60: Chapter 61 O Soul, Return!

The twelfth day.

The soil on the slopes of Iron Field had probably been turned over countless times, even by the American army, but the smell of gunpowder in the air had never dissipated; instead, it grew thicker.

It was a mist mixed with the stench of rotting corpses, burnt rubber, and a strong smell of blood.

The dugout was frighteningly silent.

There was no discussion of glory, passion, or heroism.

At this moment, all the surviving players and NPCs had only one thought left in their minds: hunger.

That hunger wasn't the rumbling of an empty stomach, but the friction of stomach walls digesting each other, causing stomach acid to surge up the esophagus, burning the throat until it tasted bitter.

Jack leaned against the damp earthen wall, clutching a handful of wild vegetable roots covered in sand.

Brother Bao had risked his life to dig them up from the edge of a shell crater.

He stuffed the roots into his mouth, swallowing them down with the dirt without much chewing.

The coarse stems scraped down his esophagus, bringing a sharp, burning pain, but this sensation was quickly replaced by a false feeling of fullness.

"Is there anyone still able to breathe?"

A hoarse voice broke the deathly silence.

Division Commander Cai Changyuan walked into the ruined section of the dugout, stooping over.

This once spirited commander now looked like a laborer who had just crawled out of a coal mine.

His military uniform could no longer show its original color, his stubble was matted with dried blood, and the bandage on his left arm was stained black with seepage.

Jack leaned on his rifle, trying to stand up.

But his legs gave out, and he fell heavily back onto the muddy ground.

The surrounding mounds of earth shifted slightly.

Brother Bao, Dai Dai, and a dozen other heavily wounded NPC soldiers slowly lifted their heads.

Cai Changyuan's gaze swept over the group; there was no pity in his eyes, only an iron-like cold hardness.

"Listen carefully."

Cai Changyuan's voice wasn't loud, but it echoed in the enclosed dugout.

"We just received a telegram from headquarters; the main force still needs another day to complete the reorganization of the defense."

"Our current positions are almost entirely lost. The main peak of Seed Mountain ahead has been occupied by the American tank cluster."

Cai Changyuan paused, then drew his Mauser pistol from his waist with his one good right hand—it was the cleanest thing he had left on him.

"I need to form a suicide squad."

There was no mobilization order, no passionate speech.

"There is only one condition: anyone who can still walk, follow me. Tonight, we launch a night raid to take back the main peak of Seed Mountain.

If we can't take it back, we'll all rot up there."

Silence hung in the dugout for two seconds.

The first to stand up was not Jack, nor any of the players.

It was a young soldier who looked only sixteen or seventeen.

He still had some baby fat on his face, but now it was gaunt, with high, protruding cheekbones.

His name was Er Zhu, the same NPC who had wanted to give Dai Dai his last half potato a few days ago.

"Division Commander, I'll go."

Er Zhu leaned on the dugout wall, his legs still trembling, but his eyes were bright.

With the first one, there was a second.

Jack gritted his teeth, using the butt of his rifle to brace against the ground, forcing his one-hundred-forty-jin body upright.

Brother Bao stopped playing dead, grumbling as he patted the dirt off his backside: "If we go, we go. Dying is better than suffocating in this dugout; it's too stifling."

In less than two minutes, all thirty-plus people in the dugout who could still move stood before Cai Changyuan.

Not a single person backed down.

Cai Changyuan looked at these soldiers; the muscles in his face, rigid as an iron plate, twitched slightly.

He nodded and turned to leave.

"Division Commander!"

Er Zhu suddenly called out.

Cai Changyuan stopped and turned back: "What is it?"

Er Zhu scratched his head; his large hands, covered in black mud, were full of chilblains.

He licked his chapped lips and smiled somewhat sheepishly, revealing two small canine teeth flecked with vegetable scraps.

"Division Commander, um... when I get back, I want a bowl of fried noodles."

These past few days, because the supply lines were cut, they hadn't eaten a decent bowl of fried noodles, only wild vegetables and bark.

The atmosphere in the dugout froze for a moment.

Jack looked at Er Zhu's expectant face, and his nose suddenly stung.

In the real world, what was a bowl of fried noodles?

No one would even bother to look at it.

But here, it was the child's only wish, the price he was willing to pay with his life.

Cai Changyuan looked at Er Zhu; his Adam's apple bobbed once.

"Fine."

The Division Commander's voice was a bit husky.

"When you come back, I won't just get you fried noodles; I'll stew meat for you too! Big fatty pork slices, as much as you want!"

"Alright!"

Er Zhu's eyes immediately narrowed into crescents. He tightened his belt.

"For this meal of meat, I have to live!"

...

The night was as black as ink, and the rain poured down.

This was the darkest night in Iron Field, and the final darkness before dawn.

Su Yun sat in front of the control panel, watching the soaring data streams in the backend.

It wasn't just the 'Emotion Value,' but also an unprecedented 'Will Waveband.'

The brainwave frequencies of hundreds of millions of players globally resonated strangely at this moment.

On the screen, besides the real-time game view, more than a dozen news windows were open.

"Major Western media outlets collectively fall silent as the 'Angel Island' scandal continues to ferment.'"

"Tens of thousands of European citizens take to the streets to protest their governments covering up historical truths.'"

The most conspicuous red headline came from the East:

【After multiple negotiations and pressure, the South Korean side agrees to the early repatriation of the 13th batch of remains of Chinese People's Volunteer Army martyrs. The special plane took off an hour ago.】

Su Yun's fingers tapped lightly on the desk as he watched the countdown timer for the Iron Field blockade battle.

"Time is almost up."

He murmured, "Let history connect."

He pressed a red button.

Inside the game, the system announcement did not pop up, but all the background music suddenly disappeared.

Only the sound of heavy rain hitting steel helmets remained—the drumbeat of death.

Jack followed Cai Changyuan and crept to the foot of the main peak of Seed Mountain.

American tanks roared overhead, and the beams of searchlights swung wildly through the curtain of rain.

They had no heavy weapons; each person only had their last two grenades and fewer than five bullets.

"Follow me up!"

Cai Changyuan gave the order.

Thirty-something dark figures lunged toward the summit like cheetahs.

This wasn't a battle; it was a melee.

Jack burst into a trench and met a US machine gunner head-on.

Before the enemy could turn his gun, Jack's bayonet was already plunged into the man's chest.

But before he could pull the blade out, a US soldier from the side swung an entrenching tool and smashed it onto his shoulder.

Intense pain made Jack's vision go black, but he gritted his teeth, let go of his gun, and wrapped his arms around the American's waist, wrestling in the mud and water.

Jack clawed with his fingers, bit with his teeth, like a true wild beast.

It wasn't until he picked up a stone and smashed the American's helmet flat.

He panted, climbing up; the surroundings were filled with shouts and killing.

"Brother! To your left!"

It was Er Zhu's voice.

Jack spun around fiercely and saw Er Zhu rushing toward an M46 tank that was trying to traverse its turret, holding a grenade.

The tank's coaxial machine gun fired.

Rat-a-tat-tat—

The muzzle flashes were exceptionally piercing in the rainy night.

Er Zhu's body suddenly stiffened, and several bursts of blood mist erupted from his chest.

But he didn't fall. Using the momentum of his charge, he threw himself under the tank's track and pulled the fuse.

Boom!

It wasn't an earth-shattering explosion, but a dull blast.

The tank's track was blown off, and it was immobilized.

"Er Zhu!"

Jack roared and rushed over.

In the firelight, Er Zhu lay in the muddy water beside the track, half his body blown away.

Jack knelt beside him, at a loss, trying to cover the wound, but he couldn't cover it at all.

Blood gushed out like a spring, taking away the last warmth of the young life.

Er Zhu looked at Jack, his lips moving.

Jack pressed his ear close.

Er Zhu's voice was as light as the wind, "Brother, I... I smell meat..."

Jack trembled all over.

What meat smell? There was only the smell of gunpowder, only the stench of burning.

"Yes, meat, there's meat."

Jack choked, reaching into his pocket, wanting to find even a scrap of food.

But his pocket was empty, containing only a handful of cold shell casings.

"Division Commander... didn't lie to me..."

Er Zhu's eyes slowly lost focus. His hands, stained with black mud, grasped at the air, seemingly trying to grab the bowl of promised fried noodles.

Thud.

His hand dropped into the mire.

Jack knelt in the rain, his mouth wide open, but he couldn't utter a sound.

Overwhelming grief was like an invisible hand crushing his heart to dust.

He died. For a bowl of fried noodles he would never eat.

"Aaaah—!!!"

Jack let out a piercing roar.

He snatched the satchel of explosives next to Er Zhu and charged toward the US command post on the summit without regard for his life.

Brother Bao was roaring, Dai Dai was crying as she fired her gun.

The remaining dozen or so men stepped over the bodies of their comrades and planted the red flag on the main peak of Seed Mountain.

When the first ray of dawn pierced the dark clouds and shone upon the tattered red flag, the system prompt finally sounded.

But this time, it was no longer a cold mechanical voice, but a heavy, solemn broadcast:

【This is Shenyang Taoxian International Airport.】

【The Yun-20 special aircraft has entered the airspace.】

Jack froze.

The Iron Field battlefield before his eyes began to blur, and the scorched earth, corpses, and smoke slowly became transparent.

In their place appeared high-definition, real footage.

It was Shenyang.

In the hazy sky, a massive gray Kunpeng (Yun-20) emerged from the clouds.

Four J-20 fighter jets escorted it on the flanks, trailing long white contrails.

"This is the Chinese Air Force. Welcome home, heroes of the Volunteer Army!"

The voice over the radio pierced through time and space, resounding in the ears of every player.

Jack stood at the boundary between the virtual and the real.

The sky there was also raining.

Unlike the rain in Iron Field, this rain was warm, cleansing.

Two fire trucks sprayed huge columns of water, which converged in the air to form a crystal water gate—a 'water salute'—the highest honor in civil aviation, now rendered only to welcome this special flight's passengers.

He watched the aircraft slowly land.

The cabin door opened.

Honor guards, holding coffins draped with the bright red national flag, walked step by step, extremely steadily.

Each coffin bore a number—their last trace in this world.

Jack saw it, Brother Bao saw it, Dai Dai saw it, and the entire nation saw it.

They even felt that the coffin leading the procession contained Er Zhu.

The scene cut to the area outside the airport.

It was crowded with citizens who had come voluntarily to welcome them.

There were white-haired old veterans saluting tremulously; young university students holding banners with tears in their eyes; and a dense line of taxis stopped by the roadside, honking their horns in tribute.

Su Yun's voice sounded in the server-wide channel at the appropriate moment:

"The game is over."

"But this was never a game."

"Did you see clearly? Those you desperately tried to save, those you promised a bowl of fried noodles to, they are them."

Jack took off his VR headset.

In the real-world studio, there was dead silence.

Brother Bao sat in his gaming chair, covering his face, water streaming between his fingers.

Dai Dai clutched the medical kit-shaped pillow, crying until she couldn't catch her breath.

Jack stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the city was brightly lit, bustling with traffic.

The late-night snack stall downstairs was steaming, and several young people were sitting together, eating skewers, drinking beer, and laughing loudly.

No artillery fire, no hunger, no nights consisting only of wild roots.

This was the meat Er Zhu wanted to eat.

This was the river and mountains Division Commander Cai Changyuan wanted to defend.

Jack pulled open the window. The cool early autumn breeze blew in, carrying the unique scent of urban life.

He took a deep breath, then faced the distant North, toward the aircraft that had just landed, and slowly, solemnly rendered a military salute—not standard, but incredibly resolute.

"Ancestors!"

Jack's voice was hoarse, trembling slightly.

"You are home. This time, there's plenty of meat."

On the computer screen, the game's settlement interface finally popped up.

There was no MVP, no score.

Only a line of white text on a black background:

【The 13th batch of remains of Chinese People's Volunteer Army martyrs returns to the motherland today.】

【Seventy years ago, young faces, valiant and high-spirited, crossed the Yalu River!】

【Today, the motherland welcomes you home with the highest honors!】

【At this moment, the crossing and the return complete the historical cycle!】

【The mountains and rivers are safe, the heroic souls return!】

In the livestream room, the five hundred million viewers' barrage froze for a full ten seconds.

Then, white barrages erupted like an avalanche, with only four identical words: "Welcome home, heroes!"

Happy New Year's Eve to all readers! Thank you all for your companionship and for following the updates!

As I put down my pen here, my heart is filled only with reverence.

Behind the lights of ten thousand homes lies the watchful vigil of countless heroic souls.

Tonight, as we enjoy the festive atmosphere of peace, please do not forget:

Every inch of stability under our feet was exchanged for the flesh and blood of the Volunteer Army soldiers back then.

Too many among them stopped forever in that harsh winter, never waiting for the spring of the motherland, much less tasting their hometown's New Year's Eve dinner.

This chapter is dedicated to you in front of the screen; this reverence is dedicated to all the loyal bones resting in foreign lands.

Heroes are immortal; our generation must cherish this.

The mountains and rivers are safe, and ordinary life is prosperous—this is the New Year they desired.