Courtyard Houses: Longevity Since the War of Resistance

A lighter?! A hand-held faucet?!

When I drew them, my face turned black. These two skills are not really useful; they're just a joke.

But if you have resources to replenish, then that's practically a divine skill!!! Bullshit.

With my current skill set, brute force is the easiest option.

I'll charge in with two submachine guns and dozens of grenades. I'll kill all the beasts I see. It'll be the most satisfying when I've killed them all. But if one or two escape, my secret will be exposed.

Moreover, it's inconvenient to take them away after they're rescued.

A forced attack was abandoned.

Transforming into a high-ranking Japanese official is possible, but the old problem remains: how to bring him out? How could he possibly bring everyone out during a sudden interrogation? Just how high-ranking would that be?

Those who are close to the earth can dig tunnels, but the old problem remains: how can we avoid arousing Old Zhao's suspicion? How could I possibly undertake such a large project as digging a tunnel by myself?

The same old problem, the same old problem, it still bothers me. (From the song: The Old Place)

One plan after another went through my mind, only to be rejected one by one. I stared at the little bit of noodle soup left in the bowl, a layer of oil floating on top of the noodles.

We need a way to get people in safely and bring them out without disturbing too many people.

Ideally, they should come out on their own, or be brought out legally. Thinking about it, I suddenly remembered a movie I'd seen before, adapted from the story of the Earl of the Old Guy family. They tried to fake their deaths to escape, right? Maybe I could recreate that.

The Thirteen Ghost Needles technique can cause a person to lose all breath and heartbeat, entering a state of suspended animation, where the person looks no different from being dead, with no pulse or breath detectable, and the body is ice cold.

However, if the acupuncture is administered within a few hours, the patient will wake up, and the damage to the body will be minimal.

It wouldn't be difficult to get Lao Zhao and the other two to die in jail.

The difficult part is what happens to the body after the person dies.

Throw them in a mass grave? Conduct medical research? Cremate them directly?

Medical research? Hospital!!! This place is great.

He counted out the money for the meal, put it at the bottom of his bowl, and got up to go downstairs.

It was already getting dark outside, but the summer heat hadn't dissipated. Without hesitation, I headed north. After walking two blocks, I stopped in front of a three-story Western-style building.

The sign for the RB Army Hospital was clearly visible in the twilight.

White walls and red tiles, two covered trucks parked in the courtyard, people coming and going, some in white coats and some in military uniforms.

I sat down at the tea stall across the street and ordered a bowl of cold tea. My keen eyes quickly scanned the area, and I soon understood the layout. The dean's office was on the third floor, at the east end, with a sign that read "Junichi Matsumoto."

Wait!

A middle-aged man in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase, came out of the main entrance and got into a black Ford sedan. It was Junichi Matsumoto.

The car drove towards the Hongkou RB Overseas Chinese District, and the light-footed kung fu followed behind, leaping between high-rise buildings under the cover of night.

Matsumoto's car stopped in front of a two-story house with a small garden. After getting out of the car, the driver drove it away, and he went inside.

A quick glance around the house revealed its exquisite decor and numerous antique porcelain pieces. A safe stood in the study. Matsumoto was eating in the dining room, served by a Japanese woman; the two remained silent, the atmosphere cold.

That's the good thing about having a keen eye; it lets me not let any beast escape. If this old bastard Matsumoto were a white-clad angel, a healer, I wouldn't feel uneasy for even a second after killing him. But he's not. With that bright red information on his body, all I want is to finish you off quickly.

At 11 p.m., the residential area was completely quiet.

Matsumoto read in the study for a while, then went upstairs to sleep. I quickly climbed the ladder to the second-floor bedroom balcony. Matsumoto's safety awareness is lacking; he didn't even close the balcony window.

Holding my breath, I approached the bedside; the pine dog was fast asleep.

With a raised right hand, a clean and silent chop to the neck caused Matsumoto's neck to cave into his back, his head tilting forward, dead beyond any doubt.

Without delay, he leaped with the corpse, landing on the soft mud in the backyard. He chose a patch of land that looked like it hadn't been tended to for a long time and put him down. He pressed his right hand on the ground, activating the Earth's Intimacy, and the soil in front of him parted and sank to the sides, forming a neat rectangular pit, pushing Matsumoto to the bottom.

"You're one of a kind among scorpion dads," I muttered to myself, a hint of cold sarcasm in my voice, "to be buried by my own hands."

With a wave of his hand, the soil was backfilled, quickly filling and compacting the pit. Several clumps of half-withered weeds were also moved over, and everything returned to normal.

After doing all that, I returned to my room. The old-fashioned safe looked very sturdy. Too lazy to look for the password or listen for the sound, I grabbed the edge of the safe door with both hands and pried it open. The door was ripped open and the hinges broke.

Do you understand that great effort can produce miracles?

The room was cluttered with things. Pushing aside a few small yellow croakers and dozens of bundles of RMB, I found identification documents, seals, and several crucial documents bearing the seal of the military police. Beside me were several leather notebooks; flipping through them, I found cold, hard records of data from so-called special cases and medical experiments.

Put away the useful items, and leave the rest as they are. Although the cabinet door is broken, it's dark now, and no one might notice for a while as they stand in front of the dressing mirror.

"Transform!!"

A sound came from inside his body, and his bones, muscles, and skin were remodeled. Thirty seconds later, Junichi Matsumoto appeared in the mirror.

I am Junichi Matsumoto, Director of the Hongkou Army Hospital and a medical expert cooperating with the Military Police.

Go to bed, rest and recharge, and plan your actions.

As dawn broke, I heard noises downstairs. I got up, changed into the dark gray kimono hanging on the coat rack, and went downstairs in my slippers.

A simple breakfast was laid out in the restaurant: miso soup, rice, a small dish of pickled radish, and a raw egg. The woman stood silently to the side.

I sat down expressionlessly, mimicking Matsumoto, picked up my chopsticks, and quietly began to eat. I didn't utter a single word throughout the entire process, not even lifting my eyelids. The woman seemed used to it; only when I was almost finished did she whisper in Japanese, "Are you going to the hospital today?"

"Hmm," I responded through my nose.

After finishing my meal, I went upstairs to change back into my gray suit and picked up my briefcase. A Ford sedan was already waiting at the door. The driver, a silent veteran of the Japanese army, immediately bowed and opened the car door when he saw me come out.

"Go to the hospital," Matsumoto ordered in a slightly impatient tone.

The car drove smoothly toward the Hongkou Army Hospital.

Along the way, I observed the street scenes of Shanghai through the car window, but my mind was constantly refining the script.

Everything was normal at the hospital. Medical staff in white coats came and went, and they all stopped to bow and greet me when they saw me: "Good morning, Director Matsumoto."

I nodded slightly in response, and without stopping, walked straight to my dean's office. I closed the door and placed my briefcase on the large mahogany desk. There were some documents and medical records piled on the desk. I casually flipped through a few; they were all routine records of treating wounded soldiers or overseas Chinese.

The time has come, let's dance!

The Japanese actor who's a movie star is here!!!