Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Hidden deep within a maze of alleyways, the black market in the west of the city is like a dark sore in the city, lying dormant by day and active at night. The entrance consists of two half-collapsed brick arches, with the words "No Entry" hastily painted in red paint on them—a sign that, ironically, has become the most conspicuous road sign.

Chen Feng stopped outside the archway and took a deep breath. The air was always filled with an indescribable odor: cheap tobacco, moldy grain, chemical solvents from underground workshops, and a faint, almost imperceptible, smell of blood. He pulled at the tattered cloth covering his face—it was torn from an old undershirt, soaked in coal ash and stove ash, covering most of his face except for his eyes.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, but here, those windows must be fitted with iron bars. Chen Feng lowered his gaze, neither sharp nor evasive, like an ordinary, impoverished person forced by circumstances to scavenge for goods. He checked the gun in his pocket—a Type 54 pistol, its body cold. There were only two bullets left in the magazine, and two more full spare magazines, but only sixteen rounds in total. Last night's experience in the shantytown had taught him that bullets had to be used sparingly, but replenishment was even more crucial.

He needed information, he needed food, and he needed bullets even more.

The interior of the archway was dimly lit, with only a few kerosene lamps belching black smoke hanging from crooked wooden poles. Vendors crowded on both sides, their goods spread out on oilcloths or straw mats: moldy grain coupons, worn-out industrial vouchers, rusty tools, old clothes of dubious origin, and even some suspiciously shaped lumps wrapped in newspaper. No one hawked their wares; transactions were conducted in hushed voices and with concealed gestures. When eyes swept over, they were filled with scrutiny and wariness.

Chen Feng walked close to the wall and stopped in front of a food stall. The stall owner was a thin old woman. In front of her were several rough earthenware bowls filled with a dark, pasty substance and cornbread that was as hard as a brick.

"How much?" Chen Feng asked in a low voice.

The old woman raised her cloudy eyes and glanced at him: "A bowl of porridge is five cents, a cornbread is one cent, and grain coupons are extra."

Chen Feng pulled out a few crumpled bills and asked for two bowls of porridge and four cornbread buns. The old woman scooped the porridge into a chipped bowl and wrapped the cornbread buns in old newspaper before handing them to him. Chen Feng took them, squatted down in the shadows, and quickly began to eat. The porridge had a sour smell, and the cornbread buns were hard to chew, but he ate quickly, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.

Food can replenish physical strength, but it can't replenish a sense of security. He needs weapons.

After finishing his meal, he continued walking deeper into the black market. Several stalls there were rather unusual; they weren't displaying any goods, just one or two people sitting there, their faces empty, but their eyes sharper than knives. This was where they dealt in "hard goods."

Chen Feng walked up to a stall. The stall owner was a middle-aged man with a scar on his face that ran from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, dozing off. Hearing footsteps, he opened one eye and looked Chen Feng up and down.

"What are you looking for?" the scarred man asked in a hoarse voice.

"Something that can make a sound," Chen Feng said.

The scarred man opened his other eye, stared at Chen Feng for a few seconds, then tilted his head slightly, gesturing for him to follow. The two of them, one after the other, turned into a narrower side alley and crawled into a shack made of broken planks and tarpaulin.

A small oil lamp lit the shack, making the light even dimmer. The scarred man dragged a small wooden box from under a pile of tattered sacks and opened it. Inside were several items wrapped in oiled paper. He picked up one of the oiled paper packages, opened a corner, and revealed a dark metallic sheen—a pistol, short in length, seemingly homemade.

"This is thirty dollars," said the scarred man.

Chen Feng shook his head: "I need the standard version, the May Fourth style."

The scarred man squinted: "That stuff isn't easy to get, it's expensive."

"How expensive?"

"It depends on how much you want. A bare gun is eighty. With ammunition, it's extra. Bullets are hard to come by, things are tense right now."

Chen Feng was calculating in his mind. He still had a few hundred yuan left, but he couldn't spend it all on a gun. Besides, he needed bullets even more.

"How much are the bullets?"

"The 54th one, one dollar fifty per order. Minimum order of ten orders."

Chen Feng gritted his teeth. It was truly ruthless. But he had no other choice.

"We need 30 shots and 54 seconds."

The scarred man looked him over again: "Thirty rounds? Forty-five dollars. Pay upfront."

Chen Feng took out some money from his pocket, counted out forty-five yuan, and handed it over. The scarred man took it, examined it carefully, and then put it in his pocket. Then he took out a tin box sealed with wax from the bottom of the wooden crate, opened it, and inside were neatly stacked gleaming yellow bullets. He counted out thirty rounds, wrapped them in a small piece of oiled paper, and handed them to Chen Feng.

"Take it and get out of here. They're cracking down hard lately, so don't wander around at night," the scarred man said in a low voice.

Chen Feng tucked the bullets away, turned to leave, then stopped: "I need to ask you something."

The scarred man looked at him.

"Has anyone been looking for someone here lately...?" Chen Feng asked. "Looking for people to 'do the work'."

The scarred man's eyes flickered. "Why are you asking that?"

"It's something personal."

The scarred man was silent for a moment before saying, "Yes. A few days ago, someone came and asked about 'getting rid of' someone, offering a high price. But I haven't heard back since."

"What kind of person asked this question?"

"An old man, in a wheelchair, missing his right hand. An old woman was with him," the scarred man said. "He looked like a city person, but he was quite generous."

Yi Zhonghai and an older woman. Chen Feng sneered inwardly. Sure enough, they hadn't given up on hiring someone to kill him, even until their deaths.

"And then?"

"And then?" The scarred man shrugged. "Then I heard the old man died. Who knows how he died. That's how this business is; today you hire someone to kill someone else, tomorrow you might be the one getting killed."

He spoke casually, but Chen Feng sensed the warning in his words.

"Is there anyone else?" Chen Feng asked, "Besides that old man."

The scarred man stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco: "Brother, let me give you a piece of advice: the less you know, the longer you live. Some things, you shouldn't ask."

Chen Feng understood. The scarred man knew more, but didn't want to say, or perhaps dared not. He nodded, didn't ask any further questions, and turned to leave the shack.

Back in the main alley, Chen Feng continued walking. He needed more information. Who sent the people who attacked him in the shantytown last night? Besides the remnants of the gang from the courtyard house, who else wanted him dead?

He walked up to a secondhand goods stall. The stall owner was a thin old man, repairing a pocket watch by the light of a kerosene lamp. Chen Feng squatted down, pretending to examine the old parts on the stall, and asked in a low voice:

"Sir, I heard there was an incident in the shantytown last night?"

The old man didn't even look up: "When doesn't something happen?"

"It was quite a loud noise, like someone used a loudspeaker."

The old man paused, then raised his eyelids to glance at Chen Feng: "Why are you asking about this?"

"I have a relative living there, and I'm worried."

The old man snorted and continued fiddling with his pocket watch: "I advise your relative to move. That area isn't safe right now. Last night, a group of people chased someone, made noise, and there was blood. The police went, but they didn't catch anyone."

"Who are those people?"

"I don't know," the old man said. "A stranger, doesn't seem like a local. Ruthless, doesn't care about his life."

Not local thugs. Chen Feng's heart sank. That made things even more troublesome. If they were local thugs, they were probably after money and easy to deal with. But if they were out-of-town desperados, they might be specifically after him.

Who has such great ability to find outlaws from out of town?

Chen Feng thought of Wang Mazi. Although the middleman was dead, he might have introduced more than one group of people before. Perhaps Yi Zhonghai only hired one group, and other employers found other people through other channels.

Or... a more terrifying thought flashed through Chen Feng's mind—the police?

The police don't need to be so secretive when arresting people. But what if someone within the police force wants him to die "accidentally"? After all, he killed so many people, including Director Wang of the neighborhood committee. Some people might not want him to be tried alive, fearing he'll reveal more secrets.

The thought sent a chill down Chen Feng's spine. If that were the case, then his enemy wouldn't just be the people in the courtyard, but the entire system.

He needs to be more careful.

Just then, a commotion arose from the other end of the alley. Someone whispered, "The cops are here!"

In an instant, the entire black market erupted into chaos, like an anthill doused with boiling water. Vendors scrambled to pack up their goods, while customers scattered and fled. Kerosene lamps were hastily extinguished, plunging the alleyways into darkness.

Chen Feng's heart tightened, and he immediately turned and ran in another direction. He wasn't familiar with the alleyways here and could only wander aimlessly. Footsteps and shouts came from behind him, and the beams of flashlights swayed wildly in the darkness.

"Stop! Don't run!"

Chen Feng rushed into a narrower side passage, only to find it was a dead end. He turned to go back, but the entrance was already illuminated by a flashlight beam. Two figures in uniform were blocking the way.

It’s over.

Chen Feng stood with his back against the cold brick wall, his hand reaching for the gun in his pocket. But firing would mean exposing himself, and not firing would mean being caught and dying.

Just as he was about to fight desperately, a broken wooden door next to him suddenly opened, and a withered hand reached out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside.

The door slammed shut. Footsteps and shouts came from outside: "They ran that way! Chase them!"

Chen Feng leaned against the door, panting heavily. The room was pitch black, with only a sliver of moonlight filtering in through the broken window. He could barely make out that the person who had pulled him in was an old woman, very old, with a severely hunched back, wearing a tattered cotton-padded jacket covered in patches.

"Don't make a sound." The old woman's voice was hoarse, like a broken bellows.

The footsteps outside gradually faded away. The old woman fumbled for a small oil lamp and lit it. The dim light illuminated the simple furnishings in the room: a broken bed, a rickety table, and some junk piled up in the corner.

"Thank you," Chen Feng said softly.

The old woman waved her hand, sat down on the edge of the bed, and coughed a few times: "Young man, you've got some nerve, daring to come to the black market at this time."

Chen Feng didn't speak, but cautiously sized her up. The old woman was very old, with deep wrinkles on her face, but her eyes were bright and had a penetrating quality when she looked at people.

"You're not here to buy anything," the old woman suddenly said. "You're here to escape disaster."

Chen Feng was startled, but remained outwardly calm: "How did you know?"

"I've lived for over eighty years, what kind of people haven't I seen?" The old woman smiled, revealing her toothless gums. "You have a murderous aura, a bloody smell, and... a sense of injustice about you."

The word "injustice" sent a jolt through Chen Feng.

"you……"

"Don't ask who I am," the old woman interrupted him, "and don't tell me who you are. I'll forget about tonight once I leave this room."

She pulled a small cloth bag from under the bed and handed it to Chen Feng: "You'll need this."

Chen Feng took it, opened it, and saw several white steamed buns and a small packet of salt inside. At the bottom, there was a small oil paper package. He opened the oil paper package and was stunned—it contained ten Type 54 pistol bullets.

"this……"

"Take it," the old woman said, "consider it...a way to accumulate some good karma."

Chen Feng looked at the old woman, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him. In this world filled with scheming and killing, there was actually someone willing to help him—an old woman he didn't even know.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked.

The old woman remained silent for a long time before slowly speaking: "Many years ago, I also helped someone. Back then, the world was in chaos, and he was being hunted down. I hid him for one night. Later, he left and never came back. But I always felt that helping others is helping yourself. Maybe one day, when my descendants are in trouble, someone will lend a helping hand."

She paused, then said, "Young man, I don't know what you're carrying on your shoulders, but I can tell you're not a born evil person. Go, go as far away as possible, and never come back."

Chen Feng gripped the cloth bag in his hand, looked deeply at the old lady, and then bowed: "Thank you."

He pushed open the door; outside, all was quiet. The black market was gone, the alleyway was deserted, and only the faint sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance.

Chen Feng strode away, heading towards the mass grave in the west of the city. He carried ten bullets, a few steamed buns, and a stranger's kindness.

This kindness was so light, as light as a feather. But on this cold night, this feather brought a touch of warmth to his heart.

Perhaps, this world isn't completely rotten yet.

Perhaps, he still has a chance to find Xiaoyu, take her away, and start over.

But this thought lasted only a moment before reality shattered it. He had killed so many people; his hands were stained with blood. Even if he found Xiaoyu, what could he give her? A fugitive brother, a future being hunted?

Chen Feng gripped the gun in his arms tightly. The bullet was cold, just like his heart at that moment.

The blood debt has not yet been repaid.

Not all of our enemies are dead yet.

He can't stop yet.

A night breeze blew by, carrying the chill of late autumn. Chen Feng quickened his pace and disappeared into the night.

Behind them, the black market, like a dark sore, continued to writhe beneath the city's skin, devouring darkness and breeding evil.

And the killings continued.