Chapter 48 Dandelions

In the southern region of Red Pagoda City, soldiers on both sides fell into a simultaneous state of stunned silence, regardless of enemy or ally.

What had just happened?

The broadcast that had been flaunting brutality and military might suddenly cut off, leaving the Yamato forces with an ominous premonition.

As for the opposing Russias, their emotions were infinitely complex. The proud roar of an I-16 echoed through the sky, and they could roughly guess that their own air knight had stopped this horrific display of torture. Some Russias even wondered: if heaven had not intervened with such a magnificent hand to shatter all this, and the Yamato brute had been allowed to continue his torment, would they still have had the courage to keep fighting...

Now, everyone no longer needed to guess blindly.

A commotion came over the broadcast, followed by a fit of coughing.

For some reason, Dimitri's voice rang out again through those distorted loudspeakers: "Good job, brother, though I don't know who you are... but half of that guy's head is splattered on the wall. Hahaha!"

At that moment, a timid voice replied: "Sir, if I were you, you'd better..."

"One last thing, thank you! Brother! And tell Masha to find another man to marry..."

"Sir! Sir!" After a few urgent cries over the broadcast, only low, stifled sobs remained.

High in the sky, Prokofiev, tuned into the broadcast frequency, instantly drenched his flight cap with tears.

Upon returning to the airfield and landing successfully, he rushed straight to the command post without stopping.

Guards blocked his path.

"Let me go! I want to see the Third Highness! I demand an explanation!" Prokofiev struggled hard, shouting at the top of his lungs.

His commotion received a response as the Third Prince, Andrei, appeared surrounded by bodyguards.

Prokofiev burst into tears on the spot: "Your Highness! Why? Why make me do a job like that? I, I, I hate this—"

Looking at the ace pilot kneeling weakly on the ground and wailing bitterly, Zhang Shan felt the exact same way.

If ordered to kill the invaders, to kill ten thousand or a hundred million of them, he wouldn't even blink.

Yet, when asked to kill a soldier who could no longer be saved, or even a heavily tortured civilian, he found it immensely difficult to do.

That inexplicable sense of resonance left a heavy lump in his heart, making his chest feel as though a massive boulder was pressing down on it, suffocating him.

He felt he should be shedding tears at this moment.

Yet there were no tears.

It wasn't that he was cold-blooded, but having reached his position, he no longer had the luxury of weeping.

Meeting Prokofiev's eyes, which were filled with a complex, swirling light, Zhang Shan moved his lips several times before finally speaking: "You hate it? Hating it means you're right! I'm just like you, forced to do all sorts of things I despise. But we can't help it when the enemy emperor and a bunch of Yamato elites are warmongers. Someone has to step up and stop them, don't they?"

***

Prokofiev pressed his lips tightly together and nodded.

"If you hate it, turn that hatred into strength! Obliterate every single plane in the sky bearing the meatball flag." At this, Zhang Shan stepped forward, violently grabbed Prokofiev by the collar, and hauled him to his feet: "One of you is not enough! The soil of our homeland needs more Dmitry Nurbagandovs! The skies of our homeland also need more Prokofievs! Since there aren't that many aerial battles right now, you are going to train pilots for me! Do you understand?"

"...Understood." Prokofiev wiped his face. "Forgive me! I lost my composure. Your Highness, I hereby request to spend half my time flying and the other half training new recruits."

"Very well! Once you have trained a hundred disciples, you shall be Baron Prokofiev."

"Ah?!" Not just the person involved, but even the bystanders were stunned.

This promotion in nobility came completely out of nowhere.

It wasn't because Prokofiev had shot down so many enemy planes, nor because he had put an end to a bloody atrocity, but because he was going to train new pilots.

This bestowal came as a surprise, yet somehow felt entirely natural.

After all, Prokofiev's combat record was there for all to see; his promotion was only a matter of time. It was just that no one expected Prince Andrei to be so generous, bypassing the rank of Knight entirely and elevating this ace pilot directly to a formal title of nobility. Furthermore, he had fully considered Prokofiev's emotional state by not forcing an immediate on-the-spot promotion.

Taking a few deep breaths, Prokofiev finally calmed down and saluted smartly.

"Thank you for your generosity, Your Highness. If possible, I would like to—"

"Dmitry will receive the [Hero of the Far East Medal]. You just need to accept the glory that rightfully belongs to you."

"Thank you, Your Highness!"

Watching Prokofiev's retreating figure, Zhang Shan sighed inwardly.

Indeed, within the system, among the aviation regiment under his command, Prokofiev was a textbook ace pilot.

Reality was different from a game; in reality, even aces could be shot down by the enemy.

As a half-baked military enthusiast, Zhang Shan knew very well that in the other space-time he was familiar with, Prokofiev's name did not appear on the roster of aces.

He did not know if such an otherworldly existence capable of shooting down fifteen enemy planes in a single day existed in this alternate world.

Looking at Prokofiev's combat record, his highest was four in a single day... which was certainly decent. Considering the current performance advantages of the I-16, Prokofiev's skill could only be considered top-tier, not super-tier.

When the enemy's Zero-type aircraft eventually took to the skies, whether Prokofiev could survive remained an unknown.

Much like a gacha game enthusiast, Zhang Shan still didn't want someone he valued to perish so prematurely.

Right now, the Yamato forces hardly dared to dispatch their air force and had instead brought up a massive number of anti-aircraft guns, making ground-attack missions less efficient and vastly riskier.

That being the case, letting Prokofiev serve as an instructor to shine and contribute in his own way was a fine alternative.

That evening, Zhang Shan invoked the Far East regional all-channel broadcast for the first time in a long while, speaking in a low, resonant voice:

***

[I am Andrei Belyavsky.]

[Today, a warrior named Dmitry Nurbagandov sacrificed his life! He came from Turgenev Village in Danmaga.]

[He was captured. The cruel Yamato forces used his life as a threat, forcing him to shout 'Long live the Yamato Emperor' into a broadcast microphone.]

[Like millions of ordinary Russian families, he had a father who died in the civil war, a mother who had toiled to raise him, several younger siblings who were still minors, and a girl who had just agreed to his marriage proposal.]

[I do not wish to speak lofty, high-sounding words. In my view, he could easily have submitted.]

[Perhaps it would have been humiliating, but he most likely could have saved his life.]

[He refused.]

[Because this was a broadcast that could be heard across half of Red Pagoda City.]

[The cruel enemy crushed one of his hands.]

[What he shouted was 'Ura!']

[They brutally tore off his other hand.]

[What he still shouted was 'Ura!']

[Then came a leg... then the other leg...]

[Until I located where he was and sent planes with rockets to blow up that warehouse, did this torture finally end.]

[At the very end of his life, his words were—Thank you! Brother! And tell the girl willing to marry him to find another man.]

[I do not wish to paint this event merely as the glory of the Empire.]

[I only wish to say that our hero has not left us.]

[When the mountain flowers bloom brilliantly next year, he will transform into a dandelion, drifting back on the wind to look upon his mother, to look upon our motherland.]

Reaching the end of his emotional outpouring, Zhang Shan took a deep breath.

[Finally, I will repeat Dmitry's last words once more, and that is...]

[Ura——]

In front of countless radios across the Far East, countless people sobbed, countless individuals shed silent tears. Upon hearing that heartfelt battle cry at the end, countless arms were raised high, and millions of Russias shouted in unison:

[Ura——]