Zong Ying strained to hear the other person’s words, but the noise outside grew increasingly clamorous; the poor signal made the voice intermittent.
Frowning, she pushed open the door and stepped outside. The streets before dawn were cold and deserted, the air unusually fresh and damp. Finally, she could hear Sheng Qingrang’s voice clearly.
He said, “Miss Zong, I apologize for the intrusion, but—” His voice still carried a heavy nasal tone, sounding weary. “I urgently need your help.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m currently far from the International Settlement, but I must return there before six o’clock.”
“Whose number is this?” Zong Ying remained composed as always. “If this is a borrowed phone, please have the owner speak to me.”
A woman’s voice answered cautiously with a soft “Hello?”
Zong Ying said, “Please send me your current address via text message. Also, tell the gentleman beside you to wait where he is.” She added, “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.”
The other person quickly replied, “No problem, I’ll send it right away,” before hanging up.
Ten seconds later, a text message appeared on Zong Ying’s phone. She glanced at the screen, then turned back to the private room and woke Xue Xuanqing.
Xue Xuanqing lazily opened her eyes, still visibly drunk.
“There’s an emergency. I need to borrow your car for a while. I’ll arrange for someone to take you two back.”
Xue Xuanqing half-closed her eyes and waved weakly, signaling for her to go ahead.
Zong Ying grabbed the car keys from the table, settled the bill at the front desk, and left extra money for the attendant to call a taxi for Xue Xuanqing and Xiao Zheng.
By the time she stepped outside, it was 4:33 a.m. The sky was a deep, dusky blue, and the city had yet to wake.
Time was tight, so Zong Ying drove fast. Forty minutes later, she glanced at the navigation screen—it showed she had arrived. She looked up, but no one was in sight. Checking the rearview mirror, she finally spotted a familiar figure standing under a streetlamp.
Zong Ying honked the horn and rolled down the window. “Mr. Sheng, over here.”
Sheng Qingrang finally recognized her and hurried to the car, briefcase in hand. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
“Fasten your seatbelt.” Zong Ying tugged at the strap beside her, indicating for him to secure himself, then turned the car around. “I’m not entirely clear on the Settlement’s boundaries. Which entrance is closest from here?”
Sheng Qingrang immediately pulled out a map from his briefcase and pointed to the Garden Bridge. “Here, the Waibaidu Bridge.”
Zong Ying adjusted the navigation and calculated the time—it would be just enough.
Keeping her composure, she drove toward the Waibaidu Bridge. Sheng Qingrang folded the map and said, “Miss Zong, thank you.”
Zong Ying disliked distractions, so she didn’t engage in conversation—not even with a simple acknowledgment.
On the way, she had wondered why he would seek help in such a manner at this hour—perhaps he had exhausted the cash she had given him earlier, leaving him unable to take public transport and forcing him to walk all the way from the outskirts. With time running out, he had no choice but to call her.
Even with his exceptional ability to gather information, navigating this vast modern city without money or connections was an arduous task.
But none of that mattered now. The only thing that did was making it past the Waibaidu Bridge before six.As a landmark of Shanghai, this bridge stood at the confluence of Suzhou Creek and the Huangpu River, serving as a vital passage from the northern bank of Suzhou Creek to the south. During wartime, its significance grew even more pronounced.
On this side of the bridge, it quickly became a war zone; on the other side lay the temporarily safe foreign concessions—
Two entirely different fates.
Today was August 14th, the second day since the outbreak of war between China and Japan. Those who had clung to hope and refused to flee now, after experiencing the previous day’s bombardment, seemed to awaken abruptly and began to scatter in panic.
Beyond the concessions, chaos likely reigned as countless people struggled to push their way into the relative safety of the foreign settlements.
This bridge would soon face its peak of congestion.
The sky brightened mercilessly, time passing with unyielding precision as the numbers on the display screen ticked relentlessly forward.
Zong Ying glanced at the screen—05:55:55—and in an instant, it jumped to 05:56:00, steadily approaching six o’clock.
The tension inside the car thickened. The navigation system calmly issued its traffic updates, while Zong Ying gripped the steering wheel, lips pressed tightly together, her breathing growing heavier in the confined space.
They were close—so close it felt within arm’s reach.
With one minute and ten seconds left, a glaring red traffic light barred their path, while an unending stream of cars flowed across the intersection.
Zong Ying shifted from Drive to Neutral and pulled the handbrake. The Waibaidu Bridge was almost in sight—just around the corner, less than thirty seconds away.
The countdown timer beside the traffic light slowly decreased—thirty seconds remaining.
Sheng Qingrang’s gaze lifted from his watch to Zong Ying’s tense profile. He made a request: "Miss Zong, please let me out of the car."
Her lips pressed even tighter before she abruptly released them, speaking with sharp certainty: "Twenty seconds left. Trust me."
He replied, "Less than twenty seconds likely won’t be enough, Miss Zong."
Zong Ying had clearly prepared for the worst. Suppressing her anxiety, she kept her eyes fixed on the traffic light. "And if it’s not enough? At most—"
Before she could finish, she heard the click of a seatbelt unfastening. Turning her head, she saw Sheng Qingrang reaching for the door handle.
In the blink of an eye, she lunged forward across the passenger seat and seized his wrist. "Mr. Sheng, it’s too dangerous!"
A car sped past them toward the opposite lane, followed by impatient honking from behind. Just as Zong Ying was about to let go, a dull pain erupted in her back—she had landed, now caught in a dense crowd, battered by overwhelming shoves.
The chaos was such that no one noticed their abrupt appearance.
A hand stretched toward her through the throng, only to be pushed away repeatedly. Zong Ying recognized it and, with great effort, managed to grasp it firmly.
"Miss Zong—"
After enduring shoves, collisions, and even trampling, the fleeting space in the crowd allowed them to stand and reunite—a stroke of remarkable luck.
Only then did Zong Ying’s senses gradually return.
Screams and wails flooded her ears, the noise so overwhelming it threatened to split her eardrums. The stench of sweat and blood coiled around her nostrils, nearly blocking out any fresh air... Her organs felt crushed together, her feet numb, as she moved unconsciously forward, adrift like rootless duckweed.
Then, Sheng Qingrang tightened his grip on her hand, maneuvering through the crowd to stand beside her. His arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders—
[End of translation]It was a bond tighter and more solid than holding hands, one less likely to be torn apart by the crowd.
Zong Ying instinctively grasped his other hand.
Only then did she have a fleeting moment to catch her breath and look ahead. Her vision was filled with nothing but a dense sea of indistinguishable heads. Everyone was mercilessly swept forward, swallowed by the human tide with no possibility of retreat.
Their direction was unanimous—the International Settlement.
The trampling continued—ahead, behind, beneath their feet. Not every step landed on solid ground; some met soft, slippery surfaces, others jagged bones or flesh. Innocent casualties arose at any moment in the struggle for space, and the scarce air was thick with despair and indifference.
Zong Ying turned her head. Behind her was an even denser mass of dark heads, spreading out to occupy every street on the northern bank of the bridge. Yet ahead lay only a bridge barely a dozen meters wide, and everyone was desperate to cross it alive to reach the other side.
This hysterical will to survive overwhelmed the Japanese sentries guarding the entrance, and tens of thousands surged into the International Settlement.
Zong Ying remembered the time they stepped off the bridge: 7:02.
Like people reborn, the masses rushed straight to Nanjing Road or hurried southwest toward the French Concession, scrambling for a spot in the refugee shelters.
Unlike the morning of this day in 2015, the skyline here was a dull gray. A typhoon had swept through the city at the worst possible time—this would be an exceptionally wretched day, with the stench of the Suzhou River permeating the air.
Exhausted, Zong Ying wanted to sit and catch her breath, but the chaotic crowd on the streets allowed her no respite.
Sheng Qingrang released her shoulder but tightened his grip on her hand. No longer offering unnecessary apologies, he steadied his heavy breathing and said calmly, "Miss Zong, please try to keep up."
He walked unusually fast, his grip painfully tight. Zong Ying could sense the tension and unease in that strength.
She only replied with a quiet "Okay" before lowering her head and following him all the way to the Cathay Hotel (Peace Hotel) on Nanjing Road.
While Sheng Qingrang handled the formalities, Zong Ying waited by a decorative pillar.
The hotel lobby was filled with foreign faces—those who had evacuated earlier from the Astor House Hotel on the northern bank of the Suzhou River and relocated here. Still impeccably dressed, without a trace of disarray, they spoke with faint concern about the situation, yet laughed and chatted as if the danger had little to do with them.
Drenched in sweat from the crowding and frantic pace, Zong Ying suddenly felt too weak to stand. She found a sofa and sat down.
A guest at the other end of the sofa glanced at Zong Ying’s disheveled state, clearly mistaking her for a refugee from the northern bank. A hint of disdain flickered in their eyes as they remarked to a passing waiter, "How does the Cathay Hotel allow such people in? Those shoes, those clothes—tsk tsk—"
Hearing this, Zong Ying turned to look at them before shifting her gaze back to her own feet—
Her gray sneakers were soaked through with blood, her socks and pant legs splattered with stains. Not a single drop of that blood was hers.
Her damp clothes grew cold against her skin, and a dull ache spread through her organs from the earlier crush. Despite the August heat, a chill crept slowly up her spine.Not far away in the Huangpu River, the Japanese command ship "Izumo" lay anchored steadily. Several fighter planes took off amid the typhoon weather, their roaring engines fading in and out. Nearly everyone in the hotel paused what they were doing, listening intently to the sounds.
The air raid had begun.
Author's Note:
Xue Xuanqing: My car! It's actually parked there! It's going to be towed! How much is the fine going to be?! Come back and kneel on the acupressure mat. @Zong Ying Is your Mr. Sheng out of his mind? Why did he have to get out of the car right in the middle of the road? Clueless Republic-era boy.
A few notes:
The Waibaidu Bridge was called "Garden Bridge" by the British at the time due to its proximity to the Bund Park.
"My feet slipped in flesh and blood. I knew that many times I was treading on the bodies of children and the elderly, who were trampled by countless feet until they were flattened." — Rose Farmer, North China Daily News
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