Chapter 683: How Many People Did I Kill?

Colonel Shan Tian said nothing.

Shan Ben Yi Fu stared at him, at the gaunt, misshapen face, at the left arm wrapped in bandages, at the hollow eyes.

"How many men are left in your regiment?"

"Two hundred seventy‑three."

Shan Ben Yi Fu closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Shan Tian, do you still recall what Your Majesty Tianhuang said before we set out?"

Colonel Shan Tian shook his head.

"Your Majesty said that the Sakura Nation had waited seven hundred years and finally this day has arrived," Shan Ben Yi Fu opened his eyes, "But Shan Tian, how much blood was shed for this day?"

Shan Tian remained silent for a long while.

Then he said, "General, that blood has already been shed. Speaking of it now is meaningless."

Shan Ben Yi Fu looked at him and nodded.

"Indeed, it is meaningless."

In the distance, a soldier suddenly began to sing. It was a folk song of the Sakura Nation, about hometown cherry blossoms and his mother's rice balls. The voice was hoarse and off‑key, yet in a city strewn with corpses it sounded especially mournful.

One sang, then two, then ten. More and more joined, until the whole square resonated with that desolate song.

Shan Tian listened to the song, his eyes growing slightly sour.

He blinked and forced the sourness back.

"General, what do we do next?"

Shan Ben Yi Fu looked at the soldiers in the square, at the still‑burning buildings, at the Rising Sun Flag fluttering in the sunset.

"Rest. Resupply. Then, continue north."

First Lieutenant Shan Tian nodded.

He turned and walked toward the two hundred seventy‑three soldiers. Halfway, he suddenly stopped, turned back and asked:

"General, how many Yingguo are still in Myanmar?"

Shan Ben Yi Fu was silent for three seconds.

"One hundred thousand."

Shan Tian nodded and kept moving forward.

Behind him, the singing continued.

Ahead, those soldiers still waited for him.

The sunset bathed the ruins of Kuala Lumpur in a blood‑red hue. It was the color bought with twenty‑two thousand lives, the color of blood that could never be fully shed, the color of a Rising Sun Flag raised.

Colonel Shan Tian stepped into the crimson expanse and never looked back.

Eight o'clock in the evening, temporary POW camp.

Commodore Robert Genni was confined in a building that had once been a warehouse. The building was huge, packed with people—British Army soldiers, Indian soldiers, Australian soldiers, and a few civilians in plain clothes. Some moaned on the floor, some leaned against the wall in a daze, some clutched their knees and sobbed softly.

Commodore Genni leaned against a pillar and watched the people.

Three days ago they had still been soldiers, in tidy uniforms, bearing fine weapons, guarding solid fortifications. Now they were packed here like a herd of livestock, awaiting an unknown fate.

The door was pushed open and several Sakura Nation soldiers entered. They held their rifles, bayonets flashing coldly under the kerosene lamp. The leading officer swept the room, his gaze landing on Commodore Genni.

"You, come out."

Commodore Genni stood and walked over slowly.

Stepping out of the warehouse, the outside was an open space. Moonlight fell on the ground, revealing the haphazardly strewn corpses—unburied, simply left there.

The officer led him into a small building beside it. On the second floor he pushed open a door, where a man sat.

Shan Ben Yi Fu.

The kerosene lamp illuminated his face, making the deep law scar clearly visible. He looked up at Commodore Genni and gestured for him to sit.

Commodore Genni sat opposite him.

The two stared at each other for three seconds.

"Are you the commander?" Shan Ben Yi Fu asked.

Commodore Genni nodded.

"Commodore Robert Genni, Deputy Division Commander of the 3rd Indian Division."

Shan Ben Yi Fu nodded.

"You fought well."

Commodore Genni was startled for a moment.

"What?"

"You fought well," Shan Ben Yi Fu repeated, "My soldiers lost twenty‑two thousand men before we took this city."

Commodore Genni fell silent.

Shan Ben Yi Fu stood and walked to the window. Outside, the ruins of Kuala Lumpur looked especially bleak in the moonlight, occasional plumes of smoke rose like hellish ghost flames.

"General," he suddenly asked, "who do you think will win this war?"

Commodore Genni gave no answer.

Shan Ben Yi Fu turned and looked at him.

"You have lost. Singapore has lost, Kuala Lumpur has lost, Malaya has lost. Next, Myanmar will lose, India will lose. You cannot hold it."

Commodore Genni finally spoke, his voice hoarse: "Why are you telling me this?"

Shan Ben Yi Fu walked back to the desk and sat down.

"Because I want you to live."

He paused, took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and placed it before Commodore Genni.

"Sign this, and you can live."

Commodore Geni lowered his head and looked— it was a surrender document, acknowledging the British Army's defeat in the Malayan Campaign and urging the British Army in Burma to cease resistance.

His hand clenched on the table, then released.

"I won't sign."

Shanben Yifu looked at him, his gaze lacking anger, only an indescribable weariness.

"You will die."

Commodore Geni nodded.

"I know."

Shanben Yifu was silent for a long while.

Then he took the paper back, tore it in two, and threw the pieces into the fire pit beside him. The paper burned, emitting a faint glow.

"You may go," he said, "return and tell your soldiers to live properly. The war will eventually end."

Commodore Geni was stunned.

"You... will let me go?"

Shanben Yifu gave no answer.

He stood up, walked to the window, his back to Commodore Geni.

"Leave. While I haven't changed my mind yet."

Commodore Geni stood up, staring blankly at the silhouette. He opened his mouth, seemed about to speak, but in the end said nothing, turned and walked out the door.

Shanben Yifu stood at the window, watching the ruins bathed in moonlight.

Behind him, the paper in the fire pit had turned to ash; a gust of wind scattered it.

At four o'clock in the morning, in the temporary camp, Colonel Shantian found Tianzhong Yilang.

The boy leaned against a pile of rubble, eyes open staring at the sky. His uniform was soaked with blood, his face covered in ash, lips chapped, yet his eyes remained open—a hollow, sightless gaze.

Colonel Shantian sat beside him.

"Still alive?"

Tianzhong Yilang gave no reply.

Shantian pulled out half a pack of cigarettes, took one out, and handed it to him.

Tianzhong Yilang took the cigarette, jammed it into his mouth. Colonel Shantian struck a match and held it near. The firelight illuminated that face—a young face, now devoid of any expression.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.

"Colonel," he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, not his own, "how many people have I killed?"

Shantian gave no answer.

"I can't count them," Tianzhong Yilang continued, "the first day I killed a few, the second day a few more, then... then I stopped counting. Too many."

He took another drag, his eyes still fixed on the sky.

"When I close my eyes, I see them. The blond‑haired Englishman, the Indian soldier I stabbed to death, and that... that child, only a teenager, raising his hand to surrender, but I..."

His voice broke.

Colonel Shantian said nothing, only smoked.

Tianzhong Yilang remained silent for a long time.

Then he suddenly asked, "Colonel, can I still go home?"

Shantian looked at that young face, at those hollow eyes, at the tears that would never flow again.

"Yes," he said.

Tianzhong Yilang turned his head, looking at him.

"Really?"

Shantian nodded.

"Really."

Tianzhong Yilang smiled. It was the ugliest smile Shantian had ever seen.