met free Chapter 1393 Looking Up at the Mountain
Chapter 1393 Looking Up at the Mountain
One week later.
Night Province, Night Market Creek District, Gaopo Township.
The altitude is 1,712 meters.
This place was originally called Emperor Slope, the highest point in Guizhou, covering a radius of hundreds of miles.
Even before the end of the world, it was known for its ever-changing weather—sea of clouds, sunsets, starry skies, and rime ice, with different scenery in each season, making it a secret realm in the hearts of countless photographers and mountaineers.
After the apocalypse, this place was abandoned for a time.
The mountain path was swallowed up by wild grass and thorns, and the cement ground of the viewing platform was cracked with fine lines. Wild azaleas struggled out of the cracks, and their flowers bloomed like blood.
Until seven days ago, a special engineering unit arrived at the foot of the mountain.
...
It is around 5 a.m.
As dawn broke, the mountains remained asleep, and a light drizzle suddenly began to fall.
It was neither a torrential downpour nor a dense drizzle, but rather an extremely fine and light curtain of water, somewhere between fog and rain, silently descending from the leaden-gray sky, enveloping the entire mountain range in a layer of damp gauze as thin as a cicada's wing.
Raindrops fall on the newly carved stone steps, leaving only dark marks the size of a fingernail, which are quickly covered by the subsequent moisture; they fall into the not-yet-dry cement cracks, silently mingling with the grayish-white slurry; they fall on the blood-red petals of the wild azaleas in full bloom, condensing into translucent tears that are about to fall.
The world was silent, save for the soft patter of the rain, which sounded like countless people sobbing in the distance.
-
At the foot of the mountain.
The temporary parking area stretched out along the winding mountain road, seemingly without end.
Black sedans, green military vehicles, and camouflage command vehicles lined up one after another, silently parked on the roadside, their engines long since turned off and their lights extinguished.
Without a single horn honking or any other sound, the rainwater slid down the curves of the car body, forming small, silent streams beside the tires.
Along both sides of the road, there is a soldier every three meters.
Fully armed, the Dragon Spine-I powered exoskeleton's gray-black alloy frame gleamed matte in the rain and mist, with fine water droplets condensing at the hydraulic joints. With each extremely slight breath, the rise and fall of the chest caused the exoskeleton to emit an almost inaudible hissing sound.
But no one moved.
Every soldier belonging to the theater guard regiment stood ramrod straight, like a thousand iron statues cast in the rain.
A piece of pure white linen was tied around each upper arm.
The rain soaked through the linen, turning its dry, snow-white color into a damp, plain white, clinging tightly to the cold alloy armor plates like countless flags lowered halfway down.
Their faces were hidden in the shadow of their bulletproof helmets, rainwater trickling down the brims, dripping from their chins, hitting their chests, and then the ground.
-
Midway through the convoy.
Gu Chengyuan stood in the drizzle beside an inconspicuous black official car.
He wasn't using an umbrella.
He wore a black Zhongshan suit, with a neat cut, a smooth iron, and a collar that was tied meticulously.
The rain had soaked his shoulders, turning the black fabric into a deeper, darker shade of ink, like a long night solidified in the fabric fibers, never to dissipate.
His face was expressionless, and his eyes were dry.
But the few strands of white hair at his temples, which were not noticeable under the dim car lights, now looked like frost that had appeared overnight, so dazzling that one dared not look at them for long, in the interplay of rain and dawn.
Beside him was Gu Jianguo.
The highest administrative leader of the night province was wearing only a worn-out dark gray cardigan, with a black coat that was also soaked by the rain.
He looked much older than a week ago, with sunken eyes and almost all the silver in his hair turning white, but his back was straight, like an old tree that had been stripped of its bark in a storm but still hadn't fallen.
He didn't say anything.
She stood there silently and stubbornly, one step closer to the stone steps at the foot of the mountain than her son.
It was as if that way, they could get a little closer to the child who could never go home again.
Wenwan stood half a step behind her husband.
She looked noticeably thinner than a week ago, and her black coat appeared loose, with the outline of her shoulder blades faintly visible through the fabric.
She didn't cry.
From the night she heard the devastating news, she almost cried all the tears she would ever shed in her life.
At that moment, she simply stood there quietly, rainwater mingling with the undried tear stains on her face, making it impossible to distinguish which drop was which.
She was clutching something in her hand: a pair of dark blue, hand-knitted wool gloves.
The stitches were fine and the cuffs of the gloves were neatly closed, but one of them was noticeably smaller than the other—she had knitted it overnight, intending to try it on when Chengyun returned home for her next vacation to see if it would fit.
But she didn't wait for it; she clutched it all the way.
The rain soaked through the yarn, turning it from a fluffy, warm blue into a heavy, cold blue. A drop of water gathered at the toe of the sock, fell, and disappeared into the soil beneath the feet.
She never opened her palm.
-
Du Wanying, Yang Xueli, and Lin Miaomiao stood side by side.
Three young women, dressed in identical black outfits.
Du Wanying stood the straightest; she was the eldest daughter-in-law.
Her chin was slightly raised, and her neck stretched into a stubborn curve, like a white crane that refused to bow its head.
Rainwater slid down her pale cheeks. She didn't blink, but stared intently at the mountaintop—where a cluster of white tombstones was gradually emerging in the morning mist.
She didn't cry.
Or rather, she was using all her strength to swallow her sobs back down her throat, back into her chest, swallowing them into a block of ice that would never melt away and would remain deep in her heart.
Yang Xueli leaned against Du Wanying, one hand tightly gripping Wanying's sleeve, her knuckles turning white.
She had cried too many times, and now she had no tears left, only a silent, intermittent trembling, like the last leaf on a branch in late autumn that refused to fall.
And Lin Miaomiao.
She stood at the very edge, with a short-haired female guard holding a large black umbrella over her.
She was dressed in a black maternity dress, the cut of which was specially made to accentuate the size of her waist and abdomen, but it was still possible to see that her lower abdomen was already slightly protruding.
The bulge was very light and shallow, just a barely noticeable curve.
Like the tiny, gentle crack on the surface of the soil before the first seed sprouts in spring.
From that night a week ago, from the moment her father-in-law, Gu Jianguo, pushed open the door with that indescribable, deathly look, her world was reduced to a pale, buzzing void.
She doesn't even quite remember how she got through those seven days.
I eat and drink water on time every day, and take walks with my mother-in-law's gentle support.
She was as obedient as a puppet on a string, with every string held in the hands of her family. She moved however the string was pulled.
She knew that the baby in her womb needed nutrition.
She knew she couldn't collapse.
She knew that everyone was taking good care of her, accommodating her, and feeling sorry for her.
she knows.
but--
"Consignment..."
Her lips moved very, very slightly, without making a sound, only the shape of her mouth.
Her hand, almost unconsciously and very slowly, touched the slightly raised curve through the black fabric.
There.
There is a heartbeat.
Very light, very fast.
Like a seed, deep in the frozen soil, it has not given up on breaking through the soil.
-
Behind Gu Chengyuan stood almost all the faces of the highest-ranking military and political leaders of the war zone.
Cai Anxin, Chairman of the Yucheng Committee.
Compared to the last time we met, he had visibly aged considerably, and his eyes showed a hint of the inevitable fatigue that comes with age.
Beside him was Zhu Jun, commander of the Tongren Military Region.
His military uniform was impeccably pressed, and his hat brim was pulled down low, obscuring most of his face. However, his tightly pursed lips and the taut lines of his jaw betrayed the turbulent emotions churning beneath his calm exterior.
On the other side was Jia Sanniu, the commander of the Night Province Garrison.
This was Gu Chengyuan's first squad leader under the company commander. His once chubby face had become noticeably thinner, and rainwater streamed down his square face, forming deep furrows that flowed into his collar.
His eyes were red-rimmed, but he didn't blink.
Standing next to Cai Anxin was a major general with a gentle demeanor and a scholarly air—Zhao Gang, representative of the Chongqing Military Region and commander of the 77th Army Corps.
He was dressed in a crisp, dark green military uniform. His gaze passed over the drizzle, over the walking family of the high-ranking officer, and landed on the outline of a row of white tombstones in the distance. A silent fire burned in his pupils.
Closely following him was a lean major general with hawk-like eyes.
He was wearing the uniform of Zhou Bang, a major general in the army. The epaulets on his shoulders were darker from being soaked by the rain, but they were ironed without a single wrinkle.
Li Kun, Commander of the Northwest Garrison.
At this moment, he followed closely behind Zhao Gang, his face devoid of its usual nonchalance, his head lowered, seemingly lost in thought.
-
Behind them are even more faces.
Director of the Political Department of the Tongren Military Region, Commander of the Yucheng Garrison, Director of the Night Province Wartime Production Committee, Representative of the Cultural Troupe, Head of the Liaison Office for Families of Martyrs...
Some had traveled from thousands of miles away overnight, their uniforms still carrying the chill of the cabin; others had just finished their combat duty in the early hours of the morning and drove directly up the mountain from the command center, their eyes bloodshot.
Those who were too busy with official duties to attend in person sent their most trusted confidants or secretaries-general.
Everyone looked solemn.
Everyone stood quietly in the drizzle.
No one spoke.
No one coughed.
No one even moved their numb feet.
Between heaven and earth, there was only the rustling of fine rain and the occasional solitary cry of an unknown mountain bird from the far distance.