Chapter 766: Raising the Flag

Zhang Haiyang took the letter and handed it to Liu Zhenjie. Liu Zhenjie opened the envelope, pulled out the paper, and read it once. The letter was short, only one page, but he examined every character carefully.

The letter said that London had ordered on May 28 that the British Army throughout Australia surrender to the Lanfang forces. The Sydney garrison was ordered to carry it out and requested arrangements for the surrender ceremony's time and place. At the end of the letter, Major General Smith wrote in small script: "For four months, your troops have won against larger forces, using speed to overcome slowness; the Australian army and civilians all admire you. Though defeated now, you are convinced both in heart and mouth."

Liu Zhenjie finished reading, folded the letter, and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at the young Yingguo Major, was silent for three seconds, then asked, "Why doesn't your commander come himself?"

The Major was momentarily stunned, then replied, "The general is arranging troop concentration inside the city. Twenty‑three thousand men require time."

Twenty‑three thousand. Liu Zhenjie recited the number silently in his mind. Three months ago, the Sydney garrison boasted fifty thousand. Now only twenty‑three thousand remain. The other twenty‑seven thousand include those killed in battle, those who died of illness, those who slipped away, and—those chased all the way, who scattered, got lost, and vanished without a trace.

"Tell your commander," Liu Zhenjie said, "that at nine o'clock tomorrow morning I will accept the surrender outside the city. Have him lead all officers in formation out of the city."

The Major saluted, turned, and left.

Zhang Haiyang leaned in and whispered, "Senior officer, entering the city tomorrow?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded.

"What about today?"

Liu Zhenjie looked at him and suddenly smiled. "Today? Today let the brothers get a good sleep. Four months have passed; at last we can sleep peacefully."

June 2, nine a. m., outside Sydney.

The sun had fully risen, its golden light spilling onto the grass, onto the distant city walls, and onto the Yingguo flag already lowered. Liu Zhenjie stood before a hastily erected reviewing platform, a line of upright officers behind him, and beyond them, Lanfang soldiers formed into a square formation. The soldiers' uniforms were somewhat tattered, their faces marked by dust and fatigue, yet each spine stood straight.

In the distance, Sydney's city gate slowly opened.

The first to emerge was Major General Smith on a white horse. He wore a crisp general's dress uniform, his chest adorned with numerous medals that glittered in the sun. Behind him were two rows of horse‑mounted officers, and further back, British soldiers marched in four columns.

The procession moved slowly. Hooves struck the grass with a dull thud. The soldiers' steps were uniform, boots rustling on the ground. No one spoke; only the flags rustled in the wind.

Liu Zhenjie watched the slowly approaching formation and felt a strange surge inside. This was not his first time receiving a surrender. Over the past months, from Pidamara to Darwin, from Darwin to Cairns, and from Cairns to here, he had seen British forces surrender countless times. But this time was different.

This time, it was the last city.

Major General Smith halted his horse before the reviewing platform, dismounted, and walked to Liu Zhenjie's side, stood at attention, and saluted. Then he drew the sword at his waist and presented it with both hands.

It was a beautiful side‑sword, its scabbard inlaid with golden patterns, the hilt engraved with a line of small characters: "God bless our king." Liu Zhenjie took the sword, glanced at the inscription, then handed the sword to Zhang Haiyang behind him, and looked at Smith.

Smith also stared at him. The two generals locked eyes for three seconds, neither speaking.

Then Liu Zhenjie spoke. His voice was soft, but each word was as clear as if carved in stone. "General Smith, your soldiers will be treated kindly."

Smith nodded. "Thank you."

Liu Zhenjie stepped aside and pointed to the open grass beside the reviewing platform. "Have your soldiers assemble there. The tents are set up, food and water are provided. The wounded will receive care."

Smith nodded again. He turned and waved to the troops behind him. The British soldiers began moving toward the grass, their steps still orderly, but each face bore an indefinable expression—relief, resentment, bewilderment, and anxiety about what would come next.

A young soldier passed by Liu Zhenjie. He seemed under twenty, his face still bearing a lingering boyishness. His uniform had a torn seam, his boots were mud‑splattered, but his rifle shone polished. As he passed Liu Zhenjie, he suddenly halted, turned his head, and looked at Liu Zhenjie.

Liu Zhenjie also looked at him.

The soldier opened his mouth, asking in halting English, "The war… is over?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded.

The soldier was stunned for a moment. Then their eyes reddened. They tried hard to hold back, but tears still fell. They lowered their head, wiped their face with a sleeve, and continued forward. After a few steps, they suddenly stopped again, turned back, and gave Liu Zhenjie a glance.

In that glance lay too many indescribable things.

Liu Zhenjie watched the young figure's back recede, and his heart suddenly tightened. That child might have been transferred from Yingguo's mainland, or conscripted, or perhaps still had parents waiting at home. He had fought on this foreign soil for two years, and now could finally return home.

But what about those who cannot return?

He shook his head, shaking the thought away.

Three p. m., Sydney Harbor.

Liu Zhenjie stood on the highest pier of the harbor, watching the distant flagpole. On the pole, Yingguo's Union Jack was slowly being lowered. The lowering was performed by two British soldiers, whose movements were slow and meticulous, as if conducting a sacred ceremony.

When the flag was halfway down, it suddenly halted. The two soldiers exchanged a glance, then continued lowering. Yet the moment the cloth touched their hands, one soldier abruptly clutched the flag to his chest, burying his face in it, his shoulders trembling.

The soldier beside him patted his back, saying nothing.

Liu Zhenjie watched the scene in silence. Zhang Haiyang stood beside him, also silent. Everyone around remained silent, simply watching.

After a long while, the soldier finally released his grip. They folded the flag neatly and handed it to an officer nearby. The officer, holding the perfectly folded flag, walked up to Liu Zhenjie.

"General," his voice a little hoarse, "this is the Sydney garrison's banner. Please receive it."

Liu Zhenjie took the flag. It was silk, very light, yet in his hand it felt as heavy as a thousand pounds. He was silent for three seconds, then handed the flag to Zhang Haiyang behind him.

"Keep it safe," he said.

Then he lifted his head and looked at the empty flagpole.

The flagpole was tall, its tip glinting metallic in the sun. From today onward, no Yingguo Union Jack would fly there. From today onward, the flag to be hoisted would be Lanfang's Golden Dragon Flag.

Liu Zhenjie turned, and said to the communications soldier beside him, "Raise the flag."