackle. Li Yuxuan stood at the street corner, his gaze passing through the hazy glass and landing on the familiar figure—Jiang Ruiyuan was rummaging through the counter, his face flushed as he waved the stock order in his hand, arguing fiercely with the broker, occasional spit droplets splashing onto the glass, blurring a small patch of water stains.

He muttered a curse, his clenched fist's knuckles turning white. In the first half of the year the market crashed, Jiang Ruiyuan lost so much he almost had to pawn his sidearm; at that time he swore he would never touch that "labor thing" again. Who could have guessed that just three months later, when the market warmed a bit, he would plunge back in, more obsessed than before.

Even more chilling was that a few days earlier he had made some money from a few oddly moving stocks, and this man immediately became reckless—spending all day leading the so‑called "friends" he met at the exchange into pleasure houses, spending money like dirt, acting like a newly rich nouveau riche, completely abandoning the dozens of brothers anxiously waiting for their military pay.

Thinking of yesterday's visit to the barracks, seeing soldiers still gnawing moldy brown rice while Jiang Ruiyuan bragged about a banquet of shark fin and bird's nest at a drinking table, his chest tightened with anxiety.

He couldn't help recalling the conversation half a month ago. At that time he saw Jiang Ruiyuan immersed in the exchange and couldn't help asking, "Young Master, do you still remember why we came to Yangcheng? Revolution still…?"

Jiang Ruiyuan didn't even lift his head, his eyes fixed on the constantly scrolling news ticker, sneering, "Revolution? What life does it change. Can a revolution earn two thousand dollars a day? If it truly changes life, how can you make money?"

That contemptuous tone, like a fine needle, pierced Li Yuxuan's heart. He suddenly remembered the Jiang Ruiyuan diary he had unintentionally flipped through before, which clearly wrote, "Silver price fell sharply for three days, financial institutions all in foreign hands, the people of the Sect truly squeezed, lamentable indeed." Between the lines was full of worry for the nation's fate and anger at the Great Powers' economic plunder.

"Now look at this," he said with a bitter smile, "when stocks rise, revolutionary fervor wanes; when stocks fall, we write 'lamentable indeed' in the diary, and revolutionary zeal surges. What is this? Treating the Revolution as a consolation when the stock market disappoints?"

He thought of the Jiang Ruiyuan he first met, thought of when in Shanghai guarding Chen Qimei's spirit, his eyes red as he swore, "Revolution is not for making money, only to be worthy of Heaven and conscience." But now…

"Time truly can change a person." Li Yuxuan looked at the flamboyant figure in the exchange, his heart feeling like water‑soaked cotton filling him, both suffocating and heavy. Perhaps this chaotic era grinds too much, perhaps the lure of money burns too fiercely, that youth who once had light in his eyes ultimately lost his way amid the ebb and flow of the stock sea.

While lost in thought, Jiang Ruiyuan burst out of the exchange, clutching several brand‑new silver notes, still smelling of alcohol, shouting, "Jingxing! Jingxing! Guess how much I made this time? Two hundred thousand! A full two hundred thousand!"

He slapped the silver notes on Li Yuxuan's face, his expression unable to hide his pride, "Enough to equip a camp, right? I told you this trade could work! When I earn another sum, we'll recruit our own troops and horses, no need to heed that old kid Chen Jiongming's face!"

Watching his drunken, self‑satisfied look, Li Yuxuan's anger suddenly extinguished, leaving only deep fatigue. He mumbled in agreement, listening to Jiang Ruiyuan spitting out his so‑called "trading insights," saying things like "use money earned from the stock market to fund the Revolution," to "let the foreigners see that Huaxia people can also master finance."

When Jiang Ruiyuan's mouth was dry, Li Yuxuan finally spoke slowly, his voice calm as a frozen lake: "Young Master, I plan to go to Germany."

Jiang Ruiyuan's hand counting the silver notes stopped abruptly, his drunkenness mostly cleared, "What's wrong, Jingxing? Something happen?"

Li Yuxuan lowered his eyelids, covering the complex emotions in his eyes: "Young Master, my mentor in Germany passed away. Professor Shi Naide who taught me artillery tactics at the Berlin Military Academy. I want to see him off."

This reason he had just fabricated on the spot at the street corner. Shi Naide was indeed his mentor, but the letter received last month said the old man was in good health, why suddenly die? He just wanted to leave, escape the suffocating stock sea clamor, escape this increasingly unfamiliar Young Master.

Jiang Ruiyuan was stunned for a moment, looking at Li Yuxuan's tense profile, the earlier excitement instantly vanished. He knew Li Yuxuan had been uneasy these days, and understood his own behavior these half‑years was indeed unbecoming. After a half‑minute of silence, he raised his hand and patted Li Yuxuan's shoulder: "Alright, Jingxing. Be careful on the road, the sooner you go the sooner you return."

No further questions, no forced stay, his tone carried a barely perceptible hint of remorse.

"Yes, Young Master." Li Yuxuan bowed and replied, then turned and left without looking back.

Back at his residence packing his luggage, his gaze fell on the yellowed world map on the wall, his finger unintentionally tracing Germany's location. He didn't really know what he could do in Germany, perhaps just wanted to return to a purer place—back at the Berlin Military Academy, daily thoughts were only how to fire the cannon more accurately, how to keep the ranks tighter, no need to ponder the inscrutable human heart, nor watch brothers drown in greed for money.

Halfway through packing, he pulled from the bottom of the chest a faded notebook, inside a photo—taken six years ago in a New York café, a picture of him with Roosevelt. In the photo Roosevelt stands tall, smiling spiritedly, while he himself still bears the youthful naivety from when he first came out of Sanxiang.

"I wonder how he's doing now," Li Yuxuan gently brushed the edge of the photo, suddenly recalling Roosevelt's words: "You belong to a broader world." At the time he thought it was just a casual remark, now perhaps he truly should see that broader world, see how others keep their hearts in this chaotic age.

He stuffed the notebook into his satchel, also placed a copy of "German Army Manual", which was a gift from Professor Shi Naide, its front page inscribed "Fight for the motherland, not for power". He had once recited this line before Jiang Ruiyuan, who then laughed and praised "Well said".

The next morning before dawn, Li Yuxuan carried his luggage to the pier. Jiang Ruiyuan did not see him off, only sent an Adjutant to deliver an envelope and five thousand yuan, the letter containing only a few numbers: "Take care on the road, wait for your return."

Li Yuxuan kept the yuan safe, folded the note carefully, slipped it into the notebook. He understood Jiang Ruiyuan wasn't completely heartless, just couldn't lose face. Perhaps when he returns, this man will have withdrawn from the stock sea, or perhaps…

The ship's whistle blew, slowly pulling away from the pier. Yangcheng's outline faded in the view, shrinking into a grayish mass. Li Yuxuan stood on the deck, letting the biting sea wind pour into his collar. The sea mist spread, the road ahead vague, yet his heart felt oddly light.

Perhaps leaving is not avoidance, just seeking a clean place to clarify the path he should take.

He thought of the six‑year‑old son in Xikou, whose last letter said he could already recite the Three Character Classic, and spent all day pestering his grandmother to "shoot the bad guys". A smile tugged his lips—no matter how the Young Master changes, no matter how bleak the world, there are still people and things worth fighting to protect.

The ship broke through the morning fog, heading toward distant Europe. Li Yuxuan watched the white waves rolling by the hull, silently murmuring: "When I return, I must do something truly worthwhile."

He vaguely felt that some things in this world are more important than the flashing red‑green numbers—like brotherly loyalty, like the original pure heart, like those etched in bone and blood, simple beliefs about Revolution and the motherland.