He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

In late autumn, a biting wind swept through, carrying fine snowflakes that relentlessly lashed the ancient and dilapidated wooden bridge on the banks of the Yalu River. Each gust of wind seemed to be pulled by countless unseen hands, causing the rickety bridge to emit a series of chilling "whooshing" sounds.

At this moment, He Yuyang stood quietly in the middle of the bridge, letting the wind tousle his hair and heavy military coat. The biting night wind blew against him, but he seemed oblivious, gazing silently into the distance as if he were the only person left in the world.

Suddenly, a gust of wind swept in, lifting the collar of his military overcoat high to reveal a faded sweater underneath. Although the sweater was somewhat dull in color and covered with dense, intricate stitches, making it look less refined and beautiful, it was an incredibly precious treasure to He Yuyang. It was a gift his mother, Liu Yan, had knitted for him last winter. Despite the slightly clumsy and even crooked stitching, it was warm as spring when worn, warming him to the very core.

He Yuyang is now the deputy brigade commander of a unit in the Chinese People's Volunteer Army, wearing two stars on his shoulders that shine with a steady light. Just three days ago, when he received the order from his superiors to enter the Korean War, he was in his office, engrossed in organizing the relevant files on the reorganization of his unit. He was holding a pen tightly in his hand, having been writing something in a flowing hand on a document titled "Draft for the Construction of a Mechanized Infantry Regiment," but upon hearing the news, his pen suddenly stopped, and he quickly stood up and, without hesitation, summoned his staff officers for an emergency meeting.

In front of everyone, no one could perceive the ripples and fluctuations that stirred deep within his heart. Only when the night was deep and quiet, when he returned alone to his simple temporary dwelling, and his gaze fell upon the package sent by his family from his hometown on the table, would his fingers involuntarily tremble slightly...

The package looked somewhat tattered, but it was tightly bound together, as if carrying something important. It had gone through many twists and turns to get here, clearly having passed through many hands. The thick hemp rope used to bind the package was particularly eye-catching, with an exceptionally strong knot that seemed difficult to untie without considerable effort.

When He Yuyang finally managed to untie the rope, a rich aroma wafted out. He immediately recognized the smell—it was the pickled radish his mother, Liu Yan, had made! The pickled radish was packed in a clear glass jar, the opening sealed with wax to prevent the aroma from escaping. One could imagine how much care his mother had put into making this gift.

Beside the bottle was a small package wrapped in oil paper. He Yuyang carefully opened it, revealing several delicate little cardboard boxes inside. Each box had a small note attached, with some words scrawled haphazardly on it. Although the handwriting wasn't pretty, even resembling something scratched by chicken claws, the information it conveyed was so clear: "Promote blood circulation and remove blood stasis," "Stop bleeding and reduce inflammation"... It turned out that these were ointments personally prepared by He Yuzhu!

At the very bottom of this pile of things lay a rather thick envelope. He Yuyang carefully pulled it out and gently unsealed it. The moment he opened the envelope, a thin sheet of paper slid out. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a pencil drawing! The drawing depicted an old, yet vibrant, courtyard house.

The courtyard house in the picture looks a bit crooked, but it has a unique charm. In the center of the courtyard stand four little figures in different poses: one holds a spatula high, as if cooking a delicious meal; another carries a basket full of needles and thread, which must be the skillful Liu Yan; the little guy with a schoolbag on his back is undoubtedly the lively and clever Yu Shui; and finally, there's the father, He Daqing, leaning on crutches, whose leg injury hasn't fully healed!

However, when one's gaze sweeps across the painting, what truly catches the eye and amazes is not the rest of the artwork, but rather a small, crooked star meticulously drawn with a bright red crayon in the corner of the picture! This little star seems to have descended from the vast night sky to earth, radiating a captivating light and attracting everyone's attention.

What's even more interesting is that next to this dazzling star, three large characters were neatly written: "Big Brother, please accept this!" Although the handwriting appeared somewhat immature, it revealed a unique playfulness and cuteness, making people feel a deep affection for its author.

He carefully tucked the precious painting into his notebook, then gently closed it and continued opening the envelope. The first thing he saw was He Daqing's familiar and strong handwriting; the paper contained only three short lines: "Everything is well at home, no need to worry. Protecting our country is our duty. May you return safely soon."

Then, Liu Yan's soft, rounded handwriting came into view. Upon closer inspection, several faint ink stains could be seen on the paper, clearly from tears she shed while writing. The letter itself was equally concise and clear: "The weather is getting colder; I wonder if your sweater is warm enough? I specially sewed two pairs of warm, comfortable insoles for you and placed them at the bottom of your package. Yu Shui's studies are progressing well, but I often think of you..."

He Yuzhu's letter was very long, filling three whole pages! The contents were varied and all-encompassing: "Recently, our martial arts school has recruited two new students. These two are incredibly efficient and hardworking, but they're a bit slow on the uptake. When you have some free time, come back and teach them a bit too! Also, Yan Jiecheng from Uncle Yan's family has been clamoring to join the army, and this time he actually got his wish! However, he got a good beating from his father. Why? Because his father thinks his son should stay home and learn martial arts from his masters, not go to the battlefield and cause trouble. After all, only those like you, charging into battle and risking their lives, are true heroes! Oh, right, I almost forgot the most important thing—Teacher Xu also asked me to pass on a message to you: she hopes you take good care of yourself out there!"

When He Yuyang's gaze fell upon the three characters "Teacher Xu," his previously nimble fingers suddenly stopped moving, as if time itself had frozen. Then, he cautiously reached his hand to the bottom of the package, groping for the mysterious little cloth bag.

Finally, he found it and gently took it out, placing it in his palm. Then, he slowly untied the rope around the cloth bag, revealing a delicate and small amulet. The amulet was tightly tied with a bright red cord, on which a delicate plum blossom was meticulously embroidered, every stitch and thread exquisite, like the fine spring rain tapping on an ancient windowpane.

Looking at the amulet in his hand, He Yuyang's thoughts drifted away. He recalled the scene of parting with that woman before his departure—at that time, she shyly handed him a pair of insoles she had sewn herself; and now, that gentle and graceful face clearly appeared in his mind again... and her beautiful figure standing quietly by the train platform, watching the train gradually disappear into the distance until it disappeared at the horizon, was deeply imprinted in his heart like a beautiful and moving painting.

Just then, a strange feeling of emotion welled up in his heart, as if an invisible hand had gently touched it, instantly making him feel warm and even slightly swollen.

"Deputy Brigade Commander, it's time to cross the river!" Staff Officer Xiao Chen ran over, a thin layer of snow on his military cap. "The advance troops have already set off; we are the third echelon."

"Understood." He Yuyang tucked the amulet into his inner pocket, close to his heart, then put the bottles of ointment and dried radish into his backpack. Finally, he pulled out a small silver-gray medicine bottle—containing an emergency treatment he had refined using spiritual spring water from his space. It was colorless and odorless, yet it could stop heavy bleeding in a short time and accelerate wound healing. This was the most practical "protective charm" he could give his brothers.

He looked up at the opposite bank. Dusk was falling, and he could vaguely see distant firelight, like the eyes of a wild beast, gleaming in the darkness. A thin layer of ice covered the river, and icicles shattered by artillery shells crashed against the bridge piers with a crisp "crack." Just a few months ago, he was teaching rainwater arithmetic in a courtyard in Nanluoguxiang, listening to He Yuzhu boast about how skilled the martial arts students at his school were. Now, the river beneath his feet was carrying them to a scorched earth.

"Check your equipment!" He Yuyang shouted to the troops as he turned, his voice carrying undeniable force through the wind. "Keep your letters home safe, keep your worries safe—but hold your guns even tighter!"

The soldiers responded in unison, their voices echoing across the river. He Yuyang looked at their young faces, some only seventeen or eighteen, their faces still bearing the innocence of childhood, yet they could already skillfully disassemble guns and lie prone in the mud for an entire day. He remembered when he first transmigrated, he was just an eight-year-old child, hiding in a corner of a courtyard house, plotting how to use the first drop of spiritual spring water to heal his mother's body. Now he was only 17 years old (by Chinese reckoning), and having crawled out of the flames of war, he carried on his shoulders not only the safety of the He family, but also the homes of countless others like those in Nanluoguxiang.

"Deputy Brigade Commander, here are your binoculars." Xiao Chen handed over a pair of brass binoculars, which had just been issued to the troops and had a newly polished, cold gleam.

He Yuyang raised his binoculars, and the scene on the other side gradually became clear—the bombed-out railway tracks looked like twisted snakes, the dilapidated houses were emitting black smoke, and several North Korean villagers wearing tattered cotton clothes were carrying children on their backs, trudging through the snow with difficulty. He put down the binoculars, feeling a tightness and pain in his chest, as if something was blocking it.

"Brothers," he turned to the soldiers standing in neat rows, his voice low but carrying immense weight, "we crossed this river not to seize territory, not to fight for fame or fortune. Look at the people on the other side; they're no different from our neighbors in the alley, longing for a peaceful life, for their children to go to school, for a hot meal in their pots. But now, someone wants to blow up their homes, to burn down their hopes—can we allow that?"

"No!" The soldiers' shouts shook the snow off the branches.

"No, we can't!" He Yuyang's hand rested on the gun at his waist, a captured American pistol he always carried with him. "Our generation survived the hail of bullets, not so that the next generation would have to taste the bitterness of displacement. Today we cross this river so that tomorrow, the children of Nanluoguxiang can sit peacefully in school, our parents can comfortably weave bamboo baskets under the sun, and our hometown can forever be filled with the smoke of cooking fires, not the smoke of gunpowder!"

He took the bottle of first-aid supplies from his backpack and held it above his head: "This contains special medicine sent from the rear; it can save lives. But let me tell you, the best medicine isn't this—it's the thought in our hearts, the responsibility on our shoulders!" He handed the bottle to the medic, "Give it to the seriously wounded, and prioritize the veterans training new recruits!"

"Yes!" The medic solemnly accepted the medicine bottle as if it were a heavy burden.

He Yuyang took one last look at the direction behind him—his motherland, the lights of Nanluoguxiang, and the smiling faces of his family. He took a deep breath, suppressing all his worries, and drew his command sword from his waist; the blade gleamed coldly in the twilight.

"Attention, everyone—" his voice pierced through the wind and snow, "Target: the other side! Forward!"

"Forward! Forward!"

Slogans echoed across the river as soldiers marched in neat rows onto the wooden bridge to cross. The planks creaked underfoot, as if telling a story of a century of history. He Yuyang walked in the middle of the column, his military boots making a crisp sound as they stepped on the thin ice. He could feel the amulet on his chest swaying gently with each step, like a beating heart.

The river seemed to weep for the lives lost, or perhaps to send off those who were on their way. He Yuyang thought of the sweater Liu Yan knitted, the ugly characters He Yuzhu drew, the paintings by Yushui, and the plum blossoms embroidered by Xu Xiuli… These trivial, warm, and down-to-earth thoughts had transformed into the strongest armor.

He clenched his fist, his nails digging deep into his palm.

Wait for me to come back.

When I come back, I will make sure you live a good life.

When I return, I will make sure the smoke from the chimneys in Nanluoguxiang is brighter than ever before.

When I return, I will ensure that the children of this land never have to see the flames of war again.

The column gradually disappeared into the twilight on the opposite bank, leaving only the bright red military flag fluttering in the wind and snow, like an inextinguishable flame illuminating the cold river water and the little bit of human warmth that countless people had protected with their lives.

The Yalu River continues its eastward flow, carrying broken ice, starlight, and the vows of a group of young people, heading towards the unknown distance. On this side of the river, the lights of Nanluoguxiang are already on. Liu Yan stands at the gate of her courtyard, gazing north, clutching the insoles she just sewed, as if she could send warmth on the wind to her son thousands of miles away.