21: Chapter 21 Who is the most lovable person?

As the sky began to show the pale white of fish belly, the wind finally calmed down a little.

It was a bleak, grayish-blue dawn, reflecting a heart-stopping cold light upon the snowfield.

"Halt and rest for ten minutes!"

The moment the order was passed down, the entire column seemed to have its spine removed, collapsing in a heap.

No one sought a comfortable spot; even the uneven gravel beach, or the thorny thickets, felt like paradise as long as these legs, heavy as lead, could finally stop moving.

Jack leaned against a dead old pine tree. The rough bark dug into his back, but he lacked the strength to even shift an inch.

He pulled out the bag of roasted flour from his chest.

It was the rations issued by the system. Slightly softened by his body heat, it still felt like dry sawdust.

He grabbed a handful and stuffed it into his mouth.

Dry.

His throat felt stuffed with sand; impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.

Instinctively, he grabbed snow from the ground, intending to stuff it into his mouth.

Slap.

A hand knocked the snow out of his grip.

It was Brother Bao.

The technical streamer had lost all his usual sharp demeanor. One leg of his glasses was broken, tied with grass rope, and his face was covered in soot.

"Don't eat snow directly," Brother Bao's voice was hoarse. "You'll get diarrhea. In this environment, diarrhea leading to dehydration can kill you in ten minutes."

Brother Bao pulled out an enamel mug from his chest; it contained half a mug of snow. He tucked the mug under his armpit.

"Let it melt before you drink."

Jack looked at Brother Bao, took the icy mug, and tucked it under his own armpit, imitating him.

The chill seeped through his ribs into his heart, making him shiver.

Just then, a figure walked over from the rear of the column.

Unlike the surrounding soldiers, who were as dirty as mud monkeys, this person's uniform was relatively cleaner.

He carried no rifle; a gray wool scarf was wrapped around his neck, and he held a small notebook and a fountain pen.

He looked like an intellectual.

He stopped in front of Jack.

"Comrade," the person's voice was gentle, carrying a scholarly air, "May I have a word?"

Jack raised his eyelids and glanced at the NPC name floating above the person's head.

There was no name, only three golden question marks: [???].

But beneath that line of question marks was an inconspicuous title: [Battlefield Communication Runner].

"Talk about what?" Jack was too weak to get up and remained leaning against the tree trunk.

The functionary didn't mind. He found a relatively clean stone and squatted down opposite Jack.

He pulled off the cap of his pen and blew a breath onto the nib, seemingly afraid it would freeze.

"I saw that as you marched, many people's shoes fell apart."

The functionary pushed up his glasses, his gaze sweeping over Jack's rubber shoes, which were already somewhat deformed. "Comrade, do you feel this is hard?"

In the livestream chat, the bullet comments suddenly increased.

"This is a softball question!"

"He definitely has to say it's not hard, that's the standard answer!"

"He needs to show revolutionary optimism right now!"

Jack looked at the functionary.

If it were before, if it were the Jack who was still performing for traffic and tips, he would definitely have puffed out his chest and recited a couple of lines in the most impassioned tone.

But now, his lungs still ached, the soles of his feet felt like they were stepping on countless steel needles, and the melting snow under his armpit chilled him to the bone.

He glanced at Dai Dai next to him, who was picking at the blisters on her feet. The girl grimaced in pain but bit her lip without making a sound.

He then looked toward the direction of the snow crater where someone had just 'disappeared' in the distance.

"Hard."

Jack lowered his head, looking at his hands, which were covered in chilblains and resembled old tree bark.

"It's damn hard."

The functionary's hand holding the pen paused. But he wasn't angry, nor was he surprised.

He simply nodded seriously and jotted down those words on the paper.

"Since it's so hard," the functionary looked up, the eyes hidden behind his lenses shining frighteningly, "why did you still come?"

The wind stopped.

Several nearby players also looked over.

Why?

Because it was a mission? Because he didn't want to lose followers? Because he wanted to win the hundred thousand yuan prize money?

These reasons spun around in his mind before shattering.

Jack remembered the village set alight by incendiary bombs.

He remembered Old Man Li, who was burned to charcoal but refused to let go of a land deed.

He remembered Second Girl, who smiled and handed him a piece of candy, only to be shredded by shrapnel the next second.

There were no superheroes here. No gods flying in the sky wearing spandex.

Here, there were only farmers who had just received land and just eaten a full meal.

Jack took a deep breath. At this moment, he felt something attach itself to him.

It wasn't just data; it was a scorching soul spanning seventy years.

"Because I want the land my father worked to be able to keep being cultivated."

Jack's voice was soft, yet steady.

He raised his head and looked south, toward Andong, toward the 'Homeland Instance' direction.

"Because I don't want my family to have to watch the faces of those iron birds in the sky anymore.

I want them to sleep at night without worrying that the roof will be blown off."

Jack tightened his grip on his rifle. The wood grain on the stock felt as familiar as a hoe handle.

"If we don't fight this war, it will be left for our sons and grandsons to fight."

Jack looked at the functionary and grinned, revealing teeth stained with soot.

"Let us fight it. If we endure the bitterness in this generation, the next generation can eat candy."

The functionary's hand trembled.

He rapidly scribbled in the notebook, the pen tip scratching across the paper with a rustling sound.

After writing the last stroke, he closed the notebook and stood up.

He didn't speak, but slowly raised his right hand toward the soldiers sprawled in the snow hollows, covered in mud, looking more wretched than beggars.

A salute.

It was a standard, solemn military salute.

[System Prompt: Your answer has been recorded in history.]

[Hidden Achievement Unlocked: Who Is the Most Beloved Person.]

[Historical Recognition +100.]

[Global Announcement: Your story will be written into an article and sent back home. Five hundred million compatriots are watching you.]

In front of the screens, countless viewers covered their mouths.

There was no stirring BGM, no grand special effects.

Only an intellectual saluting a group of common soldiers.

Jack felt his nose sting. He clumsily climbed up from the ground, brushed the snow off his backside, and returned a far-from-standard military salute.

"Alright," the functionary lowered his hand, pulled out a few apples frozen rock-hard from his pocket, and stuffed them into Jack's arms.

"Conserve them. Hŭichŏn is just ahead."

Hŭichŏn.

These two words were like a basin of cold water, instantly extinguishing the brief warmth of the moment.

In the distance, muffled thunder could be faintly heard.

That was artillery fire.

True hell had opened its gates.

The forced march finally ended.

Night once again enveloped the land. The troops arrived at the predetermined battlefield—the valley south of Hŭichŏn.

This was not an ambush but a battle of encounter.

On the distant highway, the grating sound of metal friction and the roar of engines could be heard.

The earth trembled slightly, the vibration transmitted through the soles of their feet, causing their calves to involuntarily go numb.

"Flare!"

Someone shouted.

Pfft—!

A white signal flare shot into the sky, its pale light instantly illuminating the entire valley as if it were daytime.

All shadows were stretched long, like ghostly hands reaching toward the ground.

It was the vanguard of the US Army's ace cavalry, the First Division.

In the field of vision appeared a torrent of steel, armed to the teeth.

M26 Pershing heavy tanks looked like moving steel fortresses, their turrets emitting the hiss of hydraulic systems as they turned.

The quad machine guns mounted on the M16 half-track anti-aircraft vehicles pointed toward the sky, their pitch-black muzzles exuding the aura of death.

Trucks followed closely, dragging large-caliber howitzers; their headlights converged into a river of light, stinging eyes accustomed to the dark.

In contrast, the type 38 rifles in the players' hands, which still required pulling the bolt to fire a round, looked like mere fire pokers.

"Damn..."

Brother Bao lay behind a frozen clump of earth and quickly activated his tactical analysis visor.

This was his last stubborn display of being a 'technical streamer.'

A string of dense, shocking red data popped up on his retina:

[Enemy Firepower Assessment: 100 times ours.]

[Armor Thickness: Frontal 102mm (Cannot be penetrated by any of our weapons).]

[Air Support: May arrive at any moment.]

[Estimated Victory Rate: 0.00%]

The conspicuous "0.00%" was like a red slap, fiercely striking everyone in the face.

"What the hell are we fighting with!" Brother Bao desperately threw his cap to the ground, his voice laced with a sob.

"How can we fight this? This is a dimensional strike! Our bullets won't even leave a dent! Are we supposed to smash them with our heads?"

The livestream comments instantly vanished. Even keyboard warriors felt suffocated in the face of such a vast disparity in strength.

This wasn't just a gap in equipment; it was the despair of an agrarian nation facing an industrial power.

However, the regimental commander NPC beside them showed no sign of retreating.

He lay on the snow ridge, gripping his slightly chipped binoculars. The firelight illuminated his face, where his jaw muscles bulged beneath the weathered skin.

His eyes held no fear, only two balls of fire.

Like a gaunt lone wolf, he stared fixedly at the fat and sturdy steel rhinoceroses.

"Those are iron turtles," the commander lowered the binoculars, his voice frighteningly calm.

"Even if it's iron, I'm going to knock out a few of its teeth today!"

The commander suddenly drew his signal pistol and pointed it toward the sky.

"Attention, entire regiment!"

His roar drowned out the roar of the tanks.

"No artillery preparation! No heavy machine gun cover! Only a charge!"

"Even if only one man remains, you must gnaw this bone down for me! We must let these foreign devils know that this piece of land is scorching hot underfoot!"

Brother Bao was stunned.

He wanted to grab the commander's sleeve and tell him this was suicide, that it violated tactical logic.

But before he could move—

"Doo—Doo-doo—Doo—"

The shrill sound of the bugle exploded in the darkness without warning.

It wasn't the polished, soaring soundtrack of a movie.

It was a sharp, coarse screech, carrying a hint of distortion.

It was like a rusty knife plunged directly into everyone's skull, making their scalps tingle and their blood run backward.

Su Yun completely shut off all BGM backstage.

Only the most real sounds remained between heaven and earth.

The frantic beating of hearts.

The crunch of feet on accumulated snow.

And the shouts erupting from thousands of throats—

"Kill!!!"

The snowfields on both sides of the valley seemed to come alive.

Countless gray figures leaped out from the snow hollows, surging toward the river of light like a gray tsunami.

Jack's mind went blank.

All fear, all rationality, all calculation vanished in that moment.

He felt swept up by a colossal force.

It was the torrent of collective will, the individual dissolving completely in that single bugle call.

He charged out.

A bayonet was fixed on his rifle, its cold gleam flashing.

Da da da da da—

The US military reacted extremely quickly. The quad machine guns on the anti-aircraft vehicles leveled their barrels, and four streams of fire instantly licked over them.

Comrades beside him fell like wheat being harvested.

Flesh and blood flew.

Limbs and fresh blood splattered across the pristine white snow, blindingly red.

But no one stopped.

When one fell, the person behind stepped over his corpse and continued charging.

Jack stared at the tank spewing fire ahead, his eyes fixed only on an instinctive thought:

Charge!

Stuff the grenade into that damned iron turtle!

This was an absolute disparity in strength, yet a peak collision of will.

The night was torn apart by tracer rounds as flesh and blood slammed into the steel wall.

The first shot was not meant to kill the enemy.

It was meant to tell the world:

We have arrived.