93: Chapter 94 Goodbye!

A progress bar popped up on the screen.

A blue bar on a white background, with jumping white percentage numbers.

Zero percent.

One percent.

Three percent.

The progress bar moved very slowly, taking two or three seconds for every tick.

Su Yun leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, staring at that blue line as it crawled to the right bit by bit.

Twelve percent.

Twenty-seven percent.

Thirty-four percent.

With every percentage point that passed, his shoulders slumped a little more.

It wasn't the slump of exhaustion; it was as if something inside his body was being drained away.

Forty-one percent.

In a livestream room over fifty thousand kilometers away, Jack shed the last tear of that night.

Fifty-three percent.

Brother Bao closed his livestream, and the pages of thirty million viewers went offline at the same time.

Sixty-seven percent.

Dai Dai placed her phone on the windowsill with the screen facing outward, letting the early morning wind of Nanjing blow across the image that was counting down to zero.

Eighty-one percent.

All players worldwide who were still online received a notification at the same time.

[The server will shut down in 120 seconds. Please save your memories.]

Eighty-nine percent.

Su Yun's breathing became very light, the rise and fall of his chest so small it was barely a millimeter.

Ninety-seven percent.

He saw a preview of the last piece of data before it was deleted.

Camp Administrator, Su Yun.

Finale, In Front of the Baked Wheat Cake Stall.

Miss you.

His ten fingers tightened over his stomach, nails sinking into the texture of his cotton T-shirt.

Ninety-eight percent.

Ninety-nine percent.

His right hand moved toward the keyboard and pressed the final command to shut down the server.

The server began to shut down layer by layer.

Starting from the outermost public channel, chat records disappeared one by one, like paint being scraped off a wall layer by layer.

Then it was the resource system; all the roasted flour, frozen potatoes, Guanyin clay, and snow water mixed with toothpaste were erased from the database one by one.

Then it was the maps; the fields of Antong collapsed into code fragments, the snowy plains of Chosin Lake folded into binary, and the scorched earth of Feihu Mountain, the setting sun of Pine Bone Peak, the bloody mud of Iron Field, and the tunnels of the Battle of Triangle Hill all turned into zeros one after another.

Then it was the sounds; the vibrato of the charge bugle, the melody of "My Motherland" played on a harmonica, and the sob in the Company Commander's throat when he said to eat their fill before heading out—all fell into silence.

Finally, it was them.

One thousand seven hundred and thirty-one names were deleted from the database line by line.

Little Shandong.

Company Commander.

Platoon Leader.

Second Pillar.

Tie Niu.

Xiao Guang.

Old Squad Leader.

Third Squad Leader.

With every name deleted, Su Yun's lips moved silently, as if he were chanting them.

The second the clearing was complete, all players worldwide who were still online were kicked out of the game simultaneously.

The final frame before being kicked out stayed on everyone's screen for three seconds.

One thousand seven hundred and thirty-one NPCs.

Standing in their respective positions.

Little Shandong stood by the railing of the Dandong Broken Bridge, his buckteeth showing and the dimple on his left side deeply recessed.

The Company Commander stood under the flagpole of the primary school playground, his military cap slightly askew and his laughter lines crinkled together.

The Platoon Leader stood by the railway tracks, a look of simple, honest satisfaction on his square face.

Second Pillar stood under a streetlamp at the night market, his canine teeth facing the screen.

Everyone was facing the screen.

Everyone was smiling.

Everyone held their right hand up against their brow.

Saluting.

No text appeared on the screen.

No goodbye.

No thank you.

Not a single word.

But everyone heard it.

Then the screen went white.

It went empty.

Everything was gone.

The World fell silent for forty-seven seconds.

From Dandong to New York, from Tokyo to London, the 1.9 billion people who had experienced this game fell into the same kind of silence at the same moment.

No one organized it.

No one made an agreement.

Forty-seven seconds.

Seventeen seconds longer than the United Nations' standard time for a moment of silence.

Then Jack deleted that open letter.

He posted a new update with only three words.

"I am watching."

Dai Dai forwarded it.

Brother Bao forwarded it.

A hundred people forwarded it.

A thousand people.

Ten thousand people.

One million.

Ten million.

One hundred million.

Two hundred million.

The same sentence, without any additions, without any comments.

"I am watching."

Those three words spread across the global internet.

Translated versions in various languages appeared simultaneously—English, Japanese, Russian, Arabic—but everyone knew that the source of these three words was a young soldier in straw sandals who, in a twilight after seeing modern China, spoke the final words to a young man he didn't know was his own grandson.

One hundred percent.

Clearing complete.

Early morning.

Su Yun turned off the computer.

The old house returned to its original state—quiet, old, and devoid of any high-tech equipment.

The young soldier in Grandpa's memorial photo was smiling at him.

The cotton shoes were still there.

The medals were still there.

The Baked Wheat Cake had disappeared.

It had vanished along with the clearing of the database; when the iron box was opened, there was only air inside, with not even a crumb of flour left behind.

But the tactile sensation of flour still lingered in Su Yun's palm—that warm, rough sensation so real it couldn't possibly be an illusion.

He pressed his hand to his nose and sniffed.

There was no longer any scent.

But he remembered.

He would always remember.

Su Yun stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open.

The city in the early morning was very quiet; in the distance, a construction site was active, the red lights of the tower cranes flashing, while nearby, a convenience store glowed with warm light as the clerk bent over to stock goods.

Further away, at the very edge of the skyline, there was a faint, pale streak of bluish-white.

Dawn was breaking.

Su Yun stood by the window, looking at this World his Grandpa had traded his life for.

Slowly, gradually, he stood up straight.

He raised his right hand and held it against his brow.

Toward the lights of ten thousand homes outside the window.

He gave a non-standard, somewhat clumsy military salute.

His arm wasn't straight enough, and the angle of his fingers wasn't quite right; it wasn't the posture of a soldier, but a young man who had never served in the army using all his clumsiness to express his full solemnity.

Then he lowered his hand.

He turned and closed the window.

He sat back at the desk.

He took out a sheet of white paper and a pen from the drawer.

He began to write.

His handwriting was slow and forceful, the tip of the pen pressing against the paper with a faint scratching sound, as if he wanted to carve every stroke into the page.

He wrote a line of text.

New Project Plan: "Battle of Triangle Hill", an independent drama film. Licensing method: Worldwide free of charge.

Below the title, he wrote another sentence in small, crooked characters, like the beginning of an essay written by an elementary school student.

Dedicated to all those who could not return.

Outside the window, it was light.

The first ray of sunlight reflected off the glass curtain wall of the building opposite, breaking into warm golden fragments; one fragment happened to fall on the edge of the white paper, illuminating the indentations pressed by the strokes on the page.

Those indentations were deeper than the ink.

Three months later.

Dandong.

A new Baked Wheat Cake stall opened next to the Yalu River Broken Bridge.

The shop was very small, squeezed between two plane trees, with only a cutting board, a stove, and a blue canopy cloth overhead that rattled whenever the wind blew.

The owner was a quiet young man with a buzz cut, thin calluses on his hands, and a high brow.

The Baked Wheat Cakes were well-made.

Golden-yellow, the dough puffed into a thin shell, sesame seeds sprinkled evenly, with a ring of perfectly timed char around the edges; when they were fresh out of the oven, the aroma of flour and the scent of the charcoal fire mingled together, drifting halfway down the street.

There was no promotion on opening day—no banners, no firecrackers, even the sign was just a piece of cardboard with two words written in marker: Baked Wheat Cakes.

But a line began to form at five in the morning.

The people who came were all very quiet.

No one spoke loudly, no one hurried anyone; those at the back weren't anxious, and those at the front weren't in a rush to leave.

Some took a Baked Wheat Cake but didn't eat it; they walked to the railing of the broken bridge, placed the cake on the iron railing, stood facing the direction of the opposite bank for a while, and then turned to leave.

Some took two—one to keep in their pocket for themselves, and one to place on a stone pillar by the river.

Some took three—one for the railing, one for the stone pillar, and one held in their hand as they crouched by the river and gnawed on it for a long time, until sesame seeds were scattered all over the ground.

At seven in the morning, a middle-aged man in a windbreaker reached the front of the window.

He glanced at the Baked Wheat Cakes lined up on the cutting board, a golden row of them; the fire in the stove was still burning, casting the young owner's face in half-light and half-shadow.

"How much are you selling these cakes for?"

The young man looked up slightly.

"They're free.

The middle-aged man was stunned for a moment.

"Then how do you make a living?"

The young man didn't answer; he used tongs to pick a freshly Baked Wheat Cake out of the stove, let it cool on the cutting board for a few seconds, and then handed it over.

The middle-aged man took it.

The cake was very hot, so he shifted it from hand to hand.

"Really no charge?"

"No."

"Then why are you doing this?"

The young man wiped his hands and pointed to the fire in the stove.

The firelight shone on his face, the orange-red light making his brow very bright.

"I promised someone," he said, "to let everyone who passes by have a hot bite."

The middle-aged man stood there holding the cake, opening his mouth but finding no words.

He looked down at the Baked Wheat Cake in his palm.

Golden-yellow, sesame seeds embedded in the crust, steam rising up in wisps.

He took a bite.

The crust crumbled between his teeth, the sweetness of the flour and the fragrance of the sesame seeds mingling; it was so hot his tongue recoiled, but he couldn't bear to spit it out.

He chewed for a long time and slowly swallowed that mouthful of dough.

Then he took the remaining half of the cake, walked to the railing of the broken bridge, and placed it on the iron railing.

The river wind blew.

It blew from the direction of the opposite bank.

By evening, the queue in front of the stall finally dispersed.

The young man poked at the last piece of charcoal in the stove; the flames died down, turning into a layer of dark red embers.

He wiped the cutting board clean, gathered the flour into a pile, and covered it with a damp cloth.

He crouched by the stove, watching the red light flickering in the embers.

An old man walked over.

He was very old, appearing to be in his eighties, wearing a faded military-green cotton jacket; the collar was worn and frayed, and the right sleeve was empty, tied off with a strip of cloth.

The old man stopped in front of the Baked Wheat Cake stall.

He didn't line up, because there was no longer a line.

The young man looked up at him.

The old man's face was full of wrinkles, his eye sockets were deep, his pupils were cloudy but bright, his lips were chapped, most of his teeth were gone, and his mouth was sunken in.

He stared at the fire in the stove for a long time.

"Are there any left?" His voice was thin, carrying a rasp from being blown by the wind for too many years.

The young man pulled the last Baked Wheat Cake from under the cutting board, wrapped it in oil paper, and handed it over.

The old man reached out with his left hand to take it.

With only one hand, his grasp was somewhat shaky; the cake almost fell, and the young man quickly reached out to support it from underneath.

"Take it slow."

The old man held the cake in his hand and lowered his head to sniff it.

His nostrils flared twice.

Then his lips began to tremble.

It wasn't the tremble of cold; it was as if something from very, very deep inside had surged up and blocked his throat.

"I... had a comrade," the old man said, his voice halting, "back then, over there, he was so hungry he couldn't take it anymore. He said when he came back, he wanted a hot bite."

He paused.

"He didn't come back."

The young man crouched by the stove and didn't speak.

The old man raised the cake to his mouth and took a bite.

He chewed very slowly.

His cheeks went in and out; with few teeth left, the crust was ground against his gums, back and forth for a long time before he finally swallowed.

His tears fell.

They flowed down those wrinkles, winding all the way like rainwater flowing along the grain of old tree bark.

"It's so good," he said. "It's so damn good."

The young man's eyes reddened, but he didn't shed a tear.

He poked the charcoal from the bottom of the stove, and the fire brightened a bit.

The old man finished the cake and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

He glanced toward the broken bridge.

The last bit of sunlight on the river was receding; the distant water turned from orange-red to deep bluish-green, ripples pushing toward the shore layer upon layer.

"Over there," the old man gestured with his chin toward the opposite bank, "he's still over there."

The young man stood up, walked to the old man's side, and stood facing the river with him.

Two people, one old and one young, one with an empty right sleeve and one with flour on his hands, stood side by side in front of the Baked Wheat Cake stall by the Yalu River Broken Bridge.

The river wind blew.

Someone said that at that moment in the evening, all the ripples on the river surface went still at once.

One second.

Only one second.

The water surface was as flat as a mirror, reflecting the last line of sunset in the sky.

It was as if something had passed by.

Then the ripples returned.

The river continued to flow.

The young man turned around and walked back to the stove.

He added a new piece of charcoal to the stove and pressed it down firmly with the tongs; red light peeked through the cracks in the charcoal, shining on the thin calluses on his hands.

He sat on a small stool and watched the fire.

The fire burned steadily.

Tomorrow morning at five, he would get up to knead the dough.

Sprinkle the sesame seeds.

Press them against the stove wall.

When the crust puffed up and the golden shell glowed against the firelight, he would pick the cakes out one by one and line them up on the cutting board, so that everyone passing by the broken bridge could have a hot bite.

Every day.

Every day would be like this.

The charcoal in the stove burned through, the red light flickering in the gaps and reflecting on his face.

His brow was high.

Exactly like the person in the photograph.

The End!