Chapter 350: The Falling Plaster Flag of Yichang

"Fire!" Yao Quanyi ordered with a single command.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The muzzle spat firelight, and the shell streaked across the night sky.

The first salvo fired in unison, precisely covering the four corners of the Salt Administration.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The sandbag fortifications were ripped up, bricks and stones shattered, and fire columns shot skyward. The Japanese Army machine‑gun nest went silent in an instant, and cries of anguish came from the windows.

"Another round! Focus the bombardment on the main gate and the eastern wall!" Yao Quanyi roared.

The second barrage was even more ferocious. An 80 mm high‑explosive shell punched straight through the roof, detonating the internal ammo box. The whole building shook violently, tiles fell like rain, and thick smoke carrying a charred odor spread across the street.

At last, the battered wooden plaque of the "Great Japan Imperial 13th Division Headquarters" crashed to the ground with a deafening blast, swallowed completely by smoke and dust.

"Charge!" Yao Quanyi drew his pistol and leapt out of cover first.

Behind him, the Independent Regiment and the 448th Regiment soldiers surged forward like a tide. The Independent Regiment tossed hand grenades to clear rooms, while more men brandished MP40 and MG42 machine guns, raking every window and door with frantic fire.

"Clack! Clack! Clack!"

Bullets poured down like splashing water, crushing the remaining resistance completely.

In less than ten minutes, the Salt Administration inside and out was cleared.

The courtyard was littered with corpses, and blood streamed like a channel in the basement. The last thirty Japanese soldiers either fell in battle or detonated explosives to kill themselves; none surrendered.

Yao Quanyi stepped over rubble and entered the core of the headquarters.

The wall clock read 21:47, the teacup on the table still warm, and the battle map was spread out, its red and blue pencil markings clear.

Clearly, the enemy's retreat was extremely hasty.

His gaze swept the room, finally landing on the central sand table.

It was a miniature model of the entire Yichang city; the southern gate bore a small red flag, the west gate was marked "Danger", the riverbank showed retreat arrows… everything was orderly, except there was no Nei Shan Yingtailang.

A soldier dragged in a blood‑splattered Japanese officer, whose shoulder insignia was unmistakably Lieutenant Colonel.

"Just him?" Yao Quanyi frowned.

"Report, Battalion Commander! Searched the entire building; the highest rank is him!"

"The tunnel leads to the riverbank, but its exit was blown shut; they likely fled north!"

Yao Quanyi fell silent for a moment, then suddenly hammered a hard punch into the edge of the sand table!

"Clang!"

The wooden sand table shattered with the sound, the Yichang city model collapsed with a roar, its houses, walls, and wharf all tipped over.

"Damned it!" he roared, his voice full of resentment, "The biggest fish… got away!"

He had thought that tonight he could capture Nei Shan Yingtailang alive, to avenge Nanjing, Wuhan, and the countless suffering compatriots. In the end, he only caught a small fry. That old fox had slipped away silently ten minutes before the artillery struck!

The deputy officer stepped forward and whispered, "Battalion Commander, Division Commander Hu reports that a small Japanese force broke out at the North Gate, possibly senior officers; troops have been dispatched to pursue."

Yao Quanyi took a deep breath, suppressing his fury.

He knew that frustration was useless now. Though Nei Shan escaped, the 13th Division's command structure had collapsed completely, and Yichang's liberation was a settled matter. Capturing the thief and his leader was gratifying, but reclaiming the homeland and stabilizing the people's hearts was the true victory.

He turned and ordered, "Clear the battlefield, treat the wounded, protect civilians' property. Also—" He paused, his gaze falling on the fallen headquarters plaque, "pick up this sign and hang it on the drum tower tomorrow. Let the whole city see: the invader's 'Imperial' is nothing but a rotten log."

The night wind swept through the hall, stirring up dust from the sand table.

Yao Quanyi stood in the center of the ruins, gazing at the rising Blue‑Sky White‑Sun flag outside the window, murmuring softly:

"Nei Shan Yingtailang, you may have escaped for a moment, but you cannot escape forever. This Yichang will ultimately be ours."

In the distance, the war drums faded, but the Yangtze River surged on, never ceasing.

With the final drumbeat falling, atop Moji Shan, all sounds fell silent.

The massive drum finally ceased. The drumstick rested on the ground, yet its echo seemed to linger over the Yangtze.

Like ancestors' sighs, like the breath of mountains and rivers, like the suppressed cries of forty‑million compatriots over eight years, finally released.

Jiang Anguo stood on the high slope of the riverbank, covered in gunpowder smoke, yet he cracked a childlike grin.

He slowly lifted his head, looking eastward, where a sliver of fish‑belly white quietly tore the night curtain.

Immediately, golden light burst forth, the sunrise spewed out, dyeing the entire Yangtze into a river of scarlet gold.

And atop Yichang city, a scene of even greater symbolic meaning unfolded:

Crimson Rising Sun flags were ripped down violently by Huaxia soldiers from the city walls, rooftops, and watchtowers, and hurled into the mud. Some were pried up with bayonets, others trampled beneath feet.

Some soldiers even collected this dog‑skin plaster as a trophy.

It was the invader's dog‑skin plaster; today, we bury it with our own hands.

"Xiao Si, we won," Jiang Anguo's voice was hoarse, yet trembled with an uncontrollable quiver.

Xiao Si stood behind him, eyes reddened, "Young Master, we won! Yichang is ours!"

"Indeed…" Jiang Anguo repeated softly, his gaze sweeping over the scarred yet reclaimed city, "We've taken Yichang."

He didn't say "reclaimed" but "taken", because this city had never truly belonged to the enemy. It had only been asleep temporarily; today, it finally awoke.

Thousands of miles away, the Chongqing Huangshan residence.

That night, the mountain city slept not.

The Principal sat in his study, a solitary lamp illuminating his weary face. On the table lay the latest situation map of the western Hubei war zone, red and blue arrows interlaced like a net.

Since Yidu and Xiaoting were successively liberated, all hope hinged on Yichang. He knew that if this city fell, the Yangtze throat would reopen, the auxiliary capital's shield would solidify, and the anti‑Japanese war situation would reverse completely.

Yet the nearer victory approached, the tighter his heart clung to a thread.

The disparity in strength was too great—could Yichang truly be taken in five days?

One Independent Regiment, two infantry divisions, against a Japanese Class A Division.

The Principal couldn't help recalling his study abroad in Japan, where his artillery unit had been part of the Japanese 13th Division.

One can imagine how much hatred he bore for that Japanese 13th Division.

His fingers unconsciously tapped the tabletop, the rhythm oddly matching the distant war drums.

He didn't know how long had passed—perhaps an hour, perhaps longer.

The door was gently pushed open.

Dai Li hurried in, a rare smile on his face, tightly holding a Telegram.

"Principal!" his voice trembled, "Front line urgent telegram!"

The Principal sprang to his feet, the chair scraping a harsh sound across the floor. "Read!"

"Yidu has been firmly held, Xiaoting is safe," Dai Li inhaled deeply, tears flashing in his eyes, "And just three minutes ago, the Telegram from the Yichang direction was ours!"

He presented the Telegram with both hands.

Two signatures were starkly side by side: Jiang Anguo, Hu Lian.

The Principal took the Telegram, his fingers trembling slightly. He read it word by word, then read it again, as if unable to believe that these few lines could bear such a momentous historical turn.

"It's ours..." he murmured, his voice so soft it was barely audible.

It really succeeded!

I can't believe it!

Jiang Anguo, that kid, really commanded the capture of Yichang.

The next second, he closed his eyes, leaned back against the chair, as if all his strength had been drained in an instant. The nerves that had been tense for days finally relaxed. At the corner of his eye, a murky tear slipped silently down, disappearing into his collar.