孙德胜的话音刚落，练兵场鸦雀无声。赵崇武 likens the blood surge to a dam breaking as it hits his temple. His hand trembles like a leaf in a storm when he snatches the yellowed letter. Fingers unsteady, he tears it open, each movement slow and deliberate, as if tugging at something buried deep in the earth.

The letter unfolds to reveal a map marked with red ink, the ink almost dry yet still vivid. It’s a sketch of Shanghai, the Great Wall of China’s eastern outpost, the first breeze of modern warfare sweeping in from the sea. The draughtsman’s ink strokes show fierce battles, the fierce clashes of swordsmanship and archery. In the middle, a large batch of troops were seen moving south in a dense formation, their destination: Shanghai.

赵崇武的瞳孔猛地缩小。他眯起眼睛，盯着地图上那片红色的浪潮，仿佛还能看到白山黑水间的枪林弹雨，东北军战士们的嘶吼与鲜血。他张了张嘴，却一个字都喊不出来。他太了解东北军了，了解他们身上的血与火，了解他们骨子里的刚与烈。这些北伐军将士，骨子里带着关东的豪气，他们不是那些只会按部就班的老兵，他们是刀劈斧削出身的汉子，是能扛枪能打仗的兵痞。

“驻沪张治中将军急电，”赵崇武喃喃自语，声音嘶哑得像是被砂纸磨过，“‘日军登陆，上海危在旦夕，恳请东北军火速驰援’。