26: Chapter 26 Crowdfunding Across the Internet: This Handmade Fried Noodles Will Send You On Your Way

The light from the screen illuminated Su Yun's face until it was deathly pale.

Data streams in the backend rushed like a waterfall, testing the limits of the server's capacity.

There was no countdown, no pre-launch advertisement.

That red button appeared abruptly in the exact center of every player's view, and also on the floating windows of every major streaming platform.

【Special Channel: Cloud Supply Line】

【Material: Special Military Rations (Fried Noodle Flour)】

【Price: 0.1 RMB / Bowl】

【Purchase Limit: 1 Portion / ID】

【Description: This is not data. This is a ration from seventy years in the future. All proceeds will be directly transferred to the Martyrs' Cemetery Restoration Fund Account.】

Su Yun's fingers lifted from the Enter key.

In the server room behind him, the hum of the cooling fans abruptly rose in pitch, sharp as an air raid siren.

The real world, three o'clock in the morning.

In a university dormitory, four young men were huddled around a single computer.

The image of Jack's severed leg was still frozen on the screen; the empty trouser leg was a painful sight to everyone.

“Only ten cents?” the young man sleeping on the top bunk asked, his voice hoarse.

The young man sitting at the computer didn't speak; his mouse cursor trembled slightly as he clicked once on the line that read “0.1 Yuan.”

Payment successful.

“I’m next.” The bunk-mate rolled off the bed and pulled out his phone.

“Me too.”

“Count me in.”

At the same time, in overtime cubicles in office buildings, in the driver's seats of taxis, at the checkout counters of convenience stores... countless glowing screens lit up, and countless fingers pressed the same option.

No one spammed “Tearful” in the comments, nor did anyone type “Awesome.”

Only the number in the backend was jumping wildly.

1,000,000.

15,000,000.

80,000,000.

300,000,000.

The data stream turned into a crimson flood, breaking through all logical restrictions, converging into a massive surge of energy that slammed into the virtual 1950.

...

Feihu Mountain Position.

The snowstorm had stopped.

Jack leaned against the cold rock wall at the entrance of the dugout, clutching the Maxim heavy machine gun in his arms.

The wound on his severed leg had been simply bandaged, but it still throbbed painfully; the phantom limb pain made him constantly feel like his right toes were itching.

But he couldn't afford to scratch them.

Hunger.

It felt like a hand was clawing at his stomach, the stomach acid corroding his stomach lining, causing waves of spasms.

He grabbed a handful of snow from the ground and stuffed it into his mouth. The cold slightly suppressed the burning hunger, but it was quickly followed by more intense stomach pain.

Nearby, Brother Bao was slumped against an ammunition box, fast asleep. Some grayish-white powder still clung to the corner of his mouth—that was the Guanyin soil he had ground up earlier.

“Vroom—”

A dull vibration came from the depths of the sky.

Jack’s eyes snapped open. That was the unique roar of a piston engine—low, oppressive—the footsteps of the Grim Reaper.

“Air raid!”

He roared, grabbing his crutch made from a tree branch, trying to stand up, but he lost his balance and fell heavily into the mud and water.

The wounded soldiers in the dugout woke up. The company commander rushed out, clutching his Mauser pistol, and looked up at the sky.

The cloud layer was low, the lead-gray firmament pressing down, making it hard to breathe.

Three black dots pierced through the clouds.

They weren't American F-80s, nor were they B-29s. They were an aircraft type never seen before, with wide wings, flying very low—so low that one could almost make out the rivets on the fuselage.

“Take cover! Quick, take cover!” The company commander dragged Jack back into the dugout and pinned him down firmly beneath him.

Everyone held their breath, waiting for the familiar sound of explosions, waiting for napalm to turn the area into a sea of fire once again.

However, there were no explosions.

The hatches on the bellies of those planes opened.

They weren't black bombs, but countless white flowers.

One flower, two flowers, thousands, tens of thousands...

White parachutes bloomed in the gloomy sky, dense and overwhelming.

They carried coarse cloth bags, swaying gently as they floated down, like a heavy snow that was seventy years late.

“What is that?” Brother Bao rubbed his eyes; he had lost his glasses long ago. He squinted, but still couldn't see clearly.

The company commander was also stunned. He had fought in battles his whole life but had never seen such a scene. When had the Americans switched to delivering gifts?

One parachute snagged on a dead branch at the entrance of the dugout.

The coarse cloth bag dangled right above Jack’s head. The mouth of the bag wasn't tied tightly, or perhaps it was ripped by the branch, and a fine, pale yellow powder leaked out, sprinkling onto Jack’s face.

Jack subconsciously stuck out his tongue and licked it.

Coarse, dry, carrying a faint smell of scorching.

It was... the scent of wheat.

Jack’s pupils dilated sharply. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he crawled over using his hands and feet and yanked the bag down.

A line of text was written on the bag in black brushstrokes, the handwriting crooked, as if countless people’s writing overlapped:

【Eat your fill, and come back when you miss home.】

Jack’s hand trembled. He reached into the bag, grabbed a handful, and stuffed it into his mouth.

There was no water, and the dry powder choked his trachea.

“Cough, cough, cough!”

He coughed violently, spitting out a puff of yellow smoke.

But he didn't stop. While coughing, he kept stuffing it into his mouth, tears mixing with the powder, smearing his face into a muddy mess.

“It’s food! Company Commander! It’s food!” Jack screamed, his voice cracking—it sounded like he was crying, yet also laughing.

The people in the dugout went wild.

Those wounded soldiers who previously struggled to move even a finger now rushed out as if experiencing a final burst of energy.

The entire mountainside was covered in parachutes.

Brother Bao hugged a bag, burying his head in it and gnawing frantically.

Dai Dai used her hands, wrapped in bandages with bone showing, to scoop up a handful of flour and carefully brought it to the mouth of the little soldier with the severed leg.

“Eat... hurry and eat...” Dai Dai’s voice trembled.

“This is... this is the best thing...”

This wasn't data refreshed by the system.

This was the food the delivery driver bought when he stopped his vehicle in the real world;

This was the breakfast money saved by the student who just finished evening study hall;

This was bought by the white-haired old man who asked his grandson to operate the controls while wearing his reading glasses.

Every grain of powder carried the warmth from the other side.

The company commander stood in the snow, clutching a handful of fried noodles.

He didn't eat.

He looked at the supplies raining down from the sky, at the soldiers wolfing down the food, and the muscles on his smoke-stained face twitched slightly.

He didn't know where this stuff came from. Perhaps from the Motherland, perhaps from deities.

But he knew what it meant.

“Stop grabbing!”

The company commander suddenly roared, his voice overpowering the wind and snow.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, powder still clinging to their lips, looking at him blankly.

“Listen to me, everyone!” The company commander held up the fried noodles in his hand.

“Everyone gets one bag! Fill them all up!”

“Company Commander, now we have food, we can hold this place!”

Brother Bao shouted vaguely through the mouthful of noodles, a foolish smile of surviving a disaster on his face.

The company commander looked at him, his eyes cold as ice.

“Hold?” The company commander let out a bitter laugh. “This meal isn't for you to sit here and play the coward.”

He turned around and pointed his finger south.

That was the direction of Pine Bone Peak.

“Regiment order,” the company commander’s voice deepened, every word squeezed out from between his teeth.

“The US Marine Division One is retreating south. Pine Bone Peak is their necessary route. If we don’t go, they’ll escape.”

The dugout fell into a dead silence.

Everyone knew what that meant.

They were now a unit of broken soldiers—some with lost legs, some blinded. No heavy weapons, no ammunition.

Going to Pine Bone Peak was going to their deaths.

“This grain...” The company commander looked at the fried noodles in his hand, his eyes suddenly turning red. “...is for our send-off.”

“Once we’re full and warm, only then will we have the strength to run, the strength to fight the Americans with bayonets.”

The company commander suddenly grabbed a handful of fried noodles and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing forcefully.

The dry powder scraped his throat raw, but he didn't drink water, swallowing it down forcefully.

“Eat!” he roared. “Everyone eat! After you’re done, we set off!”

No one spoke again.

Only the sound of chewing. Shush, shush.

Jack sat in the snow, looking at the bag in his hand.

【Come back when you miss home.】

He reached out and gently stroked the words.

He couldn't go back.

He knew it. The hundreds of millions of people in front of the screens who bought this bag of noodles for him knew it too.

This bowl of noodles wasn't meant to keep them alive. It was meant so that when they died, their stomachs wouldn't be empty, so that when they faced American tanks, they could stand a little straighter.

“Thanks,”

Jack murmured softly.

He grabbed a handful of snow and swallowed it mixed with the fried noodles. The burning hunger in his stomach finally subsided, replaced by a warmth that flowed through his blood vessels to every limb.

He leaned on his tree-branch crutch and staggered to his feet.

“Machine gun team, follow me.”

Jack hoisted the Maxim machine gun and was the first to walk out of the dugout. The pant leg of his right leg fluttered in the wind, but his back was perfectly straight.

...

The troop set off.

What kind of troop was this?

A company of over a hundred men was now left with fewer than thirty.

Brother Bao walked in the middle of the formation. He had tied all his grenades together and hung them across his chest.

These were suicide charges. He was nearsighted, and couldn't aim the gun without glasses, but he knew if he could just grab the pin of one American, it wouldn't be a loss.

Dai Dai walked at the rear, carrying a first-aid kit larger than herself.

Her hands were already rotten and couldn't hold a gun, but her pockets were full of fried noodles. That was the last bit of life-saving food reserved for the wounded.

The snowstorm picked up again.

They trudged across the snowy plain, leaving behind a trail of crooked footprints.

No one looked back.

In front of the screens, countless viewers watched this scene, tears flowing silently.

They had paid money to buy this bowl of noodles, fed these men with their own hands, and then watched them walk toward death with their own eyes.

This cruel tenderness cut back and forth across everyone's heart like a dull knife.

Two hours later.

Pine Bone Peak.

This wasn't really a peak; at best, it was a small elevation beside the highway.

A barren, rocky mountain with not a single tree.

Standing on the summit, one could clearly see the highway below.

On that highway, the most spectacular retreat in the history of human industry was unfolding.

American trucks, tanks, and armored vehicles were connected bumper to bumper, stretching for over ten kilometers, resembling a giant steel python spitting black smoke as it crawled south.

That was the main force of the American Ace Marine Division One.

That was a modern army armed to the teeth.

And blocking their path were only these thirty-some remnants who had eaten a bowl of fried noodles, and these few barren rocks.

“We’re here,”

The company commander stopped walking and tucked his Mauser pistol back into his belt.

He found a rock to sit on and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his chest. It was a map, and also a will.

“This is our graveyard,” the company commander patted the rock beneath him, his tone relaxed as if choosing a homestead site.

“The feng shui is good, facing south.”

Jack propped the heavy machine gun in a crevice between two rocks.

He looked through the sights at the stream of steel below the mountain.

That was despair.

It was also opportunity.

“Check ammunition!” The company commander’s roar echoed across the mountaintop.

“Machine gun bullets, two hundred rounds!”

“Rifle bullets, fifteen rounds!”

“Grenades, three!”

The voices were sparse.

This amount of firepower wasn't even enough to fill the Americans' teeth gaps.

“It’s enough,” the company commander stood up, tidied his uniform, and buttoned his discipline clasp tightly.

He turned around and looked at this group of ragged soldiers.

“Comrades.”

“We have no more bullets, no more artillery.”

“But we have food in our stomachs.”

The company commander pointed to his stomach and revealed a brilliant smile.

This was the first time Jack had seen the company commander smile since entering the game.

“We ate the people’s food, so we must work for the people.”

“As long as one of us remains, these foreign devils won't pass!”

Boom—!

The Americans below spotted him. A tank shell whistled over and exploded against the rock beside the company commander.

Shrapnel flew everywhere.

A gash was cut on the company commander’s forehead, and blood streamed down.

But he didn't move, still planted there like a nail.

“Prepare for battle!”

Jack pulled the bolt, the metallic click of the round chambering sounding crisp and pleasant.

He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with icy air.

Come on.

For that bowl of fried noodles.

For that sentence, “Come back when you miss home.”

Today, right here, they would repay their lives to this land.

Below the mountain, the American vanguard halted.

Several tanks turned their cannons, their dark muzzles slowly raising to aim at this unremarkable small hill.

Behind them, more American infantry began to assemble, densely packed, like a swarm of gray ants.

The great battle was imminent.