Chapter 767: Surrender at Dhaka

The signalman nodded and ran toward the flagpole. Several soldiers together tied a brand‑new Golden Dragon flag to the rope. Then they began to pull the rope.

The Golden Dragon flag rose slowly. Its golden dragon body glittered in the sun, five claws bared and clawing as if it were about to fly out of the flag. The wind blew, and the flag rustled, sounding like a dragon's low growl.

Liu Zhenjie looked up, watching the flag rise higher and higher, until it finally stopped at the top of the pole. It fluttered in the wind, shone in the sunlight, like a blaze of fire.

He stared at the flag and suddenly recalled four months earlier. Then he stood on the beach of Pidamara, watching the first landing ship surge onto the shore. At that moment he told himself, three months, I must reach Sydney.

He ran for four months.

Seven thousand kilometers.

More than five thousand lives.

Now, he finally stood here.

He whispered, "Brothers, we're home."

His voice was faint, scattered by the wind, unheard by anyone. Yet Liu Zhenjie knew that those dead brothers must hear it in the heavens.

June 3, 1918

Location: India Dhaka.

On the ruins outside Dhaka City, Shanben Yifu had been standing for a full two hours.

He stood there, motionless, like a statue. Morning light fell on his face, highlighting the deep furrows, the cloudy yet sharp eyes, and his upright uniform. His left arm was still wrapped in bandages—an shrapnel wound from the jungle battle three months ago that had not healed properly.

But he could not attend to the pain.

He only stared at the distant city, the city he had bought with fifty‑three thousand lives.

Three months earlier, he led two hundred thousand Sakura Nation soldiers into this jungle. At that time he stood on the border and told Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda, "Dhaka must be taken." Tufei Yuan Xianda asked how long it would take, and he said he didn't know.

He didn't know how long it would take, but he knew many would die.

Now he knows.

Three months, fifty‑three thousand people.

He threw those fifty‑three thousand lives into this jungle. In return came this ruined city, and—today, the British-Indian Army Commander-in-Chief who came to surrender.

Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda walked to his side and whispered, "General, they have arrived."

Shanben Yifu nodded. He saw in the distance a procession slowly emerging from the city. At the front rode a Yingguo General with white hair, his uniform covered in dust. Behind him were dozens of horse‑riding officers, and further back a long column of British-Indian soldiers.

The column moved slowly, like a weary snake winding through the ruins.

Shanben Yifu did not move. He simply stood there, watching the column draw nearer and nearer until it finally stopped before him.

The horse‑riding Yingguo General dismounted, walked up to Shanben Yifu, stood at attention, and saluted.

His movements were precise, his back perfectly straight, yet Shanben Yifu could see—he was exhausted. Not the fatigue of a day or two, but the weariness of three months, a hundred days, watching his soldiers die one by one, defenses crumble, hope fade piece by piece.

"General Shanben," his voice was hoarse but steady, "I am the British-Indian Army Commander-in-Chief Hudson. By order of London, I lead my forces to surrender to your army."

He drew the sword at his waist and presented it with both hands.

It was a very old sword. The pattern on its scabbard was worn to a blur, the leather wrapped around the hilt had blackened. Shanben Yifu took the sword and read the small inscription on the hilt—"1914‑1918". Four years. This sword had fought four years alongside the old man.

He handed the sword to Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda behind him, then looked at Hudson.

"General," he said, "how many of your soldiers remain?"

Hudson was silent for three seconds. "Fifty thousand. Maybe fewer."

Fifty thousand. Three months earlier they had two hundred thousand.

Shanben Yifu nodded. "What about the wounded?"

"Many. Supplies are insufficient; they must endure."

Shanben Yifu turned and said to Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda, "Give them half of our medicine. And food as well."

Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda was stunned. "General, our medicine is also running low…"

Shanben Yifu looked at him, his gaze calm. "Half."

Chief of Staff Tufei Yuan Xianda lowered his head. "Yes."

Hudson watched the scene, a complex glint flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Shanben Yifu turned to him again. "General, have your soldiers assemble on the open ground outside the city. The tents are set up, food and water are ready. The wounded will receive treatment."

Hudson nodded. "Thank you."

Shanben Yifu shook his head. "No thanks. The war is over."

Hudson's soldiers began to gather outside the city.

They moved slowly, each face bearing an indefinable fatigue. Some leaned on crutches, limping along. Some were supported by comrades, inching forward step by step. Some lay on stretchers, being carried. And others—still others simply sat, seated on the ruins, on the roadside, on the ground where they had fought, motionless.

A Sakura Nation soldier walked over and said in halting English, "Go, over there." The seated British Army soldier lifted his head, looked at him, his eyes hollow and empty. The Sakura soldier hesitated, then crouched and helped him up. "Go. You can go."

The British Army soldier was supported by him, stepping forward toward the assembly point.

Shanben Yifu stood on the hill, watching the scene. He said nothing, just watched.

Footsteps came from behind. Xinta walked to his side and stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

The leader of the Burmese Independence Army, dressed in traditional Burmese attire—a deep‑purple lungi and a white shirt—had a smile on his face, but within that smile lay an indescribable complexity.

"General Shanben," he said, "I never imagined there would be such a day."

Shanben Yifu looked at him. "Which day?"

Xinta pointed at the assembling British Army soldiers. "Those white men, those who rode over us and lorded it over us, now bow their heads, line up, waiting for us to deal with them." He paused, "I have waited for this day my whole life."

Shanben Yifu said nothing.

Xinta continued, "My father, my grandfather, my great‑grandfather—they all fought the English. None of them lived to see this day." His voice trembled, "I saw it. I am alive to see it."

In the distance, a Burmese Independence soldier suddenly knelt.

He knelt on the sand, cupping the earth in both hands, kissing the ground beneath his feet. More people knelt—one, two, ten, dozens. They knelt, crying, shouting, speaking something in Burmese. Some howled to the heavens, some crawled on the ground, some embraced comrades, crying and laughing.

Xinta stood there, watching the kneeling soldiers, his eyes reddening.

He walked over, reaching the first kneeling soldier. It was a young man, his face still youthful, now tears streaming down. Xinta crouched and steadied his shoulder.

"Get up," he said.