Infinite Flow: Becoming a God in a Nightmare Game

Chapter 252 Meeting you feels like seeing you again; I long for your early return.

The withered, century-old locust tree groaned softly in the cold wind. Lu Zhi stepped over the broken tiles scattered on the ground, the hem of his coat brushing against the mottled bloodstains on the stone steps.

The letter in my hand was still warm from my body.

"Sir, the Prince's Cemetery you are looking for is located on the southeast side of the back hill."

The newsboy's voice seemed to come from the fog.

Jiang Qi turned around abruptly. The remaining snow in the cracks of the blue bricks reflected the setting sun. Where was the figure in the gray cotton-padded jacket?

Only the newspaper and letter he had just given himself lay forlornly on the cracked floor tiles.

The letter was fluttered open, revealing several dark brown stains on the yellowed Xuan paper.

Jiang Qi's fingers traced the delicate small characters, but he froze as if electrocuted when he touched a certain spot—it wasn't ink at all, but clearly dried blood on the three characters "Hou Jun Gui".

A sudden gust of cold wind whipped up snowflakes, and he heard the tinkling of water droplets. Looking up, he saw tiny green shoots sprouting from the charred beams.

"Brother Mu Zheng".

A crimson hem brushed against the broken walls and ruins, and the fragrance of crabapple blossoms mingled with the smell of gunpowder.

Jiang Qi staggered past the collapsed corridor, his shoes breaking through the thin ice covering the koi pond. But what settled at the bottom of the pond was not silt, but layers upon layers of thread-bound book pages.

On the title page of the topmost copy of "Shuyu Ci," there is still a crooked lotus flower drawn by a young girl in cinnabar.

Jiang Qi bent down to pick up the scroll of "Shu Yu Ci". Lu Zhi tidied up the scattered newspapers and letters and handed them to him. "Brother, take a look at this."

The sheets of paper were slowly unfolded, their delicate handwriting filling the entire page.

Jiang Qi read them aloud in a low voice, one after another.

The late spring night rain tapped against the west window. The poetry collection you sent by someone the other day was still pressed under the celadon paperweight. The four characters on the title page, "The mountains and rivers are safe and sound," were damp with the scent of the plum rain season in southern Hunan.

The aroma of freshly roasted mugwort from the medicine shop wafted over the sandalwood table, reminding me of this day last year, when you stood under the hanging flower gate explaining the "Songs of Chu" to me, the white camellia pinned to the lapel of my dark blue student uniform glistening with morning dew.

The battle report from the front arrived at the He residence at midnight. As usual, I waited at the gatehouse wrapped in a plain brocade cloak.

The sound of the rickshaw puller's footsteps shattering the moonlight always made people clench their sleeves tightly, only daring to loosen their grip when they were sure it wasn't on the list of the dead.

The other day I heard that the 76th Division was attacked by air raids in Xuzhou. While tossing and turning, I accidentally cracked the tortoiseshell fountain pen you gave me, and the ink stains stained the lining of my newly sewn cotton coat—I was originally planning to send it to you in the spring.

Recently, I've been learning to help bandage wounded people at the Red Cross. The blood-soaked gauze always reminds me of that Lantern Festival when you taught me how to release sky lanterns to dye the night sky of Nanjing red.

Mr. Zhang from the clinic said my hand holding the scissors was much steadyer, little did he know that it was achieved by biting my lip and pinching my ten fingers until crescent-shaped marks appeared.

The night before, I wrote a letter home for a seriously wounded young soldier from Sichuan. As he recited, "Why must my bones be buried in my hometown?", I suddenly understood why you smashed your overseas study certificate and abandoned your studies to join the army.

The sycamore trees in front of the post office in the north of the city have sprouted new buds, and I always take an extra two miles to pass by the gate of the Prince's Mansion when I mail letters.

Yesterday, I saw a figure in a gray military uniform turn the corner and for a moment I mistook it for you on New Year's Eve when you were home covered in snowflakes. I was about to chase after you when I saw only the wet stains of my embroidered shoes amidst the scattered snowflakes.

Enclosed with this letter are some dried honeysuckle vines, which I collected according to the "Herbal Remedies for Famine Relief" that you left behind.

Although the medicine was bitter, it was still better than swallowing a cold bun in the trenches amidst the smoke of gunpowder.

In addition, the gold bracelet that my mother gave me as part of her dowry was melted down and made into a pocket watch chain, with your favorite inscription "How can we say we have no clothes?" engraved on the inside of the watch cover.

If one could hear the ticking of this clock hand before the charge, it would be like the raindrops from the eaves of one's hometown tapping on the bluestone steps.

As the crabapple blossoms faded, a few new swallows landed under the eaves of the clinic.

盼复

Respectfully submitted by Yuping

[Late spring of the fifteenth year of the Republic of China, at the Medicine House in Jinling]

[To Brother Mu Zheng:]

Seeing words is like meeting.

Last night, the first snow fell in Nanjing. The crabapple tree in the west courtyard was broken in half by the weight of the snow.

I stood on the veranda, wrapped in the gray squirrel fur cloak you left me here last year, and I vaguely heard you laughing at me again for always pressing ginkgo leaves between the pages of "Shu Yu Ci" as bookmarks.

Now that collection of poems is locked in a sandalwood box, and it is even more valuable than my dressing case.

Battle reports from the front lines always spread throughout Nanjing before the morning newspaper arrives. Yesterday, I heard that the artillery fire outside Wanping City had overturned the ice on the Yongding River.

I now help sort medicinal herbs at the Red Cross. When my fingers are wrapped in gauze, I always count the days since you left home—a full 127 days, even the wind smells of gunpowder.

My father always says that daughters shouldn't get involved in military and political affairs, but last night, while organizing your old annotated "Family Letters of Zeng Guofan," I saw that the sentence "It's always useless to shout and discuss world affairs from the sidelines" was circled in vermilion.

Today, when I went to the City God Temple to distribute porridge, I saw displaced women and children huddled among the broken walls and ruins. Only then did I realize the profound truth behind your words when you braved the snow to go south: "If the skin is gone, where will the hair attach?"

The indigo cotton robe I'm enclosing is cut to your old size, with an extra half pound of Xinjiang long-staple cotton stuffing in the lining.

The cuffs are embroidered with twin lotus flowers. When you unsew them, remember to use the silver scissors I brought you—you brought them back from Japan the year I turned 18.

Don't laugh at the crooked stitches; the other day, while bandaging a wounded soldier, a stray bullet startled my hand, and I ended up embroidering a crow swimming instead of a mandarin duck.

The roasted chestnut stall in the back alley of the Prince's Mansion has not opened this winter; Old Zhang, who sells sugar figurines, went south with the 29th Army.

The other day, while sorting through old things, I found the copper bullet casing that you left in the flower hall when you taught me target practice. Now it's tied with a red string and hung in front of the window. When the north wind blows, it jingles, just like the bells on your saddle in the light rain and apricot blossoms that day.

Though this letter is short, my feelings are deep; please take good care of yourself. I hope our country is safe and sound, and that my dear friend will return soon.

盼复

Respectfully submitted by Yuping

December 3rd, 1927

Hurriedly under the lamp

(Enclosed with this letter is a red lacquered food box containing six each of Poria cocos cakes and rose pastries, two jars of Baoding pickles, and a bar of newly arrived Swiss chocolates from the Dong'an Market. Do not share with your comrades.)

He Yuping's Letters:

Jade Hairpin in the Cold

Brother Mu Zheng, greetings:

Last night, the west wind withered the magnolia in the courtyard. I was wrapped in the fox fur you gave me and leaned against the window when I suddenly saw the iron horse on the eaves smash the moonlight on the ground.

It has been more than three years since Shanghai fell to the Japanese. Letters from home in the north are always tinged with the smell of gunpowder, and my fingertips always tremble when I open them.

The day before yesterday, I went to Jing'an Temple with my aunt to pray for blessings. I saw that thirty-seven new blue stone tablets had been added outside the mountain gate, densely engraved with the birthdays of the children.

The incense ash fell on the back of my hand, burning a red mark, which reminded me of the year you taught me to shoot, the warmth of your palm against the back of my hand.

You said the newly manufactured Brownings from the Jinling Arsenal should be reserved for the bravest men, and now the bullets you left are still in my holster, but I don't know where to pull the trigger.

The newspapers say the battle in Xuzhou is at a stalemate, and I keep searching for your trace between the lines.

The locust flowers in the front yard bloomed and faded, but they were even more vibrant than last year.

While sorting through old things again, I found postcards you sent when you were studying abroad. The plane trees along the Seine are so similar to those on Avenue Joffre.

But now, stray bullets are flying everywhere outside the concession, and even the best scenery is stained with blood.

Three days ago, Uncle He said that medicines were in short supply at the front line, so I pawned the South Sea pearls I had saved for three years and exchanged them for thirty boxes of sulfamethoxazole to send to the Red Cross.

Hidden in the medicine box is your favorite collection of Xin Qiji's poems, and the withered red bean on the title page is the one you prayed for at the City God Temple on Qixi Festival that year.

Lately, I keep dreaming about the day I fell into the water as a child, and how you jumped into the lotus pond to rescue me, and the jade pendant at your waist got tangled in the water plants.

When I woke up, my pillow was covered in dew. I remembered that before you went to war, you said that if you returned victorious, you would exchange your medals for the magnolia hairpin in my hair.

Now, the intertwined floral patterns on the hairpin have been polished to a shine by my rubbing, making them even more lustrous than when they were newly made.

Dawn was breaking again, the sound of pigeons whistling mingled with the chimes of the customs house.

I hope you will take good care of yourself, and that we can enjoy some newly brewed osmanthus wine together again when the country is restored to its former glory.

Yu Ping, Frost's Descent Night, Twenty-One Years Ago