Removing the brain and other perishable organs, performing cosmetic restoration, and then immersing the remains in a solution that would remain unchanged for a century—at the news of the steps required to preserve He Rui’s body in a crystal coffin, both of his wives suffered an emotional breakdown.

Yet no high-ranking official allowed the feelings of the two women to alter their decision. The people required a tangible source of consolation, and the state required it even more. In such a moment, all private emotions had to give way.

Li Runshi’s own feelings were indeed shaken, yet his reason acknowledged the necessity of the act. He could now understand why He Rui, in a separate letter to the Central Committee, had made no mention of his final arrangements. He Rui knew that the world at this stage was not yet so idyllic.

According to the Central Committee’s plan, the funeral procession and national memorial service were held on April 2nd. On this day, citizens across the country—even in the most remote villages—listened to the live broadcast on their village radios or watched the capital's ceremony on television.

The population of the capital had surged from six million to twelve million as millions more flocked from across the country and the world to participate. Over a million soldiers had been deployed to maintain order.

At 8:00 AM, the hearse carrying He Rui’s remains emerged from the funeral home. Within the crystal coffin, He Rui lay in eternal silence. At fifty-five, a man does not yet appear truly old; He Rui’s face was smooth and clean, devoid of significant wrinkles. His skin, rendered pale by the failure of his internal organs, only added to the solemnity of his features. With his pink lips and the long lashes of his closed eyes, he appeared even younger than he had in life.

The hearse moved with extreme deliberation, flanked by a guard of honor composed of hundreds of young soldiers, all at least 188 centimeters tall. They escorted the leader of China to his final destination with dedicated focus, their majestic bearing a perfect match for the gravity of the hour.

The ten-lane Renmin Road was lined with broad sidewalks, occupied by the millions who had come to see him off. A forest of national, party, and military flags stood alongside the banners of foreign delegations and civic organizations, all held in silent tribute to He Rui.

Though some wailed in grief, most were enveloped in a mood of profound solemnity. During He Rui’s life, China had been saved. Not only China, but colonies across the globe had achieved liberation from the rule of colonialism. Thus, most of those present felt no piercing tragedy; their expectations of He Rui had been fulfilled, and to weep too loudly felt almost out of place.

Surrounded by a sea of flowers, the crystal coffin moved slowly down Renmin Road.

Seated within the open-topped hearse were Wu Youping, Xu Chengfeng, and a few others—the oldest comrades who had followed He Rui into revolution from the start. They had requested to personally serve as pallbearers. No one contested them; only they were deemed fit for such a privilege.

The pallbearers did not wear traditional mourning white. For the state, He Rui’s private identity had long been suppressed; private attire was deemed inappropriate for the occasion.

Former Premier Wu Youping glanced back periodically at He Rui in his coffin. In 1915, he had felt that He Rui was a man who radiated light among the masses—wherever he was, he was the center.

He still felt that way now. Everyone here was here for He Rui. To reduce the strain on public order, the government had not actually hoped for so many people to attend, yet millions still lined the streets.

People scattered flowers before the convoy. It was not yet the season for blooming in Henan in March, so the flowers had been sent from the southern provinces. Some off-season varieties had even been flown in from the Southern Hemisphere.

The scent of jasmine, osmanthus, and lilies filled the air. The petals carpeted the streets, crushed under the wheels of hundreds of vehicles, yet no one paid it any mind.

Those within the funeral cortege had no thoughts of flowers. Wu Youping looked back at the coffin once more and suddenly burst into tears. Wiping his eyes, he spoke to Marshal Xu Chengfeng, who sat beside him in a crisp uniform: "Marshal Xu, if it weren't for the fact that we'll be able to see the Chairman again in the future, I would never have allowed him to be interred so quickly."

Xu Chengfeng knew that Wu had kept vigil by the coffin almost every day, a fact he envied. Having resigned all his posts, Wu could do as he pleased; Xu, however, still had the work of the Military Commission to complete. The war was in its final act, but it was not yet over. In these closing stages, there could be no room for error.

"Premier, once the war ends, we’ll go with Xiushan and Ruofan to visit him. They didn't make it back in time for the Chairman to personally review the troops returning with them. I can’t imagine how they must feel right now," Xu said, his own tears beginning to fall.

Seeing the high officials in the hearse weeping, the crowds on the sidelines were overcome with sorrow and began to cry as well.

Even the common people had pinned many of their hopes on He Rui. The vast majority of those hopes had been met through policy and systemic change during his life.

A good life, a future filled with hope—even if achieving them required great effort from everyone, those expectations had not been in vain. Thus, the people were there out of a genuine desire to see him off, not mere curiosity.

Most did not yet fully grasp that an entire era had ended with He Rui's death, yet they felt an irresistible compulsion to be there.

The convoy moved steadily past one mourning square after another.

Realizing that He Rui was truly departing from them, someone in the crowd suddenly began to sing: "The five-star red flag flutters in the wind, the song of victory rings so bright. Sing for our beloved motherland, moving from now toward prosperity and strength."

The rhythm of the song was upbeat, normally unsuitable for a funeral. Yet at this moment, the people felt no discord. Once one started, others followed, and soon the air was filled with the chorus of "Ode to the Motherland."

"...Over the mountains, over the plains,

Across the surging Yellow and Yangtze rivers.

The vast and beautiful land

Is our beloved home.

The heroic people have stood up,

We are united, fraternal, and as strong as steel..."

Had the funeral been held immediately after his death, the people would have been immersed in shock and grief. But it had been over twenty days; the "Third Seven" had passed. As the public reflected on He Rui’s life, they found a man who had lived with a clear conscience and no regrets. His life's pursuit was perfectly mirrored in the lyrics of the "Ode."

Even those who did not consciously realize this felt a resonance with the words and joined in the singing.

Wu Youping, on the hearse, was initially indifferent to the singing, but soon he too began to hum along: "...We are industrious, we are brave,

Independence and freedom are our ideals.

How many hardships have we overcome

To achieve today's liberation?

We love peace,

We love our home,

If anyone dares to invade us, we shall call for their destruction."

Li Runshi and the other idealists in the following vehicles also found themselves emerging from their heavy grief. As He Rui’s comrades, they felt his departure was a tragedy, yet his life was anything but sad.

Status and power were as fleeting as smoke, but He Rui had truly left his mark on Chinese and world history. This mark would become the history that carried China forward. As long as Chinese civilization existed, He Rui would never be erased; he would live on in its story.

Among the sea of people were many foreign journalists. To a man, they were staggered by what they saw. Many had witnessed traditional Chinese funerals before—the wailing and frantic grief of the families had always struck them as a somewhat performative display of sorrow.

What they saw now was entirely different. The people were sad, yet they were not despondent. The collective singing of the "Ode" gave the funeral an air of vibrant vitality. It caused an inexplicable tremor in the hearts of the Western reporters.

The West had long considered He Rui a great man, but this funeral made the journalists feel that the Chinese people were truly great. They did not place their destiny in the hands of a single great leader; instead, they bound their destiny to that of their motherland. There were no greater people than these.

After the interment, the millions of mourners converged on People's Square. From the rostrum, Li Runshi addressed the millions in the square, the 700 million in China, and the 80 percent of the world’s population his voice reached. His voice was steady and rhythmic as he spoke: "Let the reactionaries at home and abroad tremble before us! Let them say we are capable of neither this nor that! The unyielding efforts of the Chinese people will steadily reach their goal.

"Eternal glory to the people's heroes who sacrificed their lives in the People’s War of Liberation and the People’s Revolution!

"Long live the People's Republic of China! Long live the great unity of the world's people!"

The journalists felt the emotions of the millions in the square being struck by this heroic oration. The red flags that had been lowered were hoisted high once again and began to wave. No one cheered, yet no one remained sunken in grief. At this moment, as the wordless emotion seemed to reach its peak, Li Runshi’s voice echoed across the vast square:

"Long live the people! Long live the people! Long live the people!"

That day, every foreign journalist in the square found themselves shivering. For some, it was a tremor of intense joy; for others, it was a suffocating touch of terror.

On April 3, 1945, the day after He Rui’s funeral, an article penned by Li Runshi appeared on the front page of the National Daily: "Carry the Revolution Through to the End."

It was also on this day that the World People's Liberation Army, having completed its emotional reconstruction, resumed its full offensive. The first to face its wrath was Belgium.

WPLA landing forces set out from liberated Britain, shielded by a formidable air and naval presence, and struck the Belgian coast. The final campaign of the Second World War had at last begun.