For a moment, the whole world seemed to fall silent.
The wind stopped, and so did the sound of the crowd's breathing.
Only the tattered Tiger Braves battle flag still snapped in the night sky, as though releasing sobs of grief and relief that had been stifled for eighty years.
Yue Qinhu stood there, his tall, powerful frame like a mountain that had stood unchanged since time immemorial.
He lowered his head and looked at Ito Yūgorō, who knelt at his feet, trembling like a heap of sludge.
In those clouded old eyes that had burned for so long, the towering fury and murderous intent slowly faded.
In their place came an indescribable bewilderment and exhaustion.
It was as though the force that had sustained him for eighty years had finally drained away.
Clang!
Yue Qinhu released the bayonet in his hand. The weapon, stained with countless lives' worth of blood, fell to the ground with a clear ring.
He let go of the flagpole, too.
Without its support, the battle flag, bearing a weight greater than a thousand pounds, slowly toppled to one side.
Yue Xiaofei darted forward, caught the pole firmly, and planted it back in the ground.
Looking at his grandfather's suddenly stooped back, his heart ached, and his eyes instantly reddened.
"Grandpa..."
Yue Qinhu did not turn around. He merely raised his head and stared blankly at the wall of the Memorial Hall covered in names, then looked down at the patch-covered Patchwork Garment he wore.
His rough fingers, covered in scars and calluses, began gently stroking the patches on his chest, one by one.
His movements were so tender, so careful, as though they were not scraps of cloth, but young, living faces.
"Da Lei... did you see that, lad?"
His voice was soft and