Xue Xuanqing's voice and expression were both startled, startling the staff behind the counter as well. She thought to herself: So what if it's the sea? Why would someone be frightened to this extent?
"Probably," the staff member replied dismissively, clearly considering the question trivial, then turned to other travelers seeking assistance: "Hello, how may I help you?"
The elderly traveler, however, wasn’t in a hurry to ask his own question. He craned his neck to glance at the phone placed on the counter, its screen displaying a satellite map of Pudong Airport with a small red dot marked on it.
Frowning, he pointed out the staff’s mistake: "How could it be reclaimed land? At most, this area was just a tidal flat—originally full of mud and reeds. You can easily look this up online!" After speaking, he gave Xue Xuanqing and Zong Ying a few more curious glances. "Are you two working in history or something?"
Xue Xuanqing gave a vague response before quickly thanking him, sighing in relief. "Thank goodness it's not the sea. Otherwise, if he couldn’t swim, then..."
Her gaze flicked toward Zong Ying, but Zong Ying’s face remained tense, unreadable—whether in anger or worry.
With lives at stake, Xue Xuanqing’s bravado vanished instantly, replaced by nervous hesitation. She no longer dared to speak carelessly in front of Zong Ying.
Even if it wasn’t the sea, a tidal flat and reed marshes were hardly ideal landing spots. Sheng Qingrang struggled fiercely to climb out of the muddy terrain, emerging thoroughly disheveled. His briefcase and the snack bag Zong Ying had given him were both caked in sludge.
No matter—getting out was what mattered. He’d endured worse landings before. Facing unpredictable time shifts daily, he had no choice but to adapt to sudden changes.
At six in the morning, the sky was bright, the air damp, faintly tinged with the scent of gunpowder. Due to the war, the fishermen who would have set out to sea at dawn were nowhere to be seen. Now, all that stretched before him were vast swathes of swaying reeds and the Nationalist army’s fortifications—an atmosphere thick with tension.
Sheng Qingrang roughly oriented himself and decided to find a place to hide. As long as he lasted until ten at night, when he could return to 2015 Pudong, he’d be free of this place.
The plan was sound. He had a full bag of food—enough to last days without starving, and he only needed to endure a single day.
Unfortunately, the plan was soon disrupted by the roar of an approaching vehicle.
Patrolling soldiers from the Eighth Army Group spotted Sheng Qingrang and immediately halted.
The area was under lockdown, and his sudden appearance was highly suspicious. Before he could explain, two soldiers jumped out and seized him without a word.
Sheng Qingrang couldn’t utter a single sentence. The moment he showed any intention of speaking, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against him.
The vehicle sped off, eventually arriving at the camp, where Sheng Qingrang was dragged out. Before the two soldiers could hand him over, they ran into Sheng Qinghe. Standing at attention, they saluted and reported, "Battalion Commander! We’ve captured a suspicious individual! Suspected enemy spy!"
"Step aside."
"Yes, sir!"
Sheng Qinghe remained where he was, his gaze first landing on the mud-covered figure before recognizing the face beneath.
Though surprised, the fourth brother didn’t show it. After a brief inspection, he smirked and teased, "Third Brother, the entire area’s sealed off. How did you end up here? Did you drop from the sky?"This question left Sheng Qingrang at a loss for an answer as well. He could only say, "It's a long story, but I have legal status and am not an enemy spy. You have no right to detain me."
Old Fourth naturally believed he wasn't a spy, but who had time to escort him out now? Besides, sending him out wouldn't be safe either.
Old Fourth took pleasure in seeing Sheng Qingrang at a disadvantage and deliberately made things difficult, saying mischievously, "Third Brother, rules are rules everywhere. Here, our rule is that everything must wait until the investigation is complete before conclusions can be drawn." Then he turned to the two men beside him: "Keep an eye on him."
The two soldiers were also confused. The battalion commander kept calling him "Third Brother," yet now ordered them to lock this person up. Were they being sarcastic or serious?
"What are you waiting for? Carry out the order."
"Yes!"
When a scholar meets soldiers, reason falls on deaf ears.
Despite Sheng Qingrang presenting various identity documents and passes, the other side simply ignored them, focusing solely on their guard duty.
The sound of artillery fire came from outside, sporadic at first, then gradually intensifying, as if right overhead, with the constant threat of shells falling at any moment.
Sheng Qingrang checked his watch—it was only nine in the morning.
The more tense the situation, the slower time seemed to pass, the watch's hands crawling as if about to stop.
Enduring the noise through the morning, there was a brief respite at noon, but by afternoon, the artillery fire grew rampant again, the smell of gunpowder thickening in the air.
Sheng Qingrang, sleep-deprived for days, now had his ears ringing from the explosions, his willpower teetering on the brink of collapse. He had no doubt that if he fell asleep like this, by ten in the evening, he would vanish right in front of the guards, completely unaware.
Outside, the sky gradually darkened, and the roar of planes and deafening artillery finally ceased. A day of defense had seemingly come to an end.
Inside, only a kerosene lamp burned weakly, its faint glow enveloped in a hazy halo—a fleeting calm after the storm.
Suddenly, someone barged in. The guard snapped to attention and saluted: "Report, Battalion Commander! All is normal!"
Sheng Qingrang looked up to see Old Fourth carrying a bucket of water, two pieces of clothing slung over his shoulder.
Old Fourth paused abruptly, set down the bucket, tossed the clothes onto the camp bed, his face in the dim light betraying exhaustion.
He asked the soldier, "What did the search turn up?"
The soldier promptly lifted Sheng Qingrang's briefcase and snack bag, answering firmly, "No suspicious items found. Only a few documents—from the Shanghai Municipal Council, the Relocation Committee, and a pass from the Nanjing-Shanghai Garrison Command!"
At this point, he realized they must have arrested the wrong person, but since the superior demanded an honest report, he had to admit the mistake.
Old Fourth asked, "Is he a Japanese spy?"
The soldier answered decisively, "No!"
Old Fourth said, "Get out!"
Without another word, the soldier left, leaving only Old Fourth and Sheng Qingrang in the room.
Old Fourth reeked of gunpowder and dust, while Sheng Qingrang was covered in dried mud.
Old Fourth glanced at him twice, then suddenly lit a rough cigarette, took a deep drag, squinted, and looked up again, his voice weary: "What were you doing running around Pudong for no reason? Don’t tell me there’s a factory there to relocate too?"
Sheng Qingrang replied, "It’s for another matter. Not convenient to disclose at the moment."Old Fourth had little interest in their factory relocation efforts, let alone any goodwill toward them. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he remarked, "It's all the same old story—sounds good on paper, but in the end, only the big factories will manage to move. The small ones will perish as they should. I heard the Nationalist government even came up with some 'National Salvation Bonds' scheme to buy out small factories at low prices. Plainly speaking, it's just profiteering from the chaos. You've been running around enough to know—train stations and docks are prime bombing targets now, and with the blockade, rescuing a dozen or so factories from all of Shanghai would be a miracle." He flicked off the ash, frowning as he gave his opinion: "A drop in the bucket, that's all."
Sheng Qingrang looked up and replied, "You're saying there's no point in relocating, but can Shanghai hold out?"
A trace of agitation flashed across Old Fourth's face. He instinctively glanced toward the door, though it was closed, and only faint sounds of cleanup could be heard.
Could Shanghai hold out? Old Fourth remained silent.
He kicked the water bucket lightly and jerked his chin toward the clothes on the camp bed, tersely ordering, "Wash up and change."
Sheng Qingrang didn’t move, so Old Fourth shot him an impatient sidelong glance. "What, you want me to wash them for you? If you go out looking like that, you’ll be marked as suspicious right away. Change if you don’t want trouble."
He stubbed out his cigarette butt and immediately lit another.
Men like Old Fourth, hardened by military life, had little concept of privacy. Soldiers bathed face-to-face without a second thought—changing clothes in the same room was hardly unusual.
Sheng Qingrang bent down to scoop water and wash his face, then unhurriedly undid his shirt buttons. Old Fourth turned his head away and took a deep drag.
"Scholars are always so damn finicky," he muttered. After this critique, he grabbed a towel, tossed it into the bucket, then picked up Sheng Qingrang’s discarded shirt and held it up to the light. "Looks expensive," he scoffed, glancing at the label. "Foreign-made, too."
Old Fourth had never been much for books. Being around the same age as Sheng Qingrang, he’d often been scolded in his youth with, "You can’t even measure up to that bastard child." He’d grown sick of his family’s constant comparisons and snobbery, which was why he despised both his relatives and Sheng Qingrang, who’d been fostered at his uncle’s house. So what if he could read? Could he handle a gun? Disarm a mine? Fight on the front lines?
With that thought, he tossed the shirt aside, took a couple of steps, and bent down to pick up Sheng Qingrang’s snack bag, cigarette still clamped between his teeth.
The semi-transparent plastic bag bore an unfamiliar logo.
Without hesitation, Old Fourth opened it and rummaged inside. It was filled with all sorts of packaging—some in foreign script, others with oddly simplified Chinese characters, clearly alien. But he didn’t care to dwell on it, simply tearing open a bag of potato chips. The scent of tomato and roasted potatoes wafted out.
Sheng Qingrang glanced back at him but didn’t stop him from eating.
Crunching on the impossibly thin and crispy chips, Old Fourth then cracked open a can of dace and fired off questions: "Where’d you get this? Any connection to that Miss Zong of yours? Has she left Shanghai yet?"
Sheng Qingrang, now dressed in a khaki long-sleeved shirt, paused briefly before answering, "She’s gone."
Ravenous, Old Fourth quickly finished the chips and crumpled the novel packaging.
Gone, just like that? He recalled that dim, uncertain dawn, the horizon a dull gray-blue, the woman approaching him with two children in tow. Her shirt was stained with blood, her slender yet strong hands cradling an infant—an image of singular resolve and courage.He realized he was overthinking and gave a self-deprecating smile. Tearing open another pack of soda crackers, he stuffed two into his mouth before abruptly standing up. "Are you done changing? Let's go if you're ready."
Sheng Qingrang glanced at his watch—8:00 p.m. Two hours remained before he would return to Zong Ying's era.
Now was the perfect time to leave.
He quickly walked over to pick up his briefcase and the bag of snacks, but Fourth Brother stared him down. "Put it down."
"Put what down?" Sheng Qingrang asked.
"Third Brother," Fourth Brother said, "you took my clothes. Shouldn’t you pay a little price for that?"
Without another word, Sheng Qingrang pulled out his wallet. Fourth Brother scoffed, "Who wants your money?" Then, with a pointed glance at the plastic bag in Sheng Qingrang’s hand, he finally understood. He set the bag down but took out a can of peach juice before leaving the rest for him.
Satisfied, Fourth Brother headed out the door, with Sheng Qingrang following closely behind.
A military-green jeep was parked outside. Fourth Brother slid into the driver’s seat and said, "Get in. I’ll take you part of the way."
Sheng Qingrang thanked him and took the passenger seat. Fourth Brother started the engine and drove south.
The desolate night stretched ahead, the damp evening wind rushing against their faces. Above them, a vast expanse of stars shimmered in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine—as if the war had never touched this place.
When they reached the blockade line, Fourth Brother suddenly hit the brakes. "This is as far as I go. You’ll have to walk the rest."
Sheng Qingrang nodded. "Alright. Thank you." He stepped out of the car and strode past the blockade, but the sound of the engine restarting never came.
He turned back. Fourth Brother was still sitting in the driver’s seat, watching him. Then, with a sudden motion, he tossed something toward Sheng Qingrang—it landed squarely at his feet.
Bending down, Sheng Qingrang picked it up from the grass: a well-maintained Browning M1911 pistol, its surface gleaming coldly under the moonlight.
Fourth Brother leaned back casually. "The magazine’s full—seven rounds. Good luck."
Without waiting to see if Sheng Qingrang knew how to use it, he revved the engine and sped off.
Standing beyond the blockade, Sheng Qingrang watched the jeep disappear into the distance before tucking the gun into his bag and turning away.
At 10:00 p.m., Zong Ying and Xue Xuanqing were still waiting at Pudong Airport.
The air outside the terminal was thick with humidity, while the harsh fluorescent lights inside cast a pallid glow. The aggressive air conditioning in the summer night felt almost cruel, chilling the back of their heads.
Zong Ying kept her eyes fixed on the digital clock on the screen, watching the numbers tick forward. The moment it passed 22:00:00, she could no longer sit still. "I’m going to search over there. Stay here," she told Xue Xuanqing.
Xue Xuanqing could sense the anxiety Zong Ying was trying to suppress. "Should we split up?" she suggested. Just then, her phone buzzed violently in her pocket.
Answering the call, the voice on the other end said, "Zong Ying’s phone won’t connect. Is she with you? Tell her—"
Xue Xuanqing replied with a tense "Yes," listening as the caller relayed the situation. Her expression darkened.
"What’s wrong?" Zong Ying asked.
Hanging up, Xue Xuanqing looked at her with concern. "Grandma had a fall. She’s in the hospital—they need you there now." Trying to reassure her, she added, "Go. I’ll handle things here."
Zong Ying met her gaze for a moment before entrusting the task to her. Turning, she strode quickly out of the terminal.
Her car sped away from the airport, cutting through the night. As it raced past, the headlights briefly illuminated an abandoned phone booth, long forgotten by time.Sheng Qingrang stood in front of the phone, inserted a coin, and dialed Zong Ying's mobile number. After the dial tone, only a mechanical system message came through—
"The subscriber you have dialed is power off."
OpenNovel