Chapter 128: Red Eyes
"Little Japs?!" Hearing those words, Liang Jing felt as if he had run into an insurmountable city wall. His tense body instantly froze, and a chilling roar, like the wail from the deepest abyss of the netherworld, burst from his ferocious dragon-like jaws.
A freezing gale surged from Liang Jing's body, instantly flooding the vast hall. The air inside seemed to be evacuated in a split second, making it impossible to breathe. People could even hear their own hearts pounding violently—thud, thud, thud, thud!
Looking at Political Commissar Gong's indifferent expression, as if none of this had anything to do with him, and observing that among the dozens of people present, only a mere handful wore expressions of indignation yet remained entirely inactive—in their minds, did the slur "Shina pig" uttered by the little Jap refer only to a single person?
Shina pig! That was the insulting term used by the little Japs to humiliate the Chinese people!
Liang Jing's eyes grew hot, then turned crimson!
Having been strictly disciplined by his grandfather since childhood, Liang Jing was deeply influenced by the old veteran. He had never held any goodwill toward the little Japs; in fact, his hatred for them ran bone-deep, because his grandfather's comrade-in-arms had been slaughtered by the little Japs on the battlefield.
Yet, compared to his hatred for the little Japs, his hatred for traitors and running dogs was even more intense! One was a direct enemy, while the other was someone who betrayed their ancestors, ethnicity, and country.
For the sake of dealing with him, this Political Commissar Gong had cast aside his national identity and ethnic belonging, paying no heed whatsoever to his country and its people?
How was this any different from a traitor and a running dog? It was arguably even more despicable, seeing as everything he currently possessed had been granted to him by the state and the people—they fed and sustained him, yet he turned around to bite the hand that fed him.
Liang Jing could not comprehend how someone devoid of national honor, dignity, and a conscience toward his country and people could attain such a high position. Were there no vetting processes?
How could such a person serve as a "public servant"?
How could he possibly serve the people?
Just how much backing and support did these little Japs have that allowed him to act with such utter arrogance on the soil of China, right in front of the leaders of so many major factions in the midst of this apocalyptic era? Perhaps people nowadays had simply forgotten their hatred!
In Liang Jing's mind, those little Japs ought to be cowering like rats crossing the street; how had they managed to turn the tables and become the masters here? Unbidden, a profound sense of grief washed over him. Perhaps these people believed that by mentally cutting themselves off, they could pretend the little Jap's insult applied only to Liang Jing alone and had nothing to do with them.
This was the tragedy of a nation!
No wonder there were so many traitors and running dogs during the War of Resistance!
"Do you not feel even a shred of guilt or shame? It matters not how you choose to deal with me, but do you truly believe that the slur 'Shina pig' just uttered applies only to me? No! Even if you choose to deny it now and deceive yourselves, that was an insult directed at me, at all of you, and at the entire Chinese race!" Liang Jing's hitherto calm and indifferent voice shifted. He was extremely agitated, and his words poured forth.
"You—you all disappoint me so deeply. It matters not what kind of people you enlist to deal with me, but your fatal flaw is that you didn't even bat an eye, didn't give a single damn, when someone hurled insults at our country and our people." As he spoke, the gaze Liang Jing cast upon Political Commissar Gong transformed from cold indifference into absolute, bone-chilling frost.
He was furious!
Saying all this was not meant to elicit sympathy from others or drag everyone into fighting these little Japs; Liang Jing was merely venting his own dissatisfaction and the burning indignation within his chest.
Pinned by Liang Jing's nakedly and intensely freezing glare, Political Commissar Gong felt as though some terrifying primordial beast was lunging at him. With a startled gasp, his body reacted out of sheer instinct; he leaped up, only to trip over the chair behind him and crash heavily to the floor.
"Coward! Truly cut out to be a traitor and a running dog!" Liang Jing muttered a silent curse of disgust, his eyes filled with utter contempt.
"Ah! So what if I am! What of it? What can you possibly do to me? I am still a regiment political commissar, representing the nation and justice!" Political Commissar Gong was completely unhinged. Stumbling to his feet with the help of Beigong Xiaogui, he felt that he had lost all his face today, utterly stripping away his dignity and potentially ruining his reputation entirely.
He no longer cared why his personal bodyguard, Gao Yaotai, had failed to come to his rescue. Without any heavy artillery left to harm Liang Jing, and terrified of the steel pellets Liang Jing might unleash at any moment, he now had only these Japanese to rely upon. He had completely cast caution to the wind, frantic and crazed, caring not a whit what the others in the hall thought of him.
"Kill him! Kill him! Xiaogui-kun, kill him for me! I will give you whatever you want, as long as you kill him! Kill this demon!" Looking utterly wretched and seemingly oblivious to the pain of his injuries, Political Commissar Gong stood beside Beigong Xiaogui, staring fixedly at Liang Jing and screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Haji! Rest assured, Gong-kun, in the presence of our great Japanese race, this Shina pig is dead meat!" Beigong Xiaogui's face lit up with joy. Though he felt boundless contempt for this shameless high-ranking Chinese official, on the surface he remained profoundly respectful.
"You, sick man of East Asia, are dead for sure." Beigong Xiaogui glared at Liang Jing with murderous intent and flashed a subtle hand gesture.
Courting death!
With crimson eyes, Liang Jing watched Beigong Xiaogui's supposedly covert hand signal as several red dots nearby began closing in on him. Amidst the dim candlelight and shifting shadows, their figures were completely undetectable.
Was this perhaps just a crude superficial imitation of China's esoteric arts of Qimen Dunjia, which those little Japs had stolen and renamed ninjutsu?
Instantly, a wave of violent fury surged into his heart!
Ever since he was a child, Liang Jing had grown up listening to his grandfather's stories of the Japanese invasion—tales of the Nanjing Massacre and Unit 731 went without saying. But he preferred military stories even more: hearing how every able-bodied man in Sichuan went to war when the nation and race were in mortal peril; how invaders trampled the land while brave youths marched to the front lines wearing straw sandals, short-sleeved shirts, and bamboo hats, offering their flesh and blood to stem the tide. He listened to the story of the Sichuan army's "Death" banner, cherishing above all its motto: "Wipe away blood when wounded, wrap in your shroud when dead."
He listened to the accounts of the Chinese Expeditionary Expedition—one hundred thousand students turned soldiers marching out in straw sandals, retreating through the savage wilderness of the Wild Horse Mountains; of a six-hundred-strong regiment where only six returned alive. Listening to those stark statistical data points, he could only lament that he had not been born in that era.
How many parents wept for the sacrifice of their sons? How many wives grieved the deaths of their husbands? How many young children grew up without a father's tender care? How many families were shattered, how many earthly tragedies enacted!
Everything they had today was bought with the severed heads and spilled blood of countless passionate youths. In Liang Jing's heart, those heroes would forever remain the most endearing people!
Perhaps this was part of the reason he had previously slaughtered those private soldiers with such merciless brutality—he felt they had desecrated the sacred idols within his heart!
And all of this—every single bit of it—had been brought about by the little Japs. It was because of these invaders... Liang Jing was enraged. A fury unlike any he had ever known, a violence he had never before experienced, seized him. Even when Liu Zhixiong had died earlier, his emotions had not fluctuated this much, but right now, Liang Jing was truly, deeply furious!
Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh! —
Five cold blades materialized out of thin air, slashing fiercely toward Liang Jing. The samurai swords carried a razor-sharp aura and the chilling threat of death, about to strike his body in an instant.
Ah!
Everyone in the hall was startled. A moment ago, Liang Jing's sudden appearance had still been accompanied by deliberate heavy footsteps, yet these figures entirely enveloped in black night-garments made not the slightest sound. Only when their blades flashed in the final moment of attack did the onlookers react.
Terrifying!
These people had suddenly appeared right here and launched an assault without anyone noticing a thing. If they had targeted someone else, the consequences would be unthinkable! Overwhelmed by dread, the onlookers realized that the unknown and the incomprehensible were truly terrifying.
At that moment, although they felt a fleeting twinge of discomfort over the "Shina pig" slur uttered earlier, they felt immensely wise and deeply relieved that they hadn't stuck their necks out to voice any loud condemnation. These Japanese were simply too formidable; it was best not to provoke them. Everything else was false; preserving one's own skin was the only truth.
Let everyone sweep the snow from their own doorstep and pay no heed to the frost on their neighbor's roof. They would simply pretend they knew nothing, and that the insult wasn't directed at them.
The five blades materialized out of thin air, accompanied by the piercing sound of tearing wind as they slashed down in an instant!
One blade hacked viciously toward the back of Liang Jing's head, as if intending to cleave his skull directly in half.
Another thrust forward from his left side, aiming straight for the gap between his helmet and armor.
Two blades, front and back, hacked down toward his chest and spine, as if knowing the hardness of his armor and holding nothing back, caring not a whit whether their ferocious strikes might accidentally pierce an ally on the opposite side.
The final blade materialized in front of Liang Jing, sweeping upward in a vicious slash toward his groin. The immense force, regardless of how strong his defensive gear might be, was bound to deliver a devastating shock to his vital parts and inflict severe injury.
In the blink of an eye, Liang Jing was plunged into mortal peril!