Several thousand kilometers away.

The Lushan Brigade held its annual New Year’s gathering, and a group of new recruits were noisily crowding around Lin Luxiao, trying to get him to perform something. Zhao Guo had just come back from the bathroom with a washbasin of water. He set it down, wiped his face, saw Lin Luxiao unmoved, and pouted. “Last year at the gathering everyone let you off because you’d just arrived — this year you’re still trying to dodge it? It only happens once a year, brother. So what if you embarrass yourself — it’s only the once.”

Lin Luxiao leaned against the headboard and gave him a cool sideways look, saying nothing.

He had never in his life been the type for performing. Back in school, when the school organized activities and Da Liu was painted up like a wild cat and forced onstage, he and Shen Mu would stand in the audience with their arms folded, watching and laughing.

Da Liu had been too ridiculous.

Da Liu was more fun to look at than the two of them — and his performances had a faintly slapstick quality. He still kept a photo on his phone from high school of Da Liu with his face painted into a wild cat’s markings. He and Shen Mu had even discussed using it someday when Da Liu got married to squeeze some money out of him.

The new recruits, barely through their first weeks in service, hadn’t yet been hardened — right now they were bubbling with excitement at the prospect of the gathering.

Someone suggested: “Let’s do ‘Little Apple.'”

Someone else disagreed: “No — there’s going to be a TV crew from the city filming this. ‘Little Apple’ is overdone. Let’s do something special — like a flash mob.”

Immediately shot down: “Who do you think we are, a professional song-and-dance troupe? Why all the fancy choreography? Ask Instructor Lin.”

So the whole group turned to Lin Luxiao in unison.

Lin Luxiao had his head down reading, and heard none of it.

Zhao Guo settled it bluntly: “Let’s just sing a song. That one — Zhang Yu’s ‘It’s the Moon’s Fault’ — I’ve noticed Luxiao’s been listening to it a lot lately. Let’s go with that.”

Lin Luxiao: “…”

Someone piped up: “So Instructor Lin, you like that song? Singing it would be better than a military anthem.”

Zhao Guo waved a hand: “How many military anthems have we sung already? Let’s do something different. Your Instructor Lin sings, and the rest of you can be backup dancers. Perfect.”

Zhao Guo had barely finished before Lin Luxiao gave him a hard kick. Zhao Guo yelped in pain, and the other man had already picked up his book and walked out.

Lin Luxiao leaned against the wall of the washroom, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other dialing Nan Chu. After two rings, the other side hung up. His chest tightened again — restlessness rising for no clear reason.

What kind of habit was it, not answering the phone.

On Nan Chu’s end, the moment her phone rang, Nan Yueru snatched it out of her hands, glanced down, and cut the call in fury.

A moment later, the phone vibrated again.

Nan Yueru ended the call again.

When it rang a third time, Nan Yueru had run out of patience. Her usually meticulously composed expression had turned savage. She swept the phone off the table, hurled it onto the floor with full force, and stamped down on it several times with her heel.

The screen shattered.

Still not satisfied, she toe-kicked the phone across the floor and under the bed.

Through all of it, Nan Chu said nothing — watching coolly, her expression perfectly flat, without a flicker of anger. That calm seemed to provoke Nan Yueru further, and she shrieked: “You’re glaring at me? You’re not happy about it? I’m your mother — I’ll manage you for the rest of my life!”

Nan Chu gave a small smile, looking at her with steady eyes: “How long has it been since you saw a doctor?”

Nan Yueru froze for a moment.

Nan Chu continued smiling. “You look like a madwoman right now. What’s the point of smashing my phone? Unless you kill me, I’ll still be with him. Or are you planning to lock me up again? It won’t work. He’ll find me. Last time you locked me in a hospital, he climbed in with his bare hands — right under the noses of those two tall, imposing bodyguards you arranged.”

…

Nan Yueru’s eyes went cold and vicious. She opened her mouth to lash out.

But Nan Chu got there first — perfectly calm, as if stating facts: “You want to call me shameless? Go ahead. You’ve never been shy about it before. If you’ve got the stomach for it, kill me. If you can’t, then I’ll crawl — I’ll crawl to his side if I have to.”

“You’d throw yourself at someone this shamelessly, with no self-respect?” Nan Yueru drew a breath, settling down. “Do you know that every twelve days, a firefighter dies on duty? Firefighting is ranked first among the top ten most dangerous occupations. If something happens to him one day, are you going to spend the rest of your life as a widow?”

Nan Chu looked at her and smiled. “I will. I’ll keep watch for him.”

“Foolish child!” she raged.

“Whether you listen or not, I’m saying this plainly.” There was a light in her eyes — brilliant and glowing. “Because I was foolish once, I let him go. It won’t happen a second time. If it does — only if I’m dead. No — even dead, I’d still love him.”

She finished, turned, and walked out.

Then stopped in the doorway, looked back. “Mom — I’ve never understood what you’re so angry about. Is it because I did something you didn’t have the courage to do? And so you envy me?”

The woman stood rigid, staring out the window. Her silhouette was desolate. At her daughter’s question, she suddenly erupted: “Get out —!”

…

Lin Luxiao was pushed onstage by everyone and sang “It’s the Moon’s Fault.”

Apart from years ago when he was supporting another county’s brigade and had hummed along with a few soldiers, he had never really sung in front of people — let alone in a setting like this. He had basically never sung in his life from childhood onward.

His family hadn’t been into that sort of thing either. During the new year and festivals, the alleyway always had its own dedicated opera troupe — it was never his place to sing.

His voice was low, and singing through the song plainly was actually fine — no great technical skill, but it held.

He genuinely disliked singing.

Beyond that, this particular song held some not-quite-mentionable memories between him and his young woman — which made him even less willing to sing it.

But he was a grown man, not one for being precious about things. In the midst of the cheering, he took the MC’s microphone, and his low, steady voice came through: “Let me sing a military anthem.”

From below: “No — it has to be ‘It’s the Moon’s Fault’! Zhao Guo says Instructor Lin’s been listening to that song — he must have a story behind it!”

“Military anthems — we’ll have plenty of chances for those! Sing something popular!”

“How about ‘Little Apple’ then.” Lin Luxiao said, expression blank.

The soldiers gave him no room at all.

“‘It’s the Moon’s Fault’!”

“‘It’s the Moon’s Fault’!”

“‘It’s the Moon’s Fault’!”

“…”

Lin Luxiao gave a helpless smile. The commanding officer beside him couldn’t hold back either and urged him on: “They want it so badly — just sing a verse. Otherwise they’ll be talking about it long after you’ve gone.”

“Alright then.”

Over the speakers, the man cleared his throat twice, and his low, rich voice poured out.

“It’s all your fault, falling so easily for me…”

Three months had passed since they’d parted.

The two of them had been keeping in touch sporadically by text, until last week, when contact had cut off entirely — she wasn’t picking up his calls, wasn’t replying to his messages. And she did have a prior history of disappearing on him.

Right away his mind had gone to the thought that she might have slipped away again.

He had originally planned to apply for marriage leave next month once things were sorted here, but that very night he went to his commanding officer and submitted the application.

The song ended.

He returned the microphone to the MC.

Zhao Guo suddenly jumped up. “Wait!”

Lin Luxiao paused. Zhao Guo leapt up onto the stage in two strides, grabbed the MC’s microphone. “Let me say a few words.”

Lin Luxiao teased him: “What is this — a leadership address?”

Zhao Guo glanced at him, then raised the microphone and spoke to the soldiers below: “Instructor Lin has been with us for over a year now — this should be the last time he joins our gathering. Some things have been building up too long. Tonight’s as good a chance as any to say them.”

Those words.

The previously rowdy atmosphere seemed to have a basin of cold water thrown over it — it turned solemn and dignified all at once.

Every face stopped smiling. Lips pressed shut. They sat upright on their military stools.

“At first, none of us were particularly willing to take orders from him. A few of the more fearless ones even tried to give our Instructor Lin some trouble — and ended up thoroughly subdued. I always thought a man’s finest years are twenty-three or twenty-four — when you’re brash and fearless and bold.” Zhao Guo glanced at the man standing beside him: expression composed, military uniform straight, jaw-droppingly handsome. “Then I realized — a man at thirty is when he’s most magnetic. Whether it’s the Instructor Lin on the training ground who never cracked a smile, or the Lin Luxiao behind the scenes joking around with us. My mom especially — she keeps telling me: if you had even half your squad mate’s steadiness, I wouldn’t have to worry myself sick every day.”

Lin Luxiao stood on the stage the whole time, the corner of his mouth curved in a faint smile, his bearing unhurried — the poise of a man whose inner strength ran deep.

Zhao Guo went on, his tone lightening a little: “I was going to ask the commanding officer to keep you here a few more years, but I just found out that our Instructor Lin submitted a marriage leave application. When did you even get married?!”

A stir ran through the hall below.

Lin Luxiao gave a mild smile. “It happened fast. Next time I’ll bring sweets for everyone.”

Another wave from the soldiers: “Sweets!”

“Sweets!”

“Sweets!”

Zhao Guo waved them quiet with the authority of a general commanding troops. “Settle down! The marriage thing is settled — you’re thirty, and if you’d waited any longer, the rest of us would have been frantic for you. It’s fine — just bring your wife next time! Tonight the main thing is that a few of us brothers wanted to send you off properly before you go. This parting — wherever the world takes us — who knows when we’ll be this close again, given what we do for a living…”

Zhao Guo suddenly drew in a breath. At the thought that they might never meet again in their lifetime, his throat tightened, and it felt as though his chest was blocked by a breath he couldn’t release — and he found he couldn’t finish what he’d meant to say.

“Truly no idea when we’ll meet again after this.”

The parting hadn’t yet come, and yet they were already moved by the feeling of it.

Everyone’s emotions were swept up in his pause.

It was true — only those who had served as soldiers understood how precious the bond between brothers was. These were men of iron and steel. In training they bickered and clowned around, but on the fire line, every one of them would step in front of the other’s path to take the burn.

Lin Luxiao understood this, of course — he just was not the type to let his emotions show outwardly, and rarely lost control of himself.

Zhao Guo said: “Us brothers have a song for you — a send-off. And then we keep fighting side by side.”

The intro music played, and Lin Luxiao recognized it instantly — “When That Day Comes.”

“The brothers have been rehearsing this behind your back for ages.”

Lin Luxiao hooked an arm around Zhao Guo’s shoulder and bowed his head for a moment to steady himself.

That night, the sky blazed with stars, and a powerful military anthem rang out over the Lushan Brigade for a long, long time.

“This is a clear morning
The sound of pigeons’ wings mingles with reveille
But the world is not at peace
Even in times of peace, the winds of upheaval blow
…
Young soldiers long to earn their glory
Are you ready
Brothers in arms
When that day truly comes
Have no worries, motherland
Have no worries, loved ones
For victory I will march bravely forward…”

The soaring, stirring song seemed to drive out every shadow of unease, startling the birds roosting in the trees and sending them scattering in all directions. On the tips of the dark green leaves hung a few crystal drops of dew, which slowly gathered and merged into clear, still water as the song rang out.

The soldiers below were still singing — laughing, shouting, again and again, tireless.

…

In the assembly hall.

The MC passed the microphone to Lin Luxiao. “Say a few words.”

What was there to say?

At this moment, any words were superfluous — nothing could express the full measure of their passion.

In the end he took the microphone, let his gaze pass one by one over the familiar, resolute faces below, and then bowed his head with a quiet laugh.

“North and south, east and west — hearts united, purpose shared — walk forward simply, one breath remaining, the fight never done.”

These words were later carried by many of the soldiers — held in their hearts.

Some even wrote them into their own wills, as their brigade’s motto.