Chapter 37: Enlightening the Heart

A month later in Modu, the whistle of the Huangpu Jiang at dawn was especially piercing. Li Yuxuan curled up in a corner of the dock warehouse, back against a rust‑spotted iron barrel, holding the ship ticket to Yangcheng in his hand. The corner of the ticket had been rubbed to a frayed edge, and sweat stains had caused the ink to blur into a dark patch.

The humid air was mixed with the smell of fish and rust, clinging to his throat and making it hard to breathe. Outside the warehouse, the shouts of the dockworkers rose one after another, the ship's whistle rattling the iron‑sheet roof, and the distant tram's clatter sounded intermittent. These sounds wove a net that trapped him in the corner. He stared at the lead‑gray sky beyond the window, feeling his whole body go limp, unable even to stand.

"What's happening to me…" he murmured to the empty warehouse, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable as his own. A few rats darted out of the sack piles, then scurried back in quickly.

This isn't pretension; it's genuine bewilderment. Since returning from Germany, he has repeatedly wondered what he is actually doing. Following Jiang Ruiyuan east and west, from Xikou to Baoding, from Tokyo to Berlin, and now to this Shanghai Bund. Yet looking back, aside from witnessing disappointment after disappointment—the Qing Court collapsed, the Revolution parties fought among themselves, the Great Powers stared hungrily—he seems to have changed nothing.

He jerked his head up, bloodshot eyes: "Where did the drive that once vowed to make Huaxia strong disappear to?"

His fists clenched white, nails digging into his palms, blood seeping yet he felt no pain. He knew how the future would turn, who would win and who would lose, which path was viable and which was not. But what does knowing change?

Outside the warehouse, the ship's docking thundered, shaking dust down from the ceiling. He gave a wry smile, released his grip, and stared at the bloodstain on his palm; his laughter rang especially harsh in the empty warehouse: "No money when you need it, no power when you need it."

His fingertips unconsciously rubbed the ticket's edge, and familiar faces flashed before his eyes: Roosevelt in Berlin patting his shoulder saying "Huaxia will rise," Er Zhan Touzi's beer foam hiding ambition, and that both respected and resented principal—who had given him half a mantou at the old Xikou house, now looking entirely different in Yangcheng.

"If I truly had power, could I guarantee things wouldn't change?" he shivered suddenly, the river wind slipping through the cracks, cold to the bone.

He recalled Jiang Ruiyuan's ups and downs in the stock market, from the hot‑blooded youth who once shouted "Revolution saves the nation" to the politician now mingling with foreigners at cocktail parties, and the fleeting greed that flickered in his heart whenever he saw gold bars. What right does he have to condemn others? If he reached that position, he might be more unworthy than anyone.

Li Yuxuan kept thinking, then burst into laughter, growing louder and louder, shaking the sack piles so the rats fled in all directions. Yet as he laughed, tears fell, hitting the cement floor and spreading a small dark stain.

History… truly a little girl who dresses you up. He crouched on the ground, laughing so hard his whole body trembled, yet the tears wouldn't stop.

He used to think that carrying the memory of future generations could rewrite fate. Now he understands that in the great‑power chessboard, a weak nation's effort is merely a bargaining chip for the strong. It's like those foreigners on the Huangpu Jiang; the cannon's muzzle never aims at an opponent, but at the common folk struggling to survive on this land.

But as he wept, he suddenly stopped.

If that's truly the case, why did he travel through time? Just to see this cruel truth clearly, and then resign himself to fate?

He recalled the bowl of hot porridge Zhou Guixiang brought when he first arrived at Xikou, the rim still steaming; the glow in the eyes of the students on the Sanxiang First Normal School playground as they shouted "Youth Strong, Nation Strong"; and the workers at the Weixian Arsenal, their calloused hands trembling slightly as they handled the newly forged rifle, claiming it could drive away the invaders.

To hell with the future. Li Yuxuan wiped his face hard, the back of his hand rubbing his cheek raw. He stood up, brushed the dust off his trousers, and the confusion in his eyes gradually cleared. If others don't take Huaxia seriously, they themselves cannot avoid taking it seriously.

He picked up the ship ticket from the ground, gripping it tightly. The trip back to Yangcheng remained unchanged, but no longer for the distant "Strong Nation Dream," now for the present—so that fewer Huaxia people die, so students can study in peace, and so the rifles the workers produce can truly be put to use.

From outside the warehouse came the shouts of dockworkers, coarse yet powerful. Sunlight finally broke through the clouds, streaming through the window cracks onto the floor in a bright band, the floating dust clearly visible. Li Yuxuan inhaled deeply, the air seeming a bit warmer. He strode out of the warehouse toward the ship bound for Yangcheng.

The dock bustled with people; porters hefted cargo boxes and moved like the wind, vendors pushed carts while hawking along the street, Westerners in suits pointed at lists, short‑tucked laborers crouched on the ground gnawing rations. This was the era he lived in—chaotic, yet resilient.

The road ahead remained arduous, the great‑power chessboard still ruthless; he might never become the hero who overturns fate, perhaps even lose himself one day. Yet at least for now, he no longer wishes to be a cold‑eyed spectator.

Even if he can only secure one more cannon for Huaxia, train one more soldier who can read blueprints, awaken one more person as lost as himself, it still means his wandering through this chaotic world was not in vain.

The Huangpu Jiang's water remained murky, churning with silt and the sediment of years. Yet the ship bound for Yangcheng on the river had already sounded its whistle, the long note piercing the morning mist as it headed south. Li Yuxuan stood on the deck, watching the Shanghai Bund recede, his grip on the ship ticket tightening.

The river wind blew hard, lifting the edges of his clothes, but it could not extinguish the rekindled light in his eyes.