Courtyard House: From Deputy Division Commander to Civilian, Progressing All the Way

That afternoon, the State Information Office held a special press conference at a state-level luxury hotel.

The hall was filled with flashing lights, as if it were daytime. Reporters from Reuters, AFP, and even the Associated Press from the United States who had entered through third-country channels, as well as special correspondents from the Soviet newspaper Pravda, packed the entire venue to capacity.

Lin Yang, dressed in a crisp general's uniform, strode onto the podium. He carried no prepared remarks, casually resting his hands on the edge of the podium. The imposing aura emanating from him silenced the foreign journalists who had prepared pointed questions.

"General Lin," a blond, blue-eyed Reuters reporter stood up, his tone tinged with barely concealed sarcasm and probing, "Western strategic experts believe that although your country has successfully tested missile nuclear weapons, its industrial base limits its ability to alter the strategic balance of the global Cold War. What is your view on this?"

Lin Yang narrowed his eyes slightly, a cold smile curving his lips.

"Strategic balance is never determined by the charity of others, but by the range of artillery and the yield of missiles." Lin Yang's voice echoed deeply through the hall through the microphone. "Since Western experts believe that the balance cannot be changed, why did the US Seventh Fleet's carrier strike group quietly retreat 300 nautical miles a week ago?"

These words caused an uproar in the room. The Reuters reporter's face turned pale and then red, and he fell silent.

A reporter from the Soviet newspaper Pravda immediately stood up, his eyes filled with complex emotions: "Minister Lin, as a former ally, the Soviet Union provided assistance to China's industrial development. Now that you have achieved such success, does it mean that you have completely closed the door to technological exchanges with the Soviet Union?"

Lin Yang looked at him, his gaze piercing: "The moment you burned the blueprints and withdrew your experts in the desert, you closed the door on your own. Now, we have carved out a new world with our own hands. From now on, the Chinese people will stand tall only on our own. The era of any attempt to force us into submission through nuclear blackmail is over."

Decisive, domineering, and flawless.

The following day, this speech was broadcast throughout every corner of Beijing via the pages of major newspapers and on radio.

No. 95, Nanluoguxiang, is a courtyard house.

This courtyard, once filled with all sorts of petty calculations, is unusually quiet today. But beneath this quiet, a strong, almost suffocating, complex emotion is surging.

In the front yard, Uncle Yan Bugui sat at his old, worn-out square table. Open on the table was a copy of the People's Daily with Lin Yang's photo on it.

Yan Bugui's black-rimmed glasses, which were wrapped with tape around the bridge of his nose, slipped down to the tip of his nose, but he was completely unaware of it.

His small eyes, usually filled with shrewd calculations, were now fixed on Lin Yang's cold face in the newspaper, his hands trembling like a leaf.

"Minister...Minister of Heavy Industry...Thirty-five years old..."

Yan Bugui's voice was filled with a deep despair and trembling.

He recalled that more than ten years ago, when Lin Fan was still an apprentice at a steel rolling mill, he had joined Yi Zhonghai and his gang in bullying the Lin brothers for a few cents. Now, looking at it, his "scheming," which he had been so proud of all his life, was not even a speck of dust in the face of such absolute power that could shake the world.

"Old man, what are you muttering about?" The third aunt walked in carrying a basin of cornbread. Seeing Yan Bugui's dejected appearance, she couldn't help but frown.

Yan Bugui slammed the newspaper shut, as if the words on it were burning his hand. He swallowed hard, lowered his voice, and said in a tone filled with jealousy and barely concealed fear, "This second son of the Lin family not only built that atomic bomb that could destroy the world, but now he's a high-ranking official! Do you know what level he is? A huge one!"

That's heaven! A true dragon has emerged from our courtyard! It's just a pity we were blind back then, failing to secure this opportunity and even offending them..."

Yan Bugui felt as if tens of thousands of ants were gnawing at his heart. The jealousy and regret brought about by watching the poor boy he had once trampled underfoot rise to become a god he could never reach was more painful than killing him directly.

In the backyard, Xu Damao's house reeked of a strong smell of cheap, bulk liquor.

Xu Damao slumped in his chair, his hair a mess, with two empty wine bottles lying at his feet. He also clutched a newspaper in his hand, which he had picked up from the propaganda department when he went to the factory to show a movie earlier that day.

"Why...why can Lin Yang be so powerful? What am I lacking?" Xu Damao hiccuped, his eyes bloodshot, filled with twisted hatred and resentment.

He was consumed by jealousy. Back in the day, Xu Damao considered himself the most popular young man in the compound, eloquent and a respectable projectionist.

But now? Lin Fan has become the head of the steel rolling mill, and Lin Yang has become a high-ranking official who only exists in newspapers and on the radio.

Even that silly Zhu is now the powerful criminal investigation captain of the Dongcheng Branch Bureau. He carries a gun and everyone on the street calls him "Chief He"!

Xu Damao, on the other hand, married a shrewish woman from the countryside. In recent years, he has been living in fear and trembling through storms, afraid that one day he would be made an example of and his life would be worse than that of a dog.

"You good-for-nothing, drinking cat piss in broad daylight again!" Wang Cuihua walked in from outside, snatched the wine glass from Xu Damao's hand, and smashed it on the ground. "Look at the Lin brothers, and look at you, you dead dog! How could I have been so blind to marry such a wretch!"

Xu Damao suddenly stood up, wanting to lash out, but when he saw Wang Cuihua's thick arms and fierce eyes, and thought about how he now had to rely on Lin Fan for even his work, his anger instantly subsided, turning into a humiliating sigh as he slumped back into his chair.

Meanwhile, at the Jia family residence in the Intermediate People's Court.

Jia Zhangshi huddled in the quilt at the head of the kang like a quail, with only half of her head showing.

Qin Huairu sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) sewing shoe soles, her face expressionless, but her eyes were filled with a deathly numbness and deep-seated regret.

"Huai Ru..." Madam Jia lowered her voice, as if talking in her sleep, her voice carrying a chilling coldness, "Aren't all those people outside banging drums and gongs celebrating for the second son of the Lin family? Do you think... now that he's such a high-ranking official, won't he turn around and settle old scores with us for taking their house back then?"

Qin Huairu's hand paused slightly as the needle pricked her finger, drawing a drop of blood. She didn't wipe it away, but instead gave her mother-in-law, who only knew how to throw tantrums, a cold look.

"Purge? You overestimate yourself." Qin Huairu's voice was devoid of warmth. "He's now a minister in charge of major factories across the country, a hero even foreigners fear. What are we? In his eyes, we're not even ants on the ground. He'd rather trample us to death than dirty his shoes."

Qin Huairu's heart was bleeding. Countless times in the dead of night, she fantasized about what would have happened if she hadn't been blind enough to marry Jia Dongxu, that short-lived good-for-nothing; what would have happened if she had shown even a little kindness to Lin Fan back then. Would she be worthy of sitting in that bulletproof Hongqi sedan now?

Unfortunately, there are no "what ifs" in this world. She could only watch helplessly as the Lin family shone brightly, enduring her rotten and stinking remaining years in endless jealousy and despair.