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

In the basement of the small villa, the air was murky and stuffy, filled with the smells of mold, blood, and gun oil. The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered slightly, casting a silhouette of Chen Feng disassembling a gun on the wall.

He sat cross-legged on the ground, with an oilcloth spread out in front of him. A Type 54 pistol, two Mauser pistols seized from Wang Scarface's accomplices, and a revolver he had bought from the black market—the four pistols were placed side by side, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster under the dim light.

Chen Feng's movements were slow and meticulous. He first picked up the Type 54 pistol, pressed the magazine catch, removed the magazine, and pulled back the slide to check the chamber—it was empty. Then he began to disassemble it: pressing the slide catch, pushing the slide forward, removing the recoil spring and guide rod, and finally taking out the barrel.

Every part was carefully wiped under the kerosene lamp. He used a cotton cloth soaked in gun oil to wipe the guide rails inside the slide, the rifling inside the barrel, and the firing pin, trigger, and recoil spring. His fingers were steady, and even though the wound on his right shoulder was still throbbing, his hands did not tremble in the slightest.

After wiping each part, they were neatly laid out on the tarpaulin. Soon, all four pistols had been reduced to dozens of parts, densely covering the floor.

Then he began to assemble.

The parts of the Type 54 machine were the first to return to their original positions. The sleeve made a crisp "click" sound as it reset—the perfect sound of mechanical engagement. He pulled the sleeve, engaged the empty magazine, and checked the firing pin; everything was normal.

Next up was the Mauser C96. This old-fashioned pistol had a more complex design, but he was also skilled with it.

The revolver is the simplest: check the cylinder, load the cartridge, and close it.

All reassemblies were complete, and the four pistols were restored to their original positions. Chen Feng picked up the Type 54 pistol, aimed it at a mold spot on the basement wall, and simulated firing. The trigger traveled smoothly, the hammer rebounded forcefully, and the gun was in excellent condition.

Next comes loading the ammunition.

He dragged a wooden box from the corner of the wall, containing the ammunition he had accumulated over this period: two boxes of Type 54 pistol ammunition totaling forty rounds, more than thirty rounds of Mauser pistol ammunition, and twenty rounds of revolver ammunition. There were also some loose rounds, totaling more than one hundred rounds.

He started by loading the Type 54 magazines. One by one, the gleaming bullets were pushed in, the magazine springs making a slight metallic scraping sound. Each magazine held eight rounds; he loaded three magazines, a total of twenty-four bullets.

The Mauser C96 pistol has a larger magazine capacity, twenty rounds. He loaded two magazines.

The revolver's wheel could hold six shots, and he filled it to the brim.

After loading all the magazines, most of the ammunition had been used up. Chen Feng inserted the full magazines into different positions on his belt—the Type 54 magazine in the front right for easy right-hand draw; the Mauser C96 magazine in the back left as a spare; and the revolver directly into the holster on his right leg, an old holster he had found in the small villa, the belt adjusted to fit perfectly.

After doing all that, he stood up and walked to a broken mirror in the corner of the basement.

The person in the mirror startled him slightly.

In two months, this person had changed so much. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones were prominent, and his eyes were dark-rimmed, but his eyes were unusually bright, like two clusters of cold flames. His stubble was unshaven, and his hair was piled up haphazardly on his head like a heap of withered grass.

He glanced down at his clothes—a long black leather coat he'd found in the closet of the small villa. The leather was of excellent quality, genuine leather, and it looked crisp and stylish on him. The collar could be turned up to cover half his face, and more importantly, it perfectly concealed the gun at his waist.

Chen Feng picked up another pair of sunglasses, which he had also found in the small villa. They had brown lenses, a metal frame, and an old-fashioned style, but they could still be worn after being cleaned.

He put on his sunglasses and looked in the mirror again.

The person in the mirror looked completely different. Sunglasses covered most of his face, revealing only his tightly pursed lips and sharply defined jawline. The black leather jacket made him look tall and imposing, not like a fugitive, but more like… a high-ranking figure. Perhaps an official from some department, or perhaps someone doing special work.

Chen Feng adjusted his posture in front of the mirror, relaxing his shoulders and straightening his back. He had seen some leaders from higher up when he was at the steel rolling mill, and they all had this kind of demeanor—serious and imposing.

Very good. If he goes out like this, as long as he doesn't run into anyone he knows, no one will associate him with that wanted criminal Chen Feng.

He took off his sunglasses, went back to the oilcloth, and began to pack his things.

Besides the gun and bullets, he needed a few other things. Money—he pulled out the wad of banknotes from his pocket, counted them, and found he had over eight hundred yuan left. Some grain coupons and cloth coupons. Medicine—half a bottle of penicillin, a packet of Yunnan Baiyao, and a roll of gauze. Food—five packets of compressed biscuits, three cans of meat, and two water bottles.

He packed these items into two bags: a military satchel containing food and water, which he slung over his shoulder; and a small leather bag containing money and medicine, which he carried close to his body.

Finally, he checked the basement one last time. He blew out the kerosene lamp, rolled up the tarpaulin and stuffed it into the corner, and closed the wooden crate containing ammunition, pushing it back into place. He erased as much of the trace as possible of his presence—in case the place was discovered, he didn't want anyone to immediately realize that someone had been hiding there for a long time.

Everything is ready.

Chen Feng put on his leather jacket, sunglasses, and bag, and took one last look at the place where he had lived for almost a month.

This place used to be safe, but it's not anymore. Last night, they killed Wang Scarface and three others; the police will definitely intensify their search. Places like this little villa will be found sooner or later.

He needs to go somewhere else.

where to go?

Chen Feng stood in front of the basement ventilation opening, looking out through the crack. It was afternoon outside, the sunlight was bright, and he could see the shadow of the old locust tree in the yard moving on the ground.

People occasionally pass by on the street, but not many. This area is already sparsely populated, and with the recent heightened security, people are staying home more.

Chen Feng's mind raced.

Go back to the courtyard house? No, that area is definitely under close surveillance now.

Go to the shantytown? No way, there are too many informants there, and Wang Scarface's accomplices might still be active.

Go outside the city? There was just an incident at the mass grave; the police are definitely searching there.

After thinking it over, he suddenly thought of a place—Wang Scarface's house.

Last night, while searching for Wang Ba's body, he found a set of keys. He didn't think much of it at the time, but now that he thinks about it, they might have been keys to Wang Ba's house.

For those involved in the black market, their homes are often the safest place. Firstly, their fellow black market operators won't easily target them, and secondly, the police generally can't find them—these people are cunning and have multiple burrows, and most of their registered addresses are fake.

Moreover, the most dangerous place is the safest place. The police searched the whole city for him, but they would never have imagined that he would dare to hide in the house of his recently murdered enemy.

Chen Feng took out the bunch of keys from his pocket. There were five in total: three were ordinary door lock keys, one looked like a drawer lock key, and the other was very small, probably for a mailbox or locker.

He didn't know where Scarface Wang lived, but he could ask around.

The black market has its own rules. With a boss like Scarface Wang dead, the news must have spread by now. Going to the black market might yield some results.

Chen Feng made his decision. He checked his equipment one last time to make sure nothing was missing, then walked to the basement entrance.

The entrance was hidden behind the wine rack, very discreetly. He pushed the wine rack aside, climbed up, and then pushed the wine rack back into place.

The first floor was quiet. Sunlight streamed in through the broken window, casting dappled patterns on the floor. Dust motes danced in the beams of light, like countless tiny sprites.

Chen Feng didn't go through the main entrance—although he carefully peeled off the seal and then resealed it, it was still risky. He went around to the kitchen and climbed out through a back window. Outside the window was a narrow alley, usually deserted.

He landed and steadied himself. He straightened his leather jacket, put on his sunglasses, and then casually walked out of the narrow alley and onto the main street.

The afternoon sun was a bit too bright. Chen Feng squinted, his sunglasses effectively filtering out the glare.

There weren't many people on the street. Occasionally, a few pedestrians would hurry by, all with their heads down, barely glancing at others. This is the recent trend—mind your own business and avoid watching the excitement, lest you get into trouble.

Chen Feng walked with composure, his pace neither fast nor slow, his back ramrod straight. His black leather jacket gleamed dimly in the sunlight, and his sunglasses obscured his eyes, making it impossible to discern his expression.

He looked like an ordinary government official or a businessman of some standing. No one would associate him with that ruthless, wanted criminal.

After walking two blocks, Chen Feng turned into a side street. There was a teahouse there, which he had heard from his coworkers before; it was one of the places where black market information circulated.

The teahouse was dilapidated, with a small storefront and dim lighting inside. A few broken tables and benches were occupied by several tea drinkers who were talking in hushed tones.

Chen Feng walked in and glanced around. The tea drinkers looked up at him, a hint of wariness flashing in their eyes—his attire didn't seem like that of someone who frequented places like this.

"Comrade, would you like some tea?" The shopkeeper, a thin old man, peeked out from behind the counter.

"Hmm, bring me a pot of strong liquor." Chen Feng sat down in a seat further inside, his voice calm.

High-quality tea is considered good tea. In such teahouses, good tea implies that you want to discuss serious matters.

The old man glanced at him, asked no further questions, and turned to make tea. A short while later, a pot of tea was brought out, along with two rough teacups.

Chen Feng poured himself a cup, but didn't drink it; he just watched the steam rise from the tea.

He is waiting.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a middle-aged man approached. This man was wearing ordinary blue overalls, but his eyes were sharp, and he looked like someone involved in organized crime.

"Comrade, you look unfamiliar," the man said, sitting down opposite him and pouring himself a teacup. "Is this your first time here?"

Chen Feng looked at him through his sunglasses without saying a word.

The man wasn't embarrassed; he simply took a sip of tea and said, "I heard something happened outside the city last night?"

"I've heard about it," Chen Feng finally spoke, his voice low.

"Four are dead, all from the underworld," the man said in a low voice. "The leader was called Scarface Wang, and he was quite well-known around here."

"Oh?" Chen Feng picked up his teacup and gently blew on it. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, they say it's a case of gangsters killing gangsters," the man said. "The police just took the body away this morning, and the scene was cleaned up quite well; it's obviously the work of an experienced person."

Chen Feng took a sip of tea. The tea was coarse and astringent, but he remained unfazed.

"Where does Scarface Wang live?" he suddenly asked.

The man paused, his eyes turning wary: "Why are you asking this, comrade?"

"There are some old scores to settle," Chen Feng said. "Even though the person is dead, the debts remain."

The words were vague, but everyone in the black market understood them—a person may be dead, but he may still be hiding things or in debt.

The man sized Chen Feng up for a few moments, seemingly trying to determine his origins. Finally, he held up three fingers: "This number, I'll tell you."

Thirty yuan. Chen Feng didn't haggle, took out three ten-yuan bills from his pocket, and put them under his teacup.

The man quickly put away the money, lowering his voice even further: "Wang Scarface is a cunning rabbit with three burrows. His official residence is at No. 7 Xiaojing Hutong in the east of the city, but that's a front; nobody lives there. His real residence is in Doufu Alley in the north of the city. I don't know the exact address, but it's the house with a courtyard at the very end of the alley. There's a jujube tree in front of it; it's easy to spot."

Chen Feng nodded, then took out ten yuan: "You haven't seen me today."

"Of course," the man put away the money, stood up, "I didn't say anything, and you didn't ask anything."

The man left. Chen Feng sat for a few more minutes, slowly finished the pot of tea, paid for it, and got up to leave.

After leaving the teahouse, he checked his direction and headed north of the city.

He knew Tofu Alley. It was on the northern edge of the city, formerly a slum, later transformed into a chaotic area of ​​single-story houses. The alley was deep and winding, like a maze. The residents were mostly from the lower classes, but also included many like Wang Scarface who worked in the black market.

By the time we reached Tofu Alley, it was almost dark. The afterglow of the setting sun turned the dilapidated houses on both sides of the alley a dark red, like congealed blood.

The alley was deep and narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The ground was a potholed dirt road, with piles of junk on both sides—broken furniture, rotten planks, scrap metal, and a few filthy garbage cans.

Chen Feng walked slowly and carefully. He had taken off his sunglasses—it was dark, and wearing sunglasses would only draw attention. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up, obscuring half of his face.

He walked deeper and deeper into the village. The houses on both sides became increasingly dilapidated, some of them uninhabited, their doors and windows boarded up. Occasionally, a few houses had lights on, the dim yellow glow of kerosene lamps shining through the windows and casting flickering shadows of people inside.

Walking to the deepest part of the alley, I indeed saw a detached house.

The courtyard was small, enclosed by a mud-brick wall with broken glass stuck in the top. The door was a pair of broken wooden doors, with faded door god paintings pasted on the doors, so mottled that they were no longer legible.

There is a jujube tree at the entrance, its branches gnarled and twisted, most of its leaves fallen, its bare branches pointing to the sky like withered hands.

Chen Feng stood at the corner of the alley and observed for a while. The courtyard was dark and quiet, as if no one was there.

He waited for ten minutes to make sure no one was paying attention before he went over.

The door was locked. Chen Feng took out Wang Scarface's keychain and tried each key one by one. On the third try, the lock opened.

He pushed open the door, slipped inside, and quickly closed it.

The courtyard was a mess. Several empty wine bottles, a broken iron basin, and a pile of coal ash lay on the ground. In front were three main rooms, with a side room on each side, all of which were dark.

Chen Feng didn't rush into the house. He first walked around the yard, checking for anything unusual. Nothing was wrong; everything seemed normal, as if the owner had just temporarily left.

He walked to the front door of the main house and tried another key. The door opened.

The room was dark, filled with a strong smell of tobacco, alcohol, and mildew. Chen Feng pulled out a flashlight—he had found it in the small villa; it was an American-made product, very bright, but the battery was almost dead, so he had to use it sparingly.

The flashlight beam swept across the room. It was a main room with an octagonal table in the center, on which were several empty wine bottles and a pile of peanut shells. On either side were two armchairs, their cushions torn, revealing the cotton wadding inside.

The bedroom is on the left, and the kitchen is on the right.

Chen Feng first checked the bedroom. There was a large kang (heated brick bed), covered with a tattered straw mat, with quilts piled haphazardly, emitting an unpleasant odor. There was a small cabinet at the head of the kang, which was locked.

He took out his keychain and tried the smallest key. No. He tried another key, and the lock opened.

The cabinet contained some odds and ends—a few packs of cigarettes, a stack of grain coupons, some loose change, and a small wooden box. Chen Feng opened the wooden box; inside were some gold and silver jewelry, rings, earrings, and necklaces, all of which appeared to be women's items and of dubious origin.

Aside from these, there's nothing of value.

Chen Feng then inspected the kitchen and side rooms. There was some leftover food in the kitchen, which had already gone bad. The side rooms were piled with some junk, nothing special.

Back in the main room, he sat in the armchair and pondered.

This place does indeed look like where Scarface Wang usually lives, but there's nothing special about it. It's just a den of thugs in the black market—filthy, chaotic, and squalid, nothing more.

But Chen Feng didn't plan to leave. It was safe here—Wang Scarface had just died, his accomplices wouldn't come, and the police couldn't find anything for the time being. He could stay here for a few days to recover from his injuries and find out about Xiaoyu.

He stood up and began to tidy up. First, he swept the wine bottles and peanut shells in the main room to the corner and wiped the table clean. Then he checked the doors and windows—they were all fairly sturdy—and secured them from the inside.

He took food and water out of his bag and placed them on the table. Then he took out medicine and re-dressed the wound on his right shoulder. The wound was much better; the redness and swelling had subsided, and new flesh was growing, but he still needed to be careful.

By the time I finished doing all that, it was completely dark. I could hear sporadic barking of dogs outside, and the faint sound of a radio broadcast in the distance—probably the news.

Chen Feng didn't turn on the light. He sat in the dark, slowly eating compressed biscuits with cold water.

The conditions here were better than in the basement of the small villa; at least there was a kang (heated brick bed) to sleep on. But he dared not sleep too soundly and had to remain vigilant at all times.

After finishing his meal, he lay down on the kang (a heated brick bed) and closed his eyes.

He started thinking about Xiaoyu again. He'd wanted to ask about her at the teahouse today, but he was afraid of arousing suspicion, so he hadn't dared. He'd have to find somewhere else to inquire tomorrow.

And what about those people from the courtyard house? The first auntie, the second auntie, the third auntie… where are they now? Do they still live in the courtyard? Or have they already moved away?

Chen Feng calculated that he still had about a hundred enemies. Killing them all at once would be too difficult. He'd have to do it one by one, or…

He remembered the can of kerosene. Burning it would be a good idea, but it needed the right timing.

Lost in thought, he fell asleep. But he was a light sleeper, waking up at the slightest noise.