I am not Ximen Qing.

A new world has arrived, the old world has departed, and the suffering people finally have their own home. Farmers have land, and workers have their own factories. Students from abroad have overcome obstacles to come to China, not for themselves, but for the rejuvenation of the Chinese nation. The devastated ruins need the power of unity to write a glorious chapter for the nation. Those conscientious descendants of the Yellow Emperor who experienced the pain of national subjugation and the loss of their homes can understand the agony of Moses' exodus from Egypt. How could Pharaoh willingly allow a virtuous man serving him to build his own homeland? It is a nation of faith: the Jews believe God will help them restore their nation, and the Han Chinese believe in their 5,000 years of cultural and spiritual heritage. This power is in their genes, in their blood, in their very being. The humiliation of foreign powers, the Qing Dynasty's dismantling of Han culture, and centuries of spiritual and physical castration—all have become a dream, a slumber. For a few, the new world is hell, but for the people, it is the beginning of a beautiful world. The sun shines on the earth, all things are revitalized, and what remains? The impoverished and backward past, the arduous journey, the long and arduous period—the Yellow River and the Yangtze River flow on, embodying the spirit and soul of the Han Chinese people. The spirit of Jinggang Mountain, the spirit of Yan'an, like the March of the Volunteers, a civilized symphony of the people's will, resonated throughout the motherland. Laughter and high spirits, long suppressed, erupted like a volcano, releasing heat and the power of progress, overwhelming the forces of reaction. The spirit of "a hundred schools of thought contending, a hundred flowers blooming" was revived. In this era, for the first time, the people believed in their own strength and will; narrow nationalism was absent. It was the greatest redemption, the greatest liberation, the greatest equality and freedom in human history. Restoring history, not erasing it, is crucial. The beneficiaries were not despots, but true democracies, not authoritarian enslavement and the genocide of Native Americans. Spain, Portugal, and America were the true authoritarian regimes. Consider Marquez's *One Hundred Years of Solitude*, the failure of the revolution—who can be blamed? The spirit of martial prowess was revived once more on the land of China. Martial prowess is not about aggression, nor is it about the annihilation of another nation.

History is a mirror; powerful dynasties always export the finest cultural ideas and civilizations. Romain Rolland didn't understand, Maugham didn't understand, why did this nation have so many enemies? The Chinese people, who never slaughtered other nations and loved peace, tolerance, democracy, and civilization, were so terrifying to the world? They became outcasts; other nations were too quick to forget. Plunderers and invaders became friends, honored guests, bringing permanent suffering and enslavement, yet they became liberators and saviors.

Farewell Stuart, farewell MacArthur, farewell Truman, farewell Nixon, farewell Japanese imperialism. Do not do to others what you would not have them do to you. Ancient Chinese wisdom, Hugo's *Les Misérables*, great romanticism, humanist novels, the restoration of Louis XVIII, the tragic plight of the lower classes. Cosette's nightmare of fetching water in Memphis, the ruthlessness of the Thénardier. Thankfully, France did not perish. Beggars, hooligans, and villains roamed freely, and Javert's lone wolf-like relentless pursuit of destroying Jean Valjean's path to redemption. History tells us that *Les Misérables*, Hugo's *Les Misérables*, was paradise for this peace-loving nation.

Even a villain like Denati managed to escape to America and live a happy life, so why did imperialists like Javert... Hey, I misspoke, Javert himself was too ashamed to jump into the Seine to meet Mr. God. The demons of capitalism are shameless. To say China is an evil dragon is wrong; capitalism is Satan. Even Nilton's Satan had humanity—how ironic! Did he want to go to the East to trade slaves? The people who experienced this period more tragic than Les Misérables emerged from darkness and saw the light again. The sun god in the sky illuminated this land with its five thousand years of history. They couldn't see beauty, couldn't see a beautiful world, because they were all living dead, numb, and afraid of the light.

There are too many patients like this. Even Bian Que (a legendary Chinese physician) couldn't help them. The disease is in the superficial layers of the body, still treatable; but when it's in the bone marrow, it's incurable. Even the resurrected Jesus couldn't cure it. Think of these pitiful people—they suck your blood and eat your flesh, yet they still can't become Jesus Christ. A large number of people are in this mental state; their minds have been brainwashed, leaving only servility. But the New World didn't abandon them; instead, it saved these suffering people.

Never trust banks; the safest place to keep your money is in a cellar.

Guo Baoshan stared at the sacks of Chinese currency in the cellar. He wanted Yuan Shikai silver dollars, but the soldiers were smarter. They always kept their silver dollars in their own pockets. Gold, silver, and antiques were hard currencies like the US dollar during dynastic changes. That's what the US dollar looked like back then, not now.

"It's over, it's over, my dream is shattered. Those worthless things! Why did I leave behind any legal tender? Burn it all..." Guo Baoshan was speechless. They all ran away, fawning over him, eating and drinking his food, leaving behind only a pile of worthless paper. He couldn't keep any more; it was all evidence of his crimes. He'd been wise all his life, but made a foolish mistake. He'd never gambled before, but now it was like gambling—he'd lost everything. Mr. Guo, the owner of Dongfeng County, was dejected. His grandfather had been the head chef of the Manchu-Han Imperial Feast in the Qing Dynasty, and the culinary skills had been passed down to him.

"I struggled my whole life, and all I got in return was a pile of waste paper. I can't even keep it; it's all evidence of my crimes. I have to burn it. My life! My blood and sweat!" His heart was as cold as the winter wind. His eyes were filled with bloodshot disappointment. His whole body was limp. Only the candle flickered on and off, moving like a ghost.

"Grandpa, please forgive your grandson. I'm just unlucky and have no ambition. Here's the money for you to use in the underworld." After saying this, he lit a match. That night was New Year's Eve, and fireworks and firecrackers were welcoming the new world. Everyone was so happy that no one noticed the fire. They thought the filial son was burning paper money.

Baoshan's money was gone, the tavern officially closed. Because of the fire, he lay in bed for seven days and seven nights, without a drop of water or a grain of rice. He hated it; why did it have to happen now of all times? He knew, in truth, that dozen or so sacks of Chinese currency wouldn't even buy half a sack of rice; money had inflated drastically. A stingy man, he was also a nostalgic one, clinging to the old and rejecting the new. He loathed and hated anything new, and like a remnant of the Qing Dynasty, he was filled with longing for the past. Small business owners had long since gone bankrupt, barely clinging to life with their last ounce of strength, like Jeremy Smith and his dog in Dostoevsky's work, stripped of even their last shred of dignity. He died—not physically, but spiritually, like the ashes of the remaining Chinese currency after the raging fire. He felt, what was the point of living? Death was better than life; all hope was the same. His experience told him that each generation was worse than the last—what was there to expect? Now he's lost everything, all that's left is this tiled house. There's an old Chinese saying, "Good fortune may be a misfortune, and misfortune may be a good fortune." Fate is truly wondrous and unpredictable; the changing times have left him with nothing.