Chapter 82: Unifying the Nation in Progress 3

The smoke over Jinan City gradually settled into gray‑brown dust, clinging to broken walls and ruins, and also to the eyelashes of every survivor. Li Yuxuan stood outside the Temporary Infirmary, watching the stretchers covered with white cloth being carried past him, the air filled with a sharp smell of iodine and blood.

"Has the casualty report been compiled?" His voice was raspier than the bricks on the City wall, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the gun holster at his waist—the leather there had softened from sweat.

The operations staff officer held the statistics ledger, his finger trembling on the page: "Reporting, Chairman, preliminary count… roughly over 6,000 injured, over 2,000 dead. Among them more than 4,000 lightly wounded, more than 2,000 severely wounded, and among the severely wounded… about half may not survive."

With each figure reported, Li Yuxuan's shoulders sank a little more. He seemed to see the faces behind those numbers—the new recruit grinning on the Training Ground, the squad leader who had shielded him from bullets in the Taierzhuang battle, and that Henan kid who always asked, "After the war can I go home to farm?"

"Gather their corpses," he turned his face away, looking toward the distant barren mountain, its outline blurred in the dusk into a heavy silhouette.

"Yes, Chairman," the staff officer replied, turning, took two steps then stopped, hesitating before looking back, "But Chairman… why are you crying?"

Li Yuxuan raised his hand to his cheek, only to find it already covered with wet streaks. He tried to pull out a smile, but his mouth was stiff as a stone: "Perhaps… maybe the wind is just too strong."

The wind indeed blew, carrying the charred smell of the battlefield, bringing a bone‑chilling coolness into his collar. He stared at the flickering lights spilling from the Temporary Infirmary, his voice as light as a dream whisper: "Those soldiers on the battlefield never saw the light of the future, never saw the flourishing age, never saw the Sect flag fluttering in the sky, and they fell asleep… forever, forever, never waking."

He suddenly crouched, thrusting both hands into the charred mud Turkey, the blood beads oozing between his fingers merging with the soil: "But you said… why do they weep so sorrowfully? So sorrowfully…"

No one could answer that question. From the infirmary came the suppressed moans of the wounded, like countless fine needles stabbing each living Public Sentiment.

"I need some quiet, you may go down." Li Yuxuan waved his hand, his voice carrying undeniable fatigue, "Also issue death compensation to them at the highest standard. Save any treatable wounded with the best medicine. For those beyond saving, send a specialist back to their hometowns, inform the local officials to treat their families well. Tell their relatives they are heroes."

"Yes, Chairman!" the staff officer saluted forcefully, his steps heavy as if dragging a lead block.

When dusk closed in, Li Yuxuan walked alone on the path to the barren mountain. No attendants, no guards, only his own footsteps echoing in the silence, startling the crows perched by the road.

The mountain road was rugged, strewn with rubble, and he nearly stumbled several times, the fragments on the ground cutting his hands, blood seeping from the wounds without his noticing. In his mind the young faces replayed like a film, frame after frame vivid, but now they had become numbers in the statistics ledger, silence beneath the white cloth.

"Greetings, Chairman!" two soldiers digging pits saw him, quickly dropped their iron spades and saluted, their caps still stained with mud Turkey.

Li Yuxuan nodded, his gaze sweeping over the densely packed Turkey pits on the hillside—each pit equally deep, equally wide, like countless eyes staring at the sky. "Is this the grave you chose for them?"

"Reporting, Chairman," a soldier wiped his sweat, his tone apologetic, "There's nowhere nearby to bury them. The city's Turkey land has been turned over by shells many times, only this mountain… temporarily unattended, no one comes to inter them."

Li Yuxuan walked to the edge of a freshly dug Turkey pit, where fresh yellow Turkey could still be seen at the bottom. He bent down, scooped a handful of soil, the mud Turkey slipping through his fingers like time flowing from an hourglass.

"Alas, who said the mountain is empty of people," he sighed softly, his voice bearing an indescribable bleakness, "Soon the whole mountain will be filled with people."

He slowly crouched, picking up a charred wooden board from beside him—it had been taken from a bombed civilian house, its edges still bearing black scorch marks where flames had licked.

"Is there a small knife?" Li Yuxuan asked.

"Yes, Chairman."

Li Yuxuan sat on the ground, carving stroke by stroke into the board with the small knife.

The sound of the blade cutting the wood rang especially clear on the silent ridge, like a dull knife slicing something. A soldier with a modest education watched from afar, seeing the characters he etched:

"Your name is unknown to all, your merits shall endure forever."

After the final stroke, he thrust the board into the mud before the Turkey pit. The evening wind blew, the board trembling slightly, the crooked characters casting slender shadows in the waning sun, like standing soldiers.

He stood, looking at the mountain full of Turkey pits and the soon‑to‑be‑erected wooden plaque, suddenly shouting into the empty valley: "When the future… when the world finally knows peace, I will return and erect a true monument for you! With the finest blue stone, I will carve each of your names! So that generations may know why you died!"

The echo rang through the valley, striking the cliff walls, shattering into countless fragments, as if responding, yet as if wailing.

The sunset sank completely below the horizon, leaving only a hazy dusk on the ridge. Li Yuxuan cast one last glance at the silent Turkey pits, turned and walked down the mountain. His silhouette stretched long in the twilight, as if his shoulders bore the weight of the entire mountain—over two thousand young lives, the road they paved with their blood; even if thorns lie ahead, he must keep moving forward.

The setting sun stretched his figure long and long, casting it onto the freshly turned mud, merging with the silent Turkey pits.

In the distance, Jinan City flickered with scattered lights, like stars twinkling in the darkness. Survivors were tidying homes, burying the dead, licking their wounds.