CHAPTER 221: 211 GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES

Tian Sangsang leaned over her desk.

Closing her eyes, past memories flickered before her mind’s eye like a carousel of images. Those works that had left a profound mark on her heart, those with a powerful impact on thought, those that time could cleanse but never erase. Suddenly, Tian Sangsang remembered a classic piece, *Grave of the Fireflies*.

Since Li Yibai wrote wuxia, she didn’t want to begin with wuxia. She had read quite a bit of wuxia but never really gained a thorough understanding of it.

She had read *Zichuan*, *The Step into the Past*, *Golden Sword and Feather*, *The Border-town Prodigal*, *The Peerless Double Heroes*, *Tang Dynasty Double Dragons*, *Shushan Swordsmen*, *Huanhua Swordsmanship*, *Seven Swords from Heaven*, *Sky, Moon, and Blade*, and a slew of other wuxia works. However, apart from Jin Yong, she could never match the names of these works to their respective authors. This wasn’t because the works were poorly written, but rather because she hadn’t spent much time on them; what she knew only skimmed the surface. Only in the quiet contemplation of stillness could one gain insight.

But *Grave of the Fireflies* was different.

"September 21, XX year—on that night, I died."

In a post-war train station, under dim yellow lights, a tattered and frail 14-year-old boy, handsome yet on the verge of death, leaned against a column, his body covered in wounds, his head drooping.

"Look at that kid. He’s not moving, not even breathing, so young and already dead." The crowd whispered among themselves.

A kind passerby walked by and placed a white bun beside him.

"Mom."

At the sound of that familiar voice, the boy collapsed to the ground. His body curled to the side, his eyes remained open, yet he could no longer move. A fly buzzed past, landing on his face—so full of sorrow and despair.

It was his little sister’s voice calling for their mother.

A station worker carrying a bucket of water passed by and nudged his body with a broom. There was no response. He flipped the boy over and found a small red metal tin of candies.

"What’s this?" he asked another sweeper.

The man glanced over and replied, "A candy tin. Useless. Just throw it away."

The train station wasn’t home to just one child’s corpse; there were several scattered here and there. More lives were being lost. Although the war had ended and those who survived could look forward to a bright future, those who had endured its horrors had already lost all hope long before peace arrived.

The station worker took a few steps forward and flung the candy tin forcefully. It landed on a patch of grass, and from within, green fireflies emerged one after another. Like a thousand pearls of light in the night, they lit up the field.

Amid the bright glow, a cheerful image of a four-year-old girl appeared, full of innocence and joy.

The brother picked up the candy tin and handed it to his sister. She hugged it contentedly in her arms.

The siblings were finally reunited, holding hands and slowly walking into the distance.

This was merely the opening. The story had yet to begin; it was just about to unfold.

When Tian Sangsang first watched this work, what she saw was the faint annihilation of humanity by war. War destroys all things beautiful, leaving behind a ceaseless trail of suffering. Though she had never lived through times of war, the film made her vividly feel the emotions of homelessness and hunger. And so, she felt incredibly fortunate to live in this era, simply alive, simply at peace.

"The film captivates with beauty and breaks that beauty relentlessly with tragic fate. Yet what truly moves one is the everlasting and unchanging pain that transcends war."

However, this was not a piece suitable for publication.

At that time, Tian Sangsang approached it with a simple mindset, standing from the perspective of ordinary people. What she saw was purely anti-war. In the face of war, everyone suffers. No one wishes for bloodshed and violence in this world; everyone yearns for peace. This was her truest understanding. But later, when she unintentionally browsed online, she realized how extensively others could overanalyze things. They overcomplicated matters, extracting politics, conspiracies, and allusions to World War II from the work.

Since this piece was a work from Japan, and its setting was post-WWII, many people interpreted it as not advocating peace, but as propaganda for Japan portraying itself as the victim of the war. They argued it was an attempt to obscure the truth that Japan was the instigator of the war. Perhaps their nature was belligerent, and they would never introspect and ask what had caused their suffering during that period. What they reflected upon was only the notion that their loss in war had led to suffering. If they hadn’t lost, they argued, they wouldn’t have suffered. They failed to grasp the root of their suffering—it was the very war they had initiated.

Thus, in an effort to avoid these convoluted interpretations, Tian Sangsang resolved to make some changes, placing the story in an entirely fictional era and setting. In her version, a certain country suffers sporadic air raids due to war. During one such raid, their mother tragically dies in a bombing. The elder brother, born into a family of soldiers, hides the news of their mother’s death to spare his little sister grief. The siblings temporarily reside with relatives. Yet after learning of their mother’s passing and the absence of any response from their father, a soldier, compounded by the increasingly dire conditions of frequent bombings, the relatives grow colder. Their rations for the siblings dwindle. War alienates familial bonds, and material deprivation fosters mutual indifference. When survival becomes a challenge even for oneself, who would lend a hand to two orphaned children? The brother takes his sister to live in a cave, forming a makeshift home. But war is merciless. Leaving their relatives changes nothing; life grows more desperate. Ultimately, his four-year-old sister succumbs to death. Following the deaths of his mother, sister, and father, the brother loses all will to live. The ending is predictable—on the day his sister dies, the radio broadcasts the announcement that the war has ended, resounding with joy and laughter everywhere.

Undoubtedly, as a work of anti-war sentiment and an exploration of human nature, this was a weighty piece. Tian Sangsang could recall the film’s storyline, but crafting it into a novel proved challenging. Fortunately, since the original film was adapted from a novel, Tian Sangsang could find the source material in libraries—it would just require some effort.

(*Grave of the Fireflies* is an excellent movie, highly recommended! When watching, don’t overthink; simply focus on the human element. Also, it was made in 1988, and the quality is incredible—no sign of being dated! I earnestly recommend it! The author of this text isn’t blindly admiring foreign works or dismissive of them either. When I consume art or stories, it doesn’t matter where they come from—Europe and America, South Korea, Japan, Thailand, India, Singapore, or Canada—they’re all fair game. There was a time when I really enjoyed South Korean films, but if any content involved my own country, a strong sense of patriotism would arise within me. I avoided content that depicted my country in a one-sided or shallow light. Instead, I turned to suspense, mystery, or narratives focusing on social human nature. Nationalism and such things are too complex, beyond what one or two sentences can clarify. The headache of trying to puzzle it out leads nowhere, so why bother? As long as you remember your love for your country, that’s enough!)