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

The morning fog had not yet dissipated, and the leaden-gray sky hung low, like an overturned iron pot.

In the central courtyard of the siheyuan (traditional courtyard house), four thin-skinned coffins stood side by side, their dark woods gleaming eerily in the morning light. Several broken bowls sat before the coffins, each containing three sticks of incense, their smoke rising in wisps, mingling with the morning mist, creating an indescribably eerie atmosphere.

Jia Zhangshi's coffin was the largest, but actually the lightest—it contained very few bones, mostly charred fragments. A symbolic white cloth was laid at the bottom, upon which lay a few larger pieces of bone. Liu Guangfu's and Yan Jiefang's coffins sat side-by-side; the two young men, one twenty-three and the other nineteen, should have been at the age to settle down and start families. The neighbor surnamed Li's coffin was placed at the very edge; he was unlucky, having only gone to help put out the fire but bumping into Chen Feng.

The scene in the courtyard was so desolate that it sent chills down one's spine.

Aunt Erda had stopped crying. She sat beside Liu Guangfu's coffin, her eyes swollen shut, making hoarse sounds like a broken bellows. Liu Haizhong was dead, Liu Guangtian was dead, Liu Guangqi was dead, and now even the youngest, Liu Guangfu, was gone. Of the five family members, four were dead, leaving her a widow. Her two brothers and sister-in-law came to help with the funeral arrangements, but their faces were also filled with sorrow and grief.

The situation wasn't much better for the Third Aunt. Yan Bugui was dead, Yan Jiecheng was dead, and Yan Jiefang was dead. She had only one son, Yan Jiekuang, and one daughter, Yan Jiedi, both still young. A few people from the Third Aunt's family came, but they were all distant relatives; they could help, but providing financial assistance was difficult.

The older woman remained relatively calm, but her face was as white as paper. She helped arrange the funeral, contacting the funeral home—although cremation is now encouraged, the elderly residents of the compound insisted on burial, saying that being buried brings peace. The neighborhood committee provided some money to hire four pallbearers and rent a cart to transport the coffin.

"The time has come," said an old man carrying a coffin, his voice hoarse. "It's time to set off."

The second aunt suddenly threw herself onto the coffin, hugging it tightly and refusing to let go: "My son... my Guangfu... you can't leave me..."

Her brother and sister-in-law from her maternal family came to pull her away, and the group got into a scuffle. The same thing happened on the other side; the third aunt was embracing Yan Jiefang's coffin and wailing.

The scene was chaotic.

An older woman stood by, watching, her face expressionless. She remembered when Yi Zhonghai died; it was the same. The coffin was carried out, he was buried, and then he was gone, as if he had never existed.

"Let them go," the middle-aged woman said, her voice eerily calm, "so they can leave in peace."

The second and third aunts finally let go, slumped to the ground, their eyes glazed over.

Four men carrying the coffin came over, two men per coffin. They tied ropes to the coffin and shouted, "Lift—!"

The four coffins were slowly lifted up and carried out of the courtyard gate.

Those still alive in the courtyard followed. A dozen or so men, women, and children, dressed in plain clothes and wearing mourning attire, bowed their heads and silently followed behind the coffin. Cries rose and fell, some genuine, some feigned, mingling together and drifting in the morning mist.

The procession walked out of the alley. The fog hadn't lifted yet, and the stone path was damp, making a slight sound as they stepped on it. Four dark coffins appeared and disappeared in the fog, like four ghost ships sailing in a sea of ​​mist.

They left the alley and entered the main road. By then, it was already daylight, and people were beginning to move about the streets. Passersby turned to look at the funeral procession.

"Is it that courtyard house again?"

"That's right, I heard four more died the day before yesterday."

"Tsk tsk, how many is this now?"

"More than a dozen, right? That courtyard is eerie; whoever lives there dies."

"I heard it was an escaped convict who came back for revenge, and he was in a bloodthirsty rage."

The murmurs weren't loud, but they reached the ears of everyone in the funeral procession clearly. The second aunt's face paled even more; the third aunt kept her head down, her shoulders trembling. The first aunt remained expressionless, simply quickening her pace.

The procession headed west, exited the city gate, and walked out of the city.

The road outside the city was rough and full of potholes, causing the cart to bounce violently. The coffin swayed on the cart, making a dull thud. The men carrying the coffin were panting heavily, with fine beads of sweat on their foreheads.

Scattered graves began to appear along the roadside, their tombstones crooked and overgrown with tall weeds. The further you went, the more graves appeared, eventually forming a dense, endless expanse.

This used to be a chaotic graveyard.

Before liberation, poor people who died in the city couldn't afford a burial plot, so they were buried here haphazardly. After liberation, although cremation was encouraged, some families still secretly buried their dead here. Over time, graves piled on top of each other, making it impossible to tell who was who.

The group stopped in a relatively flat open space.

"Let's stop here," said the old man carrying the coffin. "There's no road ahead."

Four men began digging a pit. The soil was hard, mixed with loose stones, and the shovels made a screeching sound as they dug. The pit wasn't large, just big enough to fit the coffin.

Looking at the pit, the second aunt suddenly burst into tears again: "My son...you're buried in a place like this...without even a tombstone..."

No one responded. Everyone remained silent, watching as the coffins were lowered into the pit one by one and covered with soil.

The soil was filled in, and four mounds rose up, inconspicuous in the chaotic graveyard.

The old man carrying the coffin lit incense and placed it in front of the grave, then burned some paper money. The paper money swirled in the morning breeze, burned to ashes, and scattered in the air.

"Let's go," the older woman said, "we should head back."

The group began to walk back. They had come amidst weeping and wailing, but returned in utter silence. Everyone walked with their heads down, their steps heavy, as if burdened by invisible shackles.

No one noticed that a person was standing under an old locust tree at the edge of the mass grave.

Chen Feng.

He was wearing tattered worker's clothes and a worn-out hat, the brim pulled low, obscuring most of his face. He stood there, watching the people bury the coffin, watching them cry, watching them leave.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and his figure appeared and disappeared in the mist, like a lifeless sculpture.

He watched their retreating figures, feeling no emotion whatsoever.

Cry? Now you know how to cry?

When they ruined his family, why didn't they cry? When they gave false testimony, why didn't they show any mercy? When they pooled their money to hire someone to kill him, why didn't they have any compassion?

Now you're scared? Too late.

Chen Feng's right hand instinctively reached for his waist. There it was, wrapped in cloth and tucked into his waistband. The cold metallic touch seeped through the fabric, calming his restless heart slightly.

He counted the people.

An older woman, a second older woman, a third older woman, and seven or eight middle-aged men and women were the people who pooled their money to hire the thugs. There were also a few children, around ten years old, following behind the adults, their faces full of terror.

child……

Chen Feng paused for a moment.

He thought of Xiaoyu. If Xiaoyu were still alive, she would be about this age, following him, hiding and living in fear.

But these children are different. Their parents killed their parents and destroyed their families. They enjoyed the benefits of their parents' evil deeds—the property they seized, the ill-gotten gains they received, and the thrill of bullying the weak.

Are they innocent?

Chen Feng didn't know. He only knew that blood debts must be repaid in blood. It was only natural for a son to pay for his father's debts.

But... it's not the right time yet.

He has more important things to do now.

Chen Feng turned and disappeared silently into the morning mist. He didn't return to the small villa in the west of the city, but instead headed towards the old freight yard in the north of the city.

He was going to collect the remaining money.

Three days ago, he exchanged the deaf old woman's passbook for 300 yuan in cash at an underground money exchange in the old market, agreeing to collect the remaining money in three days. Today is the third day.

The old freight yard in the north of the city remained the same: dilapidated and desolate, the air thick with the stench of rust and garbage. The brick building was still there, and the same two men were still guarding the door.

Chen Feng walked over and gave the coded message: "Is Lao Liu here?"

"Yes," the gatekeeper glanced at him, "Did you bring the money?"

"Come and get the rest."

"Come in."

The room was dark, lit by the same kerosene lamp and the same broken table. Old Liu sat behind the table, counting money. Seeing Chen Feng enter, he looked up and adjusted his reading glasses.

"You're here?"

"Hmm, the rest of the money."

The sixth brother took out a stack of money from the drawer and pushed it over: "Six hundred and twenty, count it."

Chen Feng picked up the money and counted it one bill at a time. It was all ten-yuan notes, a thick stack. After counting, it totaled exactly six hundred and twenty yuan.

Adding the previous 300, the total is 920 yuan. The deaf old lady's savings account of 2,300 yuan was discounted by 40%, which is about right.

"Okay," Chen Feng said, stuffing the money into his pocket.

The sixth man looked at him and suddenly said, "Young man, take my advice, take the money and leave this place quickly."

Chen Feng looked up at him: "Why?"

"This money is too hot to handle," Lao Liu said in a low voice. "The police have already uncovered the black market and raided several dens a couple of days ago. Although I've arranged for you to withdraw this money from several banks, the risk is still high. Take the money and leave Beijing as soon as possible, the farther the better."

Chen Feng didn't say anything.

The sixth man continued, "I heard you're looking for someone?"

Chen Feng's eyes sharpened: "How did you know?"

"In this line of work, news travels fast," said Lao Liu. "You've been asking around about a young girl with a mole on her neck and wearing a red string necklace, haven't you?"

"You have news?" Chen Feng's voice suddenly tightened.

Old Liu shook his head: "No. But I know the police are looking for her too. They've spread the word that if you find that girl, you'll find you. Now all the informants in the city are watching, and there's a 500 yuan reward for anyone who finds her."

Five hundred yuan. In those days, that was a huge sum of money.

Chen Feng's heart sank. If Xiaoyu was really still alive, if she had been discovered...

"I advise you," said the sixth brother, "either find her quickly and take her with you, or... just pretend she's dead. You're barely able to save yourself right now; taking her with you will only harm her."

Chen Feng stared intently at Lao Liu, his hand on his waist. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to draw his gun and kill this talkative old man.

But he held back.

Lao Liu is right. He's in dire straits himself, wanted throughout the city, and has spies everywhere. Taking Xiao Yu with him will only harm her.

But to make him give up looking for Xiaoyu? Impossible.

"Thanks for reminding me," Chen Feng said, then turned and left.

Once outside, he quickly left the freight yard. The money in his arms felt heavy, making his chest feel suffocated.

Nine hundred and twenty yuan would last him a long time. He could buy medicine, food, bullets, and even a train ticket to another city.

But... what about Xiaoyu?

Standing on the wasteland outside the freight yard, Chen Feng gazed at the hazy outline of the city in the distance and felt lost for the first time.

He kills all those people, then what? Can he find Xiaoyu? If he finds her, can he take her away safely? And if they leave, where can they go?

These problems are like a net, tightly binding him, and the more he struggles, the tighter it becomes.

But soon, he shook his head, banishing those distracting thoughts.

We can't panic. We can't panic now. He has to take it one step at a time.

First, go buy medicine and food.

Chen Feng turned and walked towards the black market. He knew a place behind the secondhand market in the south of the city where they sold medicine—all of it dubious, but effective.

He needs anti-inflammatory drugs, fever reducers, bandages, and alcohol.

We also need to buy some food—biscuits, canned goods, and water, things that can be stored for a long time.

Chen Feng found the drug dealer in a small alley behind the secondhand market. She was a thin, middle-aged woman wearing a patched cotton-padded jacket. In front of her were several cardboard boxes, which were haphazardly filled with various medicine bottles.

"What do you want?" the woman asked without looking up.

"Anti-inflammatory drugs, fever reducers, bandages, alcohol."

The woman rummaged through the box and pulled out a few things: two bottles of oxytetracycline, a packet of aspirin, a roll of gauze, and a small bottle of medical alcohol.

"Twenty yuan."

Chen Feng didn't haggle and paid the money.

"Anything else?" he asked. "Medicine for knife wounds?"

The woman glanced at him, a knowing glint in her eyes: "Yes, but it's expensive."

"How many?"

"thirty."

Chen Feng took out another thirty yuan. The woman pulled a small paper packet from her bosom and handed it to him: "Yunnan Baiyao, homemade, very effective."

Chen Feng took the medicine, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned to leave.

"Wait," the woman called out to him, "Are you hurt?"

Chen Feng did not answer.

The woman lowered her voice: "I have something even better here, do you want it?"

"What?"

"penicillin."

Chen Feng's pupils contracted. Penicillin was a controlled substance at this time, and ordinary people simply couldn't get their hands on it.

"How much?"

"one hundred."

One hundred dollars is almost one-tenth of all my money.

But Chen Feng knew that his wound had already become infected, and oxytetracycline alone might not be enough. If it worsened further, he would die.

"Yes," he said, taking out his money.

The woman took a small glass bottle from the innermost box; it contained a white powder. She carefully handed the bottle to Chen Feng: "Use it sparingly. Take one small spoonful at a time and dilute it with water."

Chen Feng took the bottle, checked it, and stuffed it into the deepest pocket of his pocket.

After buying the medicine, he went to buy food: ten packs of compressed biscuits, five cans of meat, two jugs of water, and some salt and sugar. It cost him more than forty yuan.

Having bought everything, Chen Feng carried the heavy cloth bag and headed towards the small villa in the west of the city.

He walked very carefully. He deliberately chose less crowded alleys and avoided main roads. The wound on his right shoulder started to hurt again, and every step felt like being pricked with needles. The wound on his back was also inflamed, and he could feel his body temperature rising.

Halfway there, he rested for a while in an abandoned air-raid shelter. It was dark and damp inside, but safe. He sat down against the wall, took out his medicine and water from his cloth bag, and swallowed a few oxytetracycline and aspirin tablets.

Before the medicine took effect, he felt extremely dizzy and cold all over.

Chen Feng wrapped his clothes tighter, leaned against the cold wall, and closed his eyes.

He recalled the people he had seen at the mass grave earlier. Auntie A, Auntie B, Auntie C... they were crying so bitterly, as if the death of a loved one was the greatest injustice imaginable.

They forgot that their hands were also stained with blood.

When they pooled their money to hire thugs, they didn't hesitate at all.

A cold smile tugged at the corner of Chen Feng's mouth.

Cry now, you can still cry. But when it's your turn, you won't even have the chance to cry.

Not a single one can be left alive.

He opened his eyes. The air-raid shelter was pitch black, with only a sliver of light coming through the entrance.

There are about a hundred people left.

almost.

Once their injuries have healed and they are ready, we will send them on their way.

All.

Chen Feng leaned against the wall to stand up, slung his cloth bag over his shoulder, and continued walking towards the small villa.

The night is still long, and the road is still far.

But the finish line is not far away.