Chapter 693: Myanmar Campaign 5

Colonel Harrison leaned against the window, watching the street outside through the gap in the curtains.

His battalion had fewer than two hundred men left. Three days of street fighting left over a thousand dead, wounded, or fled. The remaining two hundred had terror in their eyes. They huddled in the ruins, gripping their rifles, watching every corner of the street, their bodies trembling.

The way the Sakura Nation advanced made his skin crawl. They neither dodged nor retreated, just charging straight into the bullets. Ten died, then twenty arrived. Twenty died, then forty arrived. It was as if lives were not lives, merely consumables.

The Burmese were also mad. The locals in earth‑colored fatigues, wielding Sakura Nation rifles, charged from behind. Familiar with the terrain, they knew where to hide people and where to take detours. Many soldiers were not killed by the Sakura Nation but were stabbed to death from behind by those Burmese.

"Sir," a Corporal crawled over, voice trembling, "we're surrounded. People are on all sides—front, back, left, right."

Harrison said nothing.

He looked at the street outside the window, strewn with corpses—British Army, Indian soldiers, Sakura Nation, and Burmese. Blood had dyed the street a dark red, glittering in the sunlight.

"Sir," the Corporal said again, "we... we should surrender."

Harrison remained silent for a long time.

Then he nodded.

"Surrender."

The Corporal was stunned, "Sir, you…"

"Surrender," Harrison repeated, "go tell them we surrender. Have them cease fire."

The Corporal crawled out, shouting something in English. The gunfire gradually ceased.

A few minutes later, a group of Sakura Nation soldiers surrounded them. They raised their rifles, bayonets glinting in the sun, their faces full of exhaustion and madness.

Harrison slowly stepped out of the ruins, raising his hands.

A Sakura Nation officer approached, asking in halting English, "Are you the commander?"

Harrison nodded.

"I request a meeting with your army's supreme commander."

The officer looked at him, then smiled suddenly. That smile sent a chill down Harrison's spine.

"A meeting, yes. But not now."

He turned sideways, said something to the soldiers behind him. Several soldiers rushed forward, pinned Harrison to the ground, and bound his hands behind him with rope.

Harrison struggled to lift his head, "You… you can't do this! I'm an officer! According to the Geneva Convention…"

The officer crouched down, looking at him.

"General," he said, pointing at the surrounding ruins, at the haphazard corpses, at the still‑smoking buildings, "look at these. Do you think any convention still matters now?"

Harrison opened his mouth but could not speak.

The officer stood up, turned, and walked away.

Behind him, Sakura Nation soldiers began searching the ruins, dragging out the surviving British Army soldiers one by one. Those who resisted were stabbed to death with bayonets on the spot. Those who knelt and begged were kicked down, bound, and tossed aside.

Harrison knelt on the ground, watching it all.

He saw the young Corporal being dragged out, tied beside him. The kid was drenched in blood yet still laughing— a laugh as if finally liberated.

In the distance, from the direction of Nibidu Central Plaza, cheers rose. It was the Sakura Nation's cheers, the sound of them capturing the city.

At Nibidu Central Plaza, British Army soldiers formed a long line, laid down their weapons, and raised their hands.

Xiaoyuan Chuan stood on a jeep, watching those people pass before him. There were English, Indian, Burmese, people of various skin tones and ages. Their faces showed fear, fatigue, numbness, and release.

A British Army Colonel was escorted before him. The man wore a crisp uniform, dust‑covered yet still trying to stand tall. He lifted his head and looked at Xiaoyuan Chuan.

"I demand, in accordance with the Geneva Convention, that my army's officers receive the treatment they are entitled to."

Xiaoyuan Chuan stared at him, silent for three seconds.

"What is your name?"

"Harrison. Colonel Harrison, Chief of Staff of the British-Indian Army's Third Division."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded.

"Colonel Harrison, your soldiers will receive food and water. The wounded will be treated. Officers will be detained separately," he paused, "that is all I can offer."

Harrison looked at him, silent for a few seconds.

"Thank you."

He was escorted away.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu came over, handing over a report.

"General, about twelve thousand British troops have surrendered. Among them over four hundred officers. Also… roughly five thousand Indian and Burmese soldiers."

Xiaoyuan Chuan glanced at it and folded the report.

"What shall we do with those Indian and Burmese soldiers?"

Lin Zhongfu hesitated, "According to protocol… prisoners are prisoners. But per his request, hand the Burmese over to him for disposition."

Xiaoyuan Chuan was silent for a few seconds.

"Give them to him."

Lin Zhongfu was taken aback, "General, those Burmese are British soldiers, under international law…"

"International law?" Xiaoyuan Chuan looked at him, "Lin, do you think we are still observing international law now?"

Lin Zhongfu opened his mouth but could not speak.

Xiaoyuan Chuan leapt from the transport vehicle and walked toward the edge of the plaza.

There, members of the Burmese Independence Army were pulling those Burmese soldiers out of the prisoner line. The Burmese cried, begged, shouted something in Burmese. No one listened. They were bound together with rope, herded out of the city like livestock.

A young Burmese soldier struggled, shouting in English, "I was forced! The English conscripted me! I don't want to fight!"

A Burmese Independence Army fighter stepped forward and punched him in the face. He fell to the ground, was dragged up, and forced onward.

Xiaoyuan Chuan watched the dragged‑away people, saying nothing.

"This is war. The victors may try the losers. The losers can only await death."

In the center of the plaza, a group of Sakura Nation soldiers were raising the Rising Sun Flag. The flag fluttered in the wind, glaring especially bright in the afternoon sun.

Xiaoyuan Chuan stood at the edge of the square, looking at that flag.

Naypyidaw is taken. Myanmar, taken.

But at what cost?

53,000 people. Adding Malaya's 42,000, 95,000 Sakura Nation soldiers forever remain on this unfamiliar land.

He turned and walked toward the temporary command post.

Mucun Jianyi stood at the edge of the square, watching those Myanmar prisoners being dragged away.

His left arm was wrapped in thick bandages; the bleeding had stopped, but the pain remained. What hurt more than the wound was the indescribable feeling in his heart.

A Myanmar prisoner passed by him. The man was very young, seeming under twenty, his face streaked with tears. He was bound with rope, stumbling forward. As he passed Mucun, he suddenly turned his head and looked at Mucun.

In those eyes was pure fear, pure despair, and—something Mucun knew all too well.

Mucun averted his gaze, daring not to look again.

The prisoner was dragged away.

A Sakura Nation soldier walked over, handing Mucun a cigarette.

"Want one?"

Mucun took the cigarette, lit it, and drew a deep puff. The smoke made him cough, but he didn't stop and took another drag.

"It's over," the soldier said. "Myanmar is over."

Mucun nodded.

"You can go home now."

Mucun said nothing.

Return home? Could he still return home? The Mucun Jianyi who had killed countless people and endured countless nightmares—could he still go back to his hometown, see his parents, live a normal life?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that he stood here now, alive.

In the distance, the Rising Sun Flag in the center of the square rustled in the wind.

He stared at that flag, silent for a long while.

Then he turned and headed toward the wounded camp.

His leg still ached, but it wasn't as painful. Perhaps from habit, perhaps from numbness.

He walked slowly, each step feeling solid.

Behind him, the prisoners were still being dragged away. Cries, pleas, and curses blended together, growing farther away.

He didn't want to look back.

He didn't dare to look back.