Chapter Thirteen: Imitation Is No Easy Task

Zhao Yansun had indeed seen death before, but as he rushed into the house, he was unprepared for the carnage within—corpses everywhere! Most horrifying of all were the dozens of bound Russians, their deaths too gruesome to behold. On the wall, a line of bold characters proclaimed: “Liu Yikun of Gulu Mountain Demands Vengeance!”

His hands began to tremble violently. He was afraid—truly and deeply afraid.

Over five hundred Russian soldiers had vanished overnight without a sound? Suddenly, Zhao Yansun realized that the gunfire he’d heard the night before was not the Russians celebrating. A terror arose from the depths of his soul, setting his teeth chattering.

This dread did not stem from the death of the Russians, though, of course, he was involved and might be implicated if there was an investigation. But that wasn’t what frightened him. With the magistrate present, any disaster would fall on his superior’s head first; he would escape unscathed. What terrified him was that the bandits from Gulu Mountain had the power to wipe out an entire Russian encampment in a single night. That truly unsettled Zhao Yansun. He, too, had played a part in killing Liu Yikun, and those characters on the wall seemed to carry a particular menace when he read them.

Liu Yikun of Gulu Mountain demands blood! They had come for vengeance!

In his daze, Zhao Yansun hallucinated that the characters leapt from the wall, transforming into blades that stabbed at him. In terror, he collapsed to the ground, then scrambled out of the hall, regaining a shred of composure only when he reached the magistrate’s side.

“Your Excellency! They’re all dead—every one of them! It was Liu Yikun’s men from Gulu Mountain!”

The magistrate seized him, whispering fiercely, “Listen to me. If we want to survive, there’s only one way—I’ll go to Shengjing and report to General Zengqi, ask him to negotiate with the Russians. You must immediately lead troops to besiege Gulu Mountain. Before the Russians learn of this, you must capture those bandits. Do you understand?”

A look of utter despair crossed the magistrate’s face. He knew he could never atone for the deaths of over five hundred foreign soldiers—his career as magistrate was over. All that remained was to do what he could to make amends, buy his life back with silver if need be. As long as they caught the culprits, perhaps he could give the foreigners an explanation—there was still hope.

Naturally, Zhao Yansun was eager to cooperate at such a moment. If the magistrate survived, he would be safe too. He nodded hastily, “Understood. I’ll assemble the troops at once.”

Back on Gulu Mountain, Yang Xiaolin was following the example he’d learned elsewhere: distributing some of the plundered supplies to the villagers, and gathering all those who’d fought in the battle to review what had happened. They practiced criticism and self-criticism, each pointing out what they or their comrades had done poorly or could improve.

This seemingly minor practice was, in fact, the very method that had forged an indomitable army in times past—an army that would, on the fields of Korea, rout the Americans and their allies. One had to respect its effectiveness.

He found his current situation much like that of the great founder himself, and saw no harm in copying proven methods. Fortunately, those strategies would one day become the standard throughout China’s military; every soldier would know them by heart, and Yang Xiaolin executed them well enough.

“I’ll start,” he said. “In this last battle, I failed to gather proper intelligence on the situation at Ganzi Tun before fighting. As a result, over fifty of our brothers lost their lives. That’s my mistake.”

He believed in leading by example. Kong Luodi chimed in beside him, “Captain, you can’t blame yourself. We couldn’t even get inside that place!”

Yang Xiaolin waved his hand, “That’s not an excuse. From the beginning, we convinced ourselves it was impossible to infiltrate Ganzi Tun, and what happened? We didn’t even try! That’s on me. I apologize to everyone.”

Kong Luodi looked embarrassed at this. “Since Captain Yang is taking the lead, let me say something too. I think taking out the Russians was a big success. Did any of us ever imagine we could eliminate five hundred Russians in one go? Never! Even when Brother Liu was alive, we never dared dream of it. Sure, there were mistakes in the fighting, but everyone gave it their all—especially Brother Gu’s men, charging that tile-roofed house under a hail of bullets. That took real guts!”

Gu Tianming sighed, “Don’t compliment me. Avenging Brother Liu was my duty and honor.”

“Hmph, just flattering yourself, aren’t you?” Jin Dadao snorted from the side.

Gu Tianming glanced at him without a word, lowering his head. Yang Xiaolin smiled at Jin Dadao, “Brother Jin, today we’re just here to discuss the fight. If you have any criticisms, speak up. If you’re right, Brother Gu will listen, won’t you, Brother Gu?”

Before Gu Tianming could reply, Jin Dadao coughed, “Fine, then I’ll say something.”

Yang Xiaolin had no idea how hard the founder had struggled to establish this practice of criticism and self-criticism, nor how deeply ingrained it had become through hardship and repetition. For people like Jin Dadao, self-criticism was as painful as death; criticizing others, on the other hand, was like passing a death sentence.

“I can’t believe you, Gu Tianming. Claiming you avenged Brother Liu? Xianhe was wounded so badly—why wasn’t it you? I bet you were hiding behind Xianhe when you charged!”

Yang Xiaolin’s eyes grew wide. He looked from Jin Dadao to Gu Tianming. Sure enough, Gu Tianming had reached his limit. He slammed the table and stood up. “Jin Dadao! I’ve put up with you long enough!”

Jin Dadao slammed the table as well. “No one asked you to put up with me! If you have something to say, spit it out! I’ve been sick of the sight of you for ages!”

Gu Tianming shouted, “I know I hesitated that one time—I’m not proud of it! But I admired the way you led your men to risk your lives avenging Brother Liu. I’ve taken every insult, haven’t fought back even when you hit me! But now you’re going too far. Don’t think I’m afraid of you!”

Jin Dadao stood as well, drawing his pistol and pointing it at Gu Tianming’s head. “Draw your gun. I’ll count to three, and we both shoot. Whoever hesitates is a coward’s son!”

Yang Xiaolin was stunned. Both men had their pistols aimed at each other’s heads. He slammed his hand on the table. “Enough! Jin Dadao, get out there and check how the men are distributing the food!”

Jin Dadao didn’t lower his gun. “Why should I leave? Make him go!”

Kong Luodi hurried to pull Jin Dadao away. “Come on, Brother Jin, let’s go. Don’t get angry. We’re all brothers here, sharing the same pot—no need for this.”

In the end, Jin Dadao didn’t count to three. Kong Luodi dragged him out, though he was still grumbling as he left.

Thus ended Yang Xiaolin’s first attempt at criticism and self-criticism, leaving him frustrated. Gu Tianming sat awkwardly beside him, saying nothing. The two of them sat in silence for a while, but Yang Xiaolin’s troubles were only just beginning.