Shen Zhuochen knelt at the door of the Japanese Military Police, holding the fatal message he took out from the storage box in his palm. Three hours ago, his boss was captured alive by the special high school class, and he could only put the poison into the opponent's throat with his own hands - using his Wing Chun-trained fists. Also lying in the storage box were twelve grenades, a Mauser rifle, and half an account book filled with passwords. When Shuichi Miyamoto came close to his ear and said, "I know who you are," Shen Zouchen smiled. The next second, the entire street's neon lights exploded simultaneously - that was when he used his last bit of mental energy to detonate the time mine hidden in the lamppost. Tonight, this accountant, who is regarded as trash by everyone, will let the invaders know that the bones of the Chinese people cannot be broken. The blood of the Chinese people will not be shed in vain.
Raindrops pierced the glass window of the cafe and flowed down along the cracks, like tears.
Chen Zhiyuan lowered his hat by half an inch, and the old scar on his left ring finger suddenly jumped, as if someone was poking a red-hot needle into the bone seam.
He couldn't hold back his hand, and put a scar on the pad of his thumb - that year in the military training camp, the instructor asked him to pick up a white blade with his bare hands. The blade was off by three centimeters, the bones were not broken, and half of the nerves were severed.
From then on, this scar became a weather forecast. If the weather changes, it will hurt. The pain will make the whole arm numb, as if soaked in ice water.
The pain was extraordinarily weird today. It was not just numbness, but also a heat, running from my fingertips to my shoulders, as if there were insects crawling in my blood vessels.
From the window seat, you can see the entire Xiafei Road. The street lights are dim and the rain mixes the light into a ball, making it look like a blur.
