The autumn night of 1928 carried a biting chill, mountain winds sneaking through the cracks of the dilapidated temple's windows. Tian Yu jolted upright from the straw pile, his coarse linen jacket soaked through with cold sweat—clinging to his back like a shell of ice.
"General Tian Yu!! The enemy's breaking through the defense line! Requesting support—requesting support!"
The shout from three years prior still roared in his ears. The 1925 battle, a nightmare he'd never shake for as long as he lived, was like a poisoned blade, twisting and tearing at his heart night after night. Before his eyes, the blood-drenched battlefield reappeared: blood in the trenches pooling above his ankles; a broken rifle protruding from a comrade's corpse, its stock still stained with brain matter; the young soldier who'd always followed him, calling him "General," now only half his body left, squirming in the muck. His fingers scraped the dirt, leaving trails of red, as he mumbled through gasps: "Hold on… we must hold on…" Of the 300-strong vanguard, only twenty-odd wounded men remained. Of the entire 3,000-strong army, merely six survived—and he was one of them.
"General? Another nightmare?"
The temple's wooden door creaked open. Tian Tu stepped in, carrying half a ladle of warm water. The kerosene lamp cast faint shadows across his face. He was a veteran who'd fought his way out of the encirclement with Tian Yu back then, and the most attentive of the five remaining brothers. Every time Tian Yu woke screaming from a dream, Tian Tu was the first to notice. Mud still clung to his trouser cuffs—clear proof he'd only just returned from the foot of the mountain.
Tian Yu wiped the cold sweat from his face. His Adam's apple bobbed, but no words came. He glanced toward the temple's corner, where his four other brothers huddled on straw piles, fast asleep. One even smacked his lips in his dream, as if savoring something sweet. But Tian Yu knew— that blood-red memory of 1925 lurked in every one of their nights.
"Drink some water, General. Settle your nerves." Tian Tu held out the ladle, his voice soft. "Thinking about 1925 again?"
Tian Yu took the ladle. The cold pottery of its rim against his fingertips jolted him back to the present, if only a little. He tilted his head and gulped down a few sips. The warm water slid down his throat, but it couldn't chase away the chill in his chest. "Nothing," he said, handing the ladle back, his tone stiff with forced bravado. "Just the wind rattling the windows. Spooked me, is all."
Tian Tu didn't call his bluff. He simply squatted beside him, silently tidying the firewood on the ground. "General, don't bottle this up. If those traitors hadn't sabotaged us—cutting off our rations and reinforcements—we never would've lost. This isn't your fault."
"Not my fault?" Tian Yu's voice rose sharply, then dropped, afraid of waking the others. "I'm the general! Three thousand brothers followed me, and only six walked away! I couldn't hold the line, couldn't protect them… and now I've got you all hiding in these mountains, acting like bandits…" He clenched his fists so tight his nails dug into his palms—the pain clearing his head, if just for a moment.
After 1925, they'd become wanderers. The regular army wouldn't take them; warlords hunted them. Left with no other choice, they'd fled to the mountains, surviving by robbing wealthy, unscrupulous merchants. Every time they gave the stolen supplies to the struggling villagers at the mountain's foot, Tian Yu felt a flicker of relief—at least they hadn't lost the conscience of soldiers.
Tian Tu sighed, then pulled a hard, dry steamed bun from his coat and handed it to Tian Yu. "Eat something, General. Traded for it in the town below today—better than yesterday's wild vegetable porridge. Oh, and I lingered at the teahouse by the railway this afternoon. Heard from the porters—tomorrow noon, a rich merchant's private train will pass the mountain. It's loaded with grain, cloth, and plenty of herbs for colds. Everything we and the villagers need to get through winter."
Tian Yu's hand froze mid-air, the rough wheat bran of the bun pricking his palm. For a moment, he was back to 1925, before the battle—his brothers huddled by the trenches, sharing a single warm steamed bun. Each broke off a piece, grinning like fools as they ate. Back then, even with so little, their hearts were warm. They'd all thought: win this fight, and we'll go home to good lives. When someone sprained an ankle during training, the others took turns carrying him; when standing guard at night, they'd huddle and tell stories of their hometowns—even the wind smelled of hope.
But now, good lives were a distant dream. The living clung to survival in these dark mountains, burdened by guilt and resentment, surviving on train robberies. The dead were at peace, but those left behind were tormented by memories, watching the ideals they'd once fought for crumble, bit by bit, in the harsh light of reality.
"General, don't overthink it." Tian Tu patted his shoulder—his knuckles deformed from years of gripping a saber. "Tomorrow, we'll set an ambush at the railway bend. I've got the train's schedule down. We'll get the supplies, no doubt. Keep the brothers alive through winter, give some to the villagers. That's not a wasted life."
Tian Yu nodded. He broke the bun into small pieces and set them gently beside his sleeping brothers. Moonlight filtered through the broken window, falling on their tired faces, and on his own weathered hands. He looked out at the dark mountains beyond. In his ears, he swore he heard the laughter from the 1925 trenches, saw the light in his brothers' eyes. But that light would never pierce the darkness of today.
All good days fade, in the end. Like the warm steamed buns by the trenches, like the laughter during training, like the oath to "protect the country and its people"—all of it, along with the blood spilled in 1925, had been buried under the dust of time. Gone forever.
By noon the next day, Tian Yu led his five remaining men to the train's fixed route. Their goal was clear: seize grain to survive the winter. Along the way, his companions chatted and laughed, but Tian Yu hung back, silent, watching their backs. The scene felt hauntingly familiar—just like the days after a victory, when they'd walked home chatting and joking.
As the scout, Tian Tu walked ahead, clearing the path and mapping the route. Skilled in tracking and intelligence-gathering, he was the "eyes" of the group. Right behind him were two brothers—twins, no mistaking it. Both had been infantrymen, but their fighting style, when paired, was ruthless, every strike lethal. The elder, Liu Gang, was steady and decisive; the younger, Liu Chuang, quick and agile. Both were tough, no easy opponents.
In the middle of the group walked Tang Chong, the sniper. Thinking back to the 1925 battle: he and his spotter had been sent to reinforce the front lines, but by the time they arrived, their unit had already been crushed by the enemy. Tang Chong had raced back to report, only to stumble on Tian Yu and the others, surrounded by enemy troops. In desperation, he and his spotter fought and retreated, covering Tian Yu's escape. By the end, Tang Chong held an empty sniper rifle, trapped with no way out. It was his spotter who gave him a chance to live—shoving a dagger into his hand, yelling, "Run! Find the General! Keep him safe!" To this day, Tang Chong often wondered: what if he'd been the one to die that day? After all, it took far more courage to live than to die.
Walking beside Tian Yu was Lin Tao, his bodyguard. Once, Tian Yu's guard detail had six men—all orphans, raised together, trained together, who'd joined the army and taken the oath to protect him as one. There was a time when those six were unstoppable. But four artillery shells had been enough to shatter them, to kill them. When Lin Tao woke, it was the second day of their escape. Tian Yu had told him: the other five guards had died covering their retreat, giving them time to flee. "Scrambling like rats," Lin Tao thought—the only way to describe that day. He hated himself for failing his duty, hated the defeat that had cost his brothers their lives.
How absurd it was—a defeated general and a band of broken soldiers, yet the only ones in these valleys who could save the people. They robbed rich merchants' convoys, gave the spoils to the poor, and soon the name "robbing the rich to aid the poor" spread among the villagers. Some might question what they were—bandits? Rebels? But sometimes, the people needed exactly this kind of strength: the courage to face injustice, the refusal to collude with merchants who fed on the people's suffering.
I won't call their actions "great." But think about it—how many men could watch their brothers die before their eyes, watch the friends they grew up with buried under artillery fire, and still hold onto that resolve to help the people? After all, the line between "bandit" and "rebel" was sometimes no thicker than a single thought.
That train, loaded with supplies? It would never make it past these brave men.
Gone were the days of triumph, of returning home to cheers. Now, they survived on robbery, returning with carts of supplies instead of victory flags. Yes, those bright, hopeful days were gone—just like the comrades who'd fallen, never to return. All good things, in the end, were fated to be lost.