He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

Autumn nights come early. Just past dusk, a fine drizzle began to fall in the alley, pattering on the locust tree leaves. He Yuyang sat by the kang table, pretending to read a tattered storybook by the dim light of the oil lamp, while his ears were alertly listening to the sounds outside the courtyard.

There was a crumpled piece of paper pressed on the corner of the table, with only three words on it: "The usual place." It was given to him by an old man carrying a vegetable basket when he was closing up shop in the evening—the old man was Old Wang's contact person, and he always used a different identity to deliver the message; this time he was disguised as a radish seller.

The Japanese have been cracking down hard lately; the blockade on the outskirts of the city has been extended three miles outwards, and patrols are still roaming the streets at night, the bayonets on their guns gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Life is even harder for the comrades in China; they lack medicine, food, and cotton clothing. He Yuyang touched the copper talisman in his pocket, the one Old Wang had given him last time, engraved with the character "安" (peace/safety). The cold metal pressed against his heart, as if reminding him to be careful.

"Yangyang, are you asleep?" Liu Yan's voice came from the outer room, languid with the languor of pregnancy. "It's getting cold, close the windows tightly."

"Yes, Mother," He Yuyang replied, burning the note in front of the lamp and scattering the ashes in the stove hole. As he got up to close the window, he glanced at the woodpile in the corner of the yard—where he had hidden the things he had prepared long ago.

In the latter half of the night, the rain stopped, and the moon peeked out from the clouds, casting a silvery frost over the alley. He Daqing and Liu Yan's breathing was even and slow. He Yuyang quietly got up, took out a cloth bag from under the bed, and gently pushed open the door.

Inside the cloth bag were the "hard currency" he had picked out from his spatial storage: two boxes of penicillin (given for checking in last month, now packaged in oil paper, looking like ordinary ointment), thirty kilograms of compressed biscuits (pressed into squares, wrapped in coarse cloth, pretending to be multigrain biscuits), and five cotton-padded coats (made from cotton from his spatial storage, the stitches deliberately rough, like those made by a country woman). These things would be enough for the comrades in the suburbs to last for a while.

Instead of using the main gate, he used the shadow of the wall to leap over the courtyard wall in a few bounds—this was the "Snow-Treading Step" from the "Basic Lightness Skills" manual. After practicing for half a year, he had already mastered it to perfection, and when he landed, not even a blade of grass was disturbed.

The streets were deserted, save for the distant sound of the night watchman's clapper, "Bang—bang—," a sound that made one's heart clench. He Yuyang deliberately chose to walk through back streets and alleys. The broken glass on the walls glittered in the moonlight; those were "anti-theft devices" that the Japanese had forced the merchants to install, which were actually to prevent people from climbing over the walls to pass messages.

As he passed Zhou Zhengguo's martial arts school, he paused. Moonlight shone through the paper windows, revealing a lamp still lit inside—Master Zhou always said, "Practice hard in the coldest days of winter," and at this hour, he was probably still instructing his students. He Yuyang suddenly felt a pang of unease, recalling what He Yuzhu had said when he returned home last month: "Master has been burning things in the backyard lately, and there are scraps of cloth in the ashes, stained with mercurochrome."

He didn't think much of it at the time, but now that he thinks about it, red antiseptic is a common medicine for injuries. Why would a martial arts school need so much of it? Combining Zhou Zhengguo's experience in the escort agency when he was young, as well as his cryptic comments on the current situation... He Yuyang's eyes lit up—this Master Zhou is probably one of the same kind as Old Wang and the others.

This discovery warmed his heart. He Yuzhu had found a good master, who not only taught him martial arts but also instilled some righteousness in him amidst the chaos of the world. He even felt that He Yuzhu's "unintentional" display of supernatural power, which caught Zhou Zhengguo's eye, might not have been a coincidence.

After crossing three streets, they arrived at a dilapidated temple on the outskirts of the city. The temple had long since lost its incense offerings; half of the Buddha statue had collapsed, and only two stone lions, covered in moss, remained guarding the entrance. He Yuyang whistled, three short whistles followed by one long one—this was the secret signal he and Old Wang had agreed upon.

"You're here?" A dark figure emerged from behind the Buddha statue; it was Old Wang. He was thinner than the last time we met, with sunken eyes, but he was still clutching a pipe. "Did something happen on the way?"

"Everything went smoothly." He Yuyang handed over the cloth bag. "Everything is here. Please check it."

Old Wang didn't give a number, but just patted him on the shoulder: "I trust you to handle things." He took out a few pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them to He Yuyang, "These are slips of paper with the amounts on them. You'll need them someday."

He Yuyang took it and examined it by the moonlight. It was a receipt written with a brush, stamped with a blurry red seal, which read, "Received two boxes of medicine, thirty catties of grain, and five cotton-padded coats. A batch of supplies is temporarily owed to the He family, to be paid upon presentation of this receipt after the liberation." He knew that this was just a piece of waste paper now, but in the future, it might be a memento, and even more so, a testament. He folded it up and put it in his pocket, intending to store it in the storage warehouse in his spatial dimension as soon as he returned—there, time stood still, and he could store things there until the end of time.

"About Master Zhou..." He Yuyang hesitated for a moment before speaking, "If he's having any difficulties, I might be able to lend a hand."

Old Wang paused for a moment, then laughed, a spark from his pipe gleaming. "You little rascal, your eyes are sharper than an eagle's. Brother Zhou is indeed one of us, but he's safe there for now. Don't show yourself, lest you cause him trouble." He paused, then added, "Your younger brother is a promising talent. Brother Zhou values ​​him highly, saying he's 'strong enough to lift a tripod, yet pure of heart,' a natural for protecting the country."

He Yuyang breathed a sigh of relief. With Zhou Zhengguo looking after him, He Zhu had made the right choice.

"Oh, right," Old Wang emptied a small paper packet from his tobacco pouch, "Take this, it's some 'pregnancy-preserving medicine' that just arrived at the city pharmacy, keep it for your mother."

He Yuyang took it; it was warm to the touch. Inside the paper package were dried eucommia bark and dodder seeds, both excellent medicinal herbs for preventing miscarriage. His heart warmed; "Thank you, Uncle Wang."

"What are you thanking me for?" Old Wang tapped his pipe. "Your mother is carrying hope; you have to protect her." He looked up at the sky. "I have to go; any later and I won't be able to get past the blockade."

Without another word, Old Wang shouldered his cloth bag and disappeared into the woods behind the temple in a few flashes, his skills not much inferior to He Yuyang's. Standing before the Buddha statue, He Yuyang touched the copper talisman and receipt in his pocket, suddenly feeling that the burden on his shoulders had become heavier, but also more stable.

On his way back, he deliberately went around to the back wall of the martial arts school. Sure enough, the chimney in the backyard was still smoking, and he could vaguely hear Zhou Zhengguo's voice: "When you're in a horse stance, sink your shoulders and let your qi sink to your dantian..." Then he heard He Yuzhu's muffled groan, which meant that his master had whipped his legs with a rattan cane again.

He Yuyang couldn't help but laugh. This kid always complained about how tiring horse stance was at home, but he was obedient at the martial arts school. He took out a small bag of brown sugar from his spatial storage (extra from the last coal exchange), wrapped it in a cloth, and threw it over the wall, where it landed right on the stone table in the backyard.

"Who?" Zhou Zhengguo's voice immediately became alert.

"Master, it's candy!" He Yuzhu's voice was filled with surprise. "It was wrapped in a cloth and thrown in from outside the wall!"

Zhou Zhengguo was silent for a moment, then shouted, "Pick it up and keep it. We'll make tea with it tomorrow. Go to sleep after you finish this round of boxing!"

He Yuyang smiled and turned to leave. Some things don't need to be said aloud; they're best left unsaid.

When he got home, it was almost dawn. He placed the medicinal herbs Old Wang had given him next to Liu Yan's medicine pot, and then carefully put the receipt and copper talisman into his spatial storage—his warehouse. Besides these, there were also the silver dollars he had saved, his grain ledger, and even He Yuzhu's first baby tooth. These things were all marks of home, everything he wanted to protect.

As He Daqing lay back down on the kang (a heated brick bed), he turned over and muttered, "It's getting windy..."

He Yuyang closed his eyes, but a smile played on his lips. The wind had picked up, but as long as people were united, no matter how strong the wind was, it couldn't break up a family, nor could it extinguish the flames hidden in the shadows.

The moonlight outside the window was obscured by clouds again. The alley was quiet, with only occasional drops of water falling from the locust leaves, as if gently applauding this silent protection.