Chapter 913: Chapter 27: From the Vistula River to the Ocean, Melania Must Liberate

Special Envoy: “Aren’t your troops resting?”

“Resting? Of course, we will rest, but considering your turtle-like pace on the Western Front, by the time we resume our offensive, you’ll still be struggling in the outskirts of Paris!”

“Just tell Leonard that!”

The Special Envoy nodded: “I will.”

At this moment, a soldier named Ante came galloping on horseback and saluted Wang Zhong while on the horse: “Comrade Marshal, we discovered a large amount of Melanian treasure in the Prosen Army’s warehouse!”

Wang Zhong: “What treasure? It’s the historical artifacts of the Melanians! Protect them, don’t let anyone near, and have the Melania Guerrilla select trustworthy people to guard them. Once the Melanians have repaired their museum, they’ll be returned.”

“Yes!”

After the messenger left, Wang Zhong looked at the Melanians: “After Helman’s sacrifice, who is your leader? I mean, who is in charge?”

“It might be me.” A guerrilla warrior stepped forward, “Most of the leaders of the guerrilla have been sacrificed, at times like this–”

The guerrilla fighter suddenly stopped, looking with hostility at something behind Wang Zhong.

Wang Zhong turned around and saw several well-dressed Melanians walking towards them.

The United Kingdom’s Special Envoy introduced, “These are the members of the Melania Uprising Committee. The one at the front is the Chairman.”

Wang Zhong: “Are they the ones who betrayed Helman?”

Special Envoy: “They will make excuses.”

The leader opened his arms: “Your Excellency, Marshal!”

Wang Zhong drew his pistol: “Stop! I suspect you are a Prosen spy trying to assassinate me!”

The leading person was stunned: “What? The Special Envoy here can prove our identity!”

Wang Zhong: “Yes, he said, you are the traitors who betrayed Helman, selling out the still-fighting Melania Guerrilla! You must have received orders from the Gestapo to assassinate me, leaving my army leaderless, aiding their counterattack!”

“It’s a misunderstanding! We left early to preserve the spark, to rise again later!”

Wang Zhong: “Look around, this time, after the failure, there won’t be a guerrilla fighter left in the entire capital, maybe not a single Melanian. The precious core strength will be completely wiped out, what rise again are you talking about!”

“You abandoned the people at the most critical moment. If it weren’t for Helman, the entire uprising would have fallen into chaos! Your crimes are heinous!”

The leading person’s eyes widened, stammering for a long time, then suddenly grew firm: “I am recognized as the Chairman by all members of the resistance movement! Shooting me would mean standing against all Melanians!”

Wang Zhong pulled the trigger, shooting this shameless fellow in the knee, bringing him to kneel on the ground.

“Is that so?” Wang Zhong looked at the Melania Guerrillas beside him, “I’ve shot him, does anyone wish to oppose me?”

No guerrilla responded; some even showed gloating smiles.

Wang Zhong: “It seems no one wants to take your side. Of course, as the messenger of justice, I will follow procedural justice. Guards, lock them up first, wait till we fend off the Prosens’ counterattack, and let the Melanians judge them!”

The guerrilla fighter who just said “I am the Commander” stepped forward: “No need, we only see traitors.”

He raised his submachine gun, and the other guerrilla fighters immediately did the same.

The committee members sensed danger, turned to flee, but the firing of submachine guns started, bullets catching up with them, bringing them down.

Due to being shot in the leg, the Chairman did not run and became the only survivor, kneeling on the ground trembling.

Wang Zhong stepped forward: “In the name of the Melanians and Helman, I execute you!”

He raised his pistol, placed it against the Chairman’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

The flash of the Special Envoy’s camera went off: “With this, Marshal Rocossov’s pistol has taken down two generals and one Chairman.”

Before Wang Zhong could reply, he heard a horse neighing loudly.

Turning back, he saw Vasily riding a white horse galloping from afar.

Indeed, it was Bucephalus, it stopped right in front of Wang Zhong, snorting.

Vasily: “General, after you landed, the coachman came looking for me, saying Bucephalus was going wild and they couldn’t handle it. I rushed over, saddled it, and rode over.”

Wang Zhong: “Is that so, just in time. I need to organize an impromptu command post to prepare defenses. First task is to collect the weapons left by the routed Prosen soldiers, tally the ammunition from various depots, and reorganize the remaining guerrilla forces.”

Vasily was initially smiling, then his smile froze: “All of it is for me to do?”

Wang Zhong: “You can find some staff and clerk to assist you, make use of the local resources, look around, there are people everywhere.”

Vasily looked around, bewildered.

Bucephalus turned its neck a hundred and eighty degrees, looking at Vasily on the saddle, as if laughing.

——–

Filippov crossed the Vistula River Bridge with the troops.

Seeing the situation on the West Bank, he couldn’t help but slow down.

Misha, walking beside him, muttered: “My God, it’s a disaster.”

The district near the bridge’s defensive position was completely burned down, with few remnants of walls higher than one person.

The surviving citizens were pulling bodies out of the ruins.

As he walked, Filippov suddenly saw a damaged piano dragged to the center of an intersection, where a ragged youth sat playing Dvorak’s “From the New World.”

The piano was so damaged that hardly any note was in tune, and many keys didn’t sound at all, turning Dvorak’s famous piece into an odd rendition.

But the young man played with no concern, as if his passion could fill in the missing notes.

The Sten Submachine Gun slung on his back slid down to his buttocks, knocking against the chair as he played passionately, making people worry it might accidentally fire.

Filippov stopped, stood by the piano, pulled out his harmonica, and began to play along, trying to supplement the missing notes.

The young musician glanced at Filippov and said something in Melanianese, which Filippov didn’t understand, but the music transcended the language barrier.

Then the sound of a violin joined in, a blonde girl standing amid the ruins, playing a well-preserved violin.

When the piece ended, the crowd around applauded.

At this moment, a stout middle-aged man stepped forward and began singing in a tenor.

He sang a drinking song, holding his rifle upside down, using the butt as a microphone.

The young guerrilla fighter pulled the girl into the celebration, arms linked, dancing a dance completely mismatched with the drinking song, spinning in circles.

Someone shouted: “Bambino, what are you dancing? This is a drinking song, it should be a waltz!”

“I don’t know how!” the young man shouted, “Just make do!”

Everyone laughed, seemingly forgetting the ruins behind them and their lost loved ones, at least for a moment.

——–

Reporter Mike: “Did you get it on film?”

Photographer Robert: “Yes, but the photos aren’t impactful enough. I brought this!”

With that, he took a camera from the large bag he was carrying, quickly loaded the film, and started hand-cranking it.

Mike: “Good, good! Excellent! This footage is sure to become a valuable historical archive, preserved permanently! Give me the camera, I’ll see if I can challenge for the Pulitzer Prize.”

Saying this, he took off his partner’s camera, started finding angles.

With the sound of the shutter, the scene was captured on film.

Mike circled the small intersection, trying to include the crowd, the ruins, and the weapons they wore in the frame.

He already had the name for the photo in mind.

“Liberation.”

No name could be more fitting.