"Yes, Mr. Patriot."
No matter how much Talulah despised Koschei, she had still received a proper Ursus aristocratic education. Because of this, she held a profound interest in that period of history.
The democratic movement, falsely branded by the authorities as the "March Upheaval," had ultimately fallen before the might of Ursus's absolute power. Yet this, too, was the turning point that set the last pure-blood Wendigo before her marching against the Empire and its injustices.
The so-called "March Upheaval" was, in truth, a courageous and pioneering "March Struggle." It was the explosive manifestation of accumulated internal conflicts within Ursus, the vanguard of the Ursus democratic movement, and a tangible embodiment of democratic ideals.
This was Talulah's own summary of the "March Struggle," though Sergei had always dismissed it as too vague, feeling that something essential was missing. However, before she could pick at anyone's old scars, she first had to secure the towering Wendigo as a partner in cooperation.
Talulah had witnessed firsthand the losses the Reunion Movement had suffered in the recent skirmish. Her heart ached, but now was not the time to show it. Forcing her posture straight and squeezing a smile onto her face, she began the second round of this "roundtable conference":
"Thank you for your assistance during this operation. It is safe to say that without the help of the Shield of the Infected, our losses would have been even greater."
"There is no need for such formalities, leader of the Reunion Movement," Patriot replied. "Since we both fight to alleviate the suffering of the infected and combat the injustices of this land, it proves we share the same aspirations. A pleasure to meet you."
"……Then, we are comrades." Sergei chimed in.
Patriot, however, merely shook his head.
"Do not be in such a hurry, Feline. I watched your battle—far too hasty, entirely lacking in method. Is your guiding ideology just as chaotic?"
"……"
Only then did Sergei realize the gravity of the question.
A guiding ideology and program of action determined the future trajectory of a force and, should they succeed, the nature of the regime they would ultimately build. If the Reunion Movement were compared to a person, its guiding ideology would be its soul, constantly guiding its steps in the right direction.
Previously, the Reunion Movement had functioned essentially as a mutual aid organization for the infected. But now, Sergei acutely recognized that the movement was growing rapidly. Without a firm guiding ideology, it would inevitably slide into the abyss of chaos and division.
Bulstrode stared intently at Sergei, observing his expression. Though the too-long, gray-white hair—untended for ages—still bore flecks of dried blood, his eye bags heavy and dark, his face stubble-rough, his eyes flashed with occasional glints of intellect. His hands continuously scribbled in a notebook, and his tail stood upright like a shaken feather duster, its fur fluffed wide with the grime of nearby explosives still clinging to its hairs if one looked closely.
Soon, numerous keywords filled the yellowed pages. Though initially spaced apart, Sergei quickly linked them with a web of points, lines, and planes, while crossing out others entirely.
Seeing that Sergei had fallen into a sort of trance, Patriot turned his gaze to Talulah.
Their eyes met, and Talulah, only now catching up to the situation, instinctively averted her gaze. She had never considered this question either.
The founding of the Reunion Movement was, by all accounts, a rash impulse she had acted upon on a whim. This meant that while she had built the organization with her own hands, its ultimate survival had practically nothing to do with any grand design on her part. The subsequent Chernobog incident and the world-shaking global broadcast would soon prove this exact point.
Watching the two of them freeze up completely, Patriot's mouth—hidden beneath his neck wrap and skull mask—twitched repeatedly. The Wendigo felt a profound sense of despair. He had originally thought he was finding capable allies, only to discover he had allied with a pair of incompetent amateurs.
*Never mind,* he thought. *This land isn't short of disorganized rabble anyway. Since I don't have much of a grand ideology myself, I might as well train these people like militia. At least they'll have some combat capability when trouble arises, or they can coordinate operations alongside the Guerrillas. It kills multiple birds with one stone.*
Besides, having the Shieldguard protect them could be seen as a practical way to realize his ideals and his son's dying wish.
In all his years of campaigning, Bulstrode's goals had shifted continuously, but since that fateful event, he had grown unshakeably stubborn. Not even Yelena could persuade him to look out for number one. When trouble struck, his first thought was never himself, but the others in the Guerrillas.
At that moment, Yelena piped up without a shred of hesitation:
"I must say, do you have the sheer audacity to just latch yourselves onto our Shield of the Infected? You got yourselves captured like fools during the flank support, and if we hadn't backed you up in the frontal assault, you would have died in some pathetic, embarrassing way—"
"—Yelena!"
"—The lives of the Guerrilla fighters matter too. Don't take everything for granted. We can't follow behind you playing babysitter twenty-four hours a day, nor can we always be your vanguard and frontline plow—"
"—Which is precisely why cooperation is all the more necessary."
Sergei spoke up, cutting through Yelena's sharp tongue. He had figured it out: if the Guerrillas were ever missing this white rabbit, given the mental circuits of the living Ursus legend standing before them, the Guerrillas would suffer countless blind losses across the snowfields. The two of them were a real pair of characters—indispensable and mutually complementary.
Still, since both sides had come here with the intention of cooperating, this negotiation ought to proceed smoothly. Sergei's main conversational target had always been Bulstrode, not Yelena. However, staging a feint before the talks to cause the other side miscalculation was a tactic in its own right.
"Ahem... May I ask your esteemed name?"
As soon as those words left his mouth, Yelena—who had just been standing neck-stiff and ready for a screaming match—instantly deflated. Her long Catches ears drooped toward her chest, and the shifting form of the ice crystal in her hand shattered into pieces...
"......I have no surname. I only know they call me Yelena."
*Blast it,* Sergei thought. *I hit a sore spot.*
Sergei twitched his mouth, ultimately choosing to bite the bullet and push the conversation forward. Talking a conversation to death was worse than keeping it going; reviving a dead conversation was better than letting it die. As long as there was a shred of possibility, he had to fight for it. Otherwise, what was the point of even attempting cooperation between the Reunion Movement and the Shield of the Infected?
Swallowing hard, Sergei straightened out his logic and slowly spoke:
"......Yelena, since you just mentioned our shortcomings in combat and your concerns regarding cooperation, we naturally admit to them. These are our weak points, and what we need is to face them, not run away.
"Similarly, regarding our partnership, we would never operate that way. The true meaning of cooperation is mutual benefit, not unilateral exploitation. If we did that, how would we be any different from this unjust society, those wealthy landlords, and those corrupt aristocratic officials? If such a phenomenon ever arises in our ranks, you have my full permission to kill me without a single word of complaint."
Yelena raised her head in shock, her long Catches ears snapping upright.
For the first time, she looked squarely at this man—
His hair was dirty and disheveled, unwashed bloodstains still clinging to it; his face was covered in stubble, seemingly un-shaved for ages. The exhaustion reflected in his eyes, the heavy bags beneath them, and the dark circles reminiscent of Yan-style Ursus fatigue all spoke of the strain he had endured after a brutal battle and his still-taunt nerves. Yet the brilliant light shining in his sapphire eyes and the sensible words continually rolling off his lips made her realize that profound wisdom was hidden beneath his rough exterior.
He was willing to risk his life for the sake of cooperation—
No, rather, it seemed he lived his life with his head permanently on the chopping block. That was precisely why they had dared to charge forward with weapons and equipment the Guerrillas considered mere scrap metal, and why they had dared to launch a surprise attack on a heavily guarded, troop-dense mining site with just a single Sankta guardian gun for the entire team—all for the sake of those five Gendarmerie members.
Yelena suddenly realized this organization was far more complicated than she had imagined.
"That being said, regarding Mr. Patriot's concerns about our guiding ideology, I gave it some thought just now. Although neither of our organizations explicitly claims a guiding ideology on the surface, it does exist—it lives right here in our hearts."
At these words, everyone present was stunned.
Talulah panicked inwardly: *How come I didn't know my own organization had a guiding ideology? What on earth is Sergei rambling about?*
Patriot and Yelena both leaned forward, ready to hear what high insights this little Feline had to offer.
"The so-called guiding ideology is, in essence, what we want to do and what goal we strive toward. I cannot speak for the Guerrillas, but the goal of the Reunion Movement is to resist the injustices forced upon us by this land, to fight against the exploitation and oppression of the upper classes, and specifically to end the unfair treatment suffered by the infected."
Right there, those words struck directly into the hearts of all three listeners.
Talulah thought back to her original intentions. Back then, she had risked infecting herself with Oripathy just to experience life among them, purely to vent her frustration on behalf of people she pitied—people who never should have suffered such unfair treatment. At the same time, she had constantly searched for a relatively balanced solution; she didn't want to see too many people suffer. Yet the recent battle and the Ursus mining garrison guards she had killed with her own hands served as a harsh reminder that her idealized path was impossible. Only one path remained—one that would plunge everyone into the fires of hardship: armed struggle.
Though her heart refused to admit it, reality had rung like a bronze bell, forcing her to recognize this path.
To fight to the very end.
The fierce glare in Patriot's eyes softened considerably.
He had encountered a kindred spirit once again. He fought tirelessly against injustice, enslavement, bloodshed, and oppression for the future of Ursus.
"Since our goals are fundamentally aligned, then... we are comrades."
"......Happy cooperation."
"Happy cooperation!"
All four stood up, though only Patriot, Talulah, and Sergei shook hands warmly.
Patriot deliberately removed his gauntlet and extended his bare hand. What a magnificent hand, overflowing with the vitality of life! Veins resembling the Yangtze River, cutting from north to south, spanned across his massive, calloused hand, overlaid with dark red scars—the unique glory and medals of honor belonging to a soldier.
His hand was slightly blackened, smelling of iron filings and blood. Where he had long gripped his partisan, a deep indentation remained. The palm print had worn away, and the scarlet web of his thumb bore testament to his once arduous and bitter past as a "Captain."
Sergei froze, and Talulah did too.
Finally, Sergei braced his body, stood at attention, and delivered a crisp, standard military salute. Though he had once been a tax collector, he had spent time within the military establishment and naturally understood what such a great warrior truly bore on his shoulders.
In their hearts, they held the nation, the soldiers, the thrill of warfare and the revulsion toward it, a soldier's honor, and their own loyalty. Because of this, they formed the steel backbone of a country that stretched across millions of miles.
And because of this, Bulstrode had discarded his rank of "Captain" and taken up the codename "Patriot." He loved his country, he loved his Ursus, and therefore, he had chosen to act as a surgeon for Ursus, determined to excise the sickness and malignancies that had no business growing upon her body.
A military salute was the most direct and highest form of respect one could offer a soldier.
Talulah felt the exact same way. Though her seniority ranked second to last among everyone present (Sergei at best being a university student raised in a military district), she considered conversing with such a legend to be one of the greatest honors of her life.
Patriot returned their salute. Compared to Sergei and Talulah's stern, swift precision, Patriot's movements were somewhat slower, yet far more solemn.
Yelena simply stood to the side, watching the three of them salute one another.
The sun was about to rise, painting the edge of the sky a pale, hazy white. Its light washed over them, making the rolling mountain ranges look as though they had been dipped in gold.
At last, Patriot's massive hand shook with their smaller ones in turn.
This was yet another starting point for a newborn organization—a historic moment.
Yelena felt for the first time that a camera was an immensely important thing.
"Captain! Big Sister! Look what I found!"
Yelena turned her head to see Big Bear, a member of the Snowdemon Squad, running over with infectious enthusiasm. She was waving something in her hand.
Yelena recognized it clearly: it was a classic camera.
She called it "classic" because it was a vintage, old-fashioned FED camera. Its leather-wrapped body, silver-white borders, and distinctive "soap-dish" lens design instantly filled Yelena with a sense of delight.
"Quick! Take a picture of them."
"Yes!"
The two of them fiddled with it for a long time before finally figuring out that the button on top was used to record the moment.
The three individuals obligingly maintained their previous postures.
*Click!*
Though the film was black and white, and many details remained unclear through the lens, this photograph would proudly enter the new Ursus party history archives, forever preserved under the title: "The Beginning."