My soldiers are all Fourth Calamities!

33. The old nobleman is actually myself?

"If we want to live a happy life, the working class must be as close as brothers—they are our savior, our only hope!"

"A republic will also be established in Vistula! We will uproot those parasites and let the people of Vistula be masters of their own destiny! Comrades, do not be misled by those treacherous villains hiding in the shadows! As long as our workers' beliefs are as firm as a rock, we will surely be able to unite the proletariat of the world!"

On the platform, the comrade in charge of propaganda was spewing out sentences that were extremely "advanced and new" for this era from the depths of his simple working-class heart. When he stepped down from the platform, the young people erupted in enthusiastic cheers, while the older people remained silent, not daring to express their opinions.

They just wanted to live; they were terrified of tomorrow. Once the "Redwitt Alliance" retreated, the reckoning would come, and everyone would have to take responsibility for every word they had said, even paying an unbearable price—even if they managed to escape the gallows, they would lose their livelihood and eventually starve to death on the streets.

Rochester got busy again, setting up preparations for the Ukrainian Youth Committee. During this time, his tense nerves finally relaxed a little.

Hearing those incredibly familiar names, he vaguely saw many familiar faces, and even remembered the red scarf he wore in elementary school and the solemn oath he took at the Youth League joining ceremony.

Like most people here, a brand new life quickly burst into Rochester's long-strained world.

Here, Rochester once again encountered the comrade he had met by chance while riding a horse earlier—Oleksandel.

He repeatedly pulled the white paper with the words "Red Winter Party of Ukraine" printed on it from his pocket.

(PS: I can't write that name directly, so I'll temporarily call her Red Winter.)

The form clearly states: Oleksandr, member of the Communist Youth League, secretary of the committee.

If anyone still dares to doubt this, then the pistol holstered in the belt worn over his hooded uniform is the most powerful proof.

Suddenly, a messenger found Rochester: "Company Commander Rochester, the Cheka is looking for you at the church."

Upon hearing this, Rochester's heart skipped a beat.

Cheka?

Cheka!

The Cheka, or more precisely, the All-Russian Extraordinary Committee for the Suppression of Counter-Revolutionaries and Sabotage, was a Russian secret police agency.

Initially, the Cheka was a special unit within the military responsible for investigating, arresting, and even executing officers of all ranks, including generals. During the civil war, the Cheka served as the "sword" of the Bolshevik regime and enjoyed immense privileges.

Trotsky authorized the formation of the Cheka's special investigative units, which followed the Red Army and were responsible for investigating whether Red Army soldiers and commanders were involved in sabotage, counter-revolutionary activities, or mutiny.

The Cheka established a tight surveillance network and informant system, penetrating all levels to prevent internal dissent and potential military coups.

As one of the founders, Dzerzhinsky once said, "We don't need to find any evidence, we just need to frighten people."

The Cheka was also the precursor to one of the most successful intelligence agencies in history.

Rochester did not deny the Cheka's competence and achievements, but the biggest problem was that the investigation had come back to him, especially since the Cheka's killings were very common at that time.

The messenger, after confirming that Rochester had received the order, hurried away. Rochester, meanwhile, strode straight toward the church, trying his best to appear calm.

Pushing open the door, I saw two men dressed in dark-colored old army uniforms. In the current turbulent environment, the Cheka did not have a unified uniform; the only distinguishing features were the pistols at their waists and their distinctive eyes and tone of voice.

Two Cheka officers scrutinized him with an indescribable look: "You were a corporal from the old Empire, weren't you?"

Rochester confirmed this, at least based on the remaining memories, that the original owner of this body was indeed a corporal.

However, the second question stumped Rochester: "Since you are a nobleman, why are you only a corporal? And why did you join the revolution?"

As a nobleman?

Holy crap, am I one of those old aristocrats?

Rochester paused for a moment, and this pause was significant—both Cheka officers took a step closer to Rochester—Rochester was certain that if he uttered even the slightest misspoken word, he would likely be branded as guilty.

One of the Cheka members asked coldly, "You seem quite surprised by our question?"

Rochester was trying to recall, but apart from some basic necessary knowledge, he knew nothing about the original owner's past. At present, he could only tell from the other party's words that he was a nobleman.

Rochester could only turn his self-justification into a rhetorical question, because no matter how much he tried to prove himself, he could never fully prove it, especially since the other party was the Cheka.

Rochester wasn't sure if his actions would change the other person's mind or purpose, but from the moment he stepped through the door, he was prepared to fight back fiercely.

Don't ask how exactly you will resist.

"Why can't nobles participate in the revolution? Grigory Konstantinovich Ordzhonikidze is a noble." Rochester's voice remained calm. He did not back down at all. Instead, he met the scrutinizing gazes of the two Cheka agents and took a big step forward.

"Comrade, we can't choose our birth, but which side we choose to stand on is the only true test of a person's soul," Rochester patted his chest. "Because I was born in the old world, raised among those corrupt gentry, I know better than anyone how disgusting that system was!"

"I served as a corporal in the old army because I saw through the ugly faces of those generals and incompetent nobles. I would rather eat the same black bread as the soldiers in the trenches."

The two Cheka officers exchanged a glance, their hands, which had been resting on their holsters, loosened slightly. The Cheka officer on the left spoke coldly, "That sounds nice, but who knows if you're just an opportunist who infiltrated the team to save your own life?"

Rochester completely ignored their words, calmly looking at the two Cheka personnel. "If we deny a comrade who is shedding blood and sweat for the red flag simply because of an old-fashioned identity, Comrade Vladimir taught us to look at a person's actions. My actions are right here, and I think Comrade Timoshenko, Comrade Pugachev, Comrade Sokolov, and countless other comrades who have worked with me will attest to that."

Rochester then listed all the people he had met during this period. Most of these people were good soldiers who supported Joseph, and one of the reasons for listing their names was to express his own stance.

Most importantly, Joseph has not yet taken control of the Cheka. The Cheka is still effectively controlled by those two. As long as he shows extreme loyalty, Joseph's faction will likely save him.

Of course, all of this is currently just Rochester's speculation.

The church was deathly silent, with only the faint sounds of commotion coming from afar.

Rochester maintained his indignant, misunderstood posture, but his back was already soaked with cold sweat.

After giving Rochester a once-over, the two Cheka agents finally turned and left without looking back.

"..."

Rochester finally breathed a sigh of relief. His words had actually convinced the other party. For a moment, he was worried that he had been shot for arguing a few too much.