Rebirth in a Courtyard: I Am a Little Hunter

A strong, nauseating stench of hypocrisy assaulted Wei Chen's senses. He felt his stomach churning.

If these words were spoken by a truly virtuous and upright person, they might have some impact. But coming from Yi Zhonghai, coupled with his self-righteous "I speak for morality" attitude, all that remains is naked calculation and a suffocating desire for control.

The last trace of polite smile on Wei Chen's face vanished completely. He straightened up, his gaze calmly meeting Yi Zhonghai's seemingly kind but actually shrewd eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible, curve of coldness appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"Uncle, you're absolutely right!" Wei Chen's voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear, carrying a peculiar penetrating power that echoed in the quiet courtyard in the early morning. "I just moved in, so I don't really know much about the glorious traditions of our compound. I've been humbly learning and observing carefully lately."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Yi Zhonghai's face, which showed a slight expression of satisfaction, before abruptly changing the subject: "Through my observations over the past few days, I have discovered that some families in our compound are indeed facing great difficulties and are in particular in need of care and help from their neighbors."

For example, Aunt Liu, who lived in the backyard through the main room, had her husband pass away early. She raised two teenagers on her own, barely making ends meet by pasting paper boxes and washing clothes for others. She often worried about where her next meal would come from.

And there's Grandma Li's house in the backyard, you saw it too. The grandmother and grandson depend on each other for survival. Grandma Li is so old, yet she still has to get up early and work late to do odd jobs. Little Stone, that child, looks like he's only six when he's eight, so thin it's heartbreaking.

Wei Chen's tone was calm, as if stating an objective fact, but every word felt like a small hammer striking Yi Zhonghai's heart. Yi Zhonghai's "kind" smile froze slightly, and he had a vague feeling that something was wrong.

"These two aunties and grandmother," Wei Chen's voice carried a perfectly measured hint of admiration, "although they live a difficult life, they have an inner strength! They refuse to accept charity from others and always think about supporting themselves and their children with their own hands, no matter how hard or tiring it is! I think this spirit, this quality of 'self-reliance and the glory of labor,' is what we should truly learn from and respect!"

Wei Chen enunciated the eight words, "Self-reliance and the glory of labor," with exceptional clarity. Yi Zhonghai's expression instantly turned grim; he felt as if he had choked on something.

Wei Chen seemed oblivious to Yi Zhonghai's changing expression and continued to "humbly seek advice": "So, Uncle Yi, I've also been reflecting on this. I want to help them, but I'm afraid that giving them things directly will hurt their self-esteem. After thinking it over, I can only do what I did yesterday: ask them for a small favor and then pay them some 'reward' within my means."

For example, I asked Xiao Shitou to help prepare a pheasant, and gave him the giblets and a few potatoes as payment. This way, I both improved their lives a little and upheld their dignity as people who earn their living through labor. "Uncle, do you think... what I did was right? Doesn't it align with our compound's tradition of 'mutual help'?"

Wei Chen looked at Yi Zhonghai with clear and "sincere" eyes, as if he was really waiting for the judgment and guidance of this "moral exemplar".

Yi Zhonghai felt a "buzz" in his head, as if someone had hit him hard in the ear with a heavy hammer, making him dizzy and his ears ring.

He felt like he was being roasted over a fire!

Wei Chen's words were all perfectly reasonable! Every single one of them stood on the moral high ground! He mentioned Aunt Liu and the Li family, who were recognized as the poorest households in the compound, pointing out their admirable qualities of self-respect and resilience. He even brought up Yi Zhonghai's oft-repeated phrase, "Labor is glorious!" Finally, he summarized his way of helping others as "rewards for labor that upholds dignity," and asked if he was right!

Could he say it was wrong? Did he dare say it was wrong? If he dared to say Wei Chen was wrong, he would be slapping himself in the face! He would be denying the glory of labor! He would be saying that Aunt Liu and the Li family shouldn't have any self-respect and should just wait for others to give them charity! Then what would Yi Zhonghai become? A hypocrite? A false moralist?

But Wei Chen's words were clearly a veiled criticism of Yi Zhonghai's so-called "helping the Jia family," implying that it was condoning unearned gains and trampling on the spirit of "labor is glorious"!

That phrase, "supporting yourself and your children with your own hands," was like a resounding slap in the face to his earlier "pleading poverty" for the Jia family! Jia Dongxu, a grown man with a job and a salary, did he "support" them? Did he "support himself"? What kind of "labor" was Qin Huairu going to ask for meat?

Yi Zhonghai's face flushed red and then turned pale. His lips trembled, and his Adam's apple bobbed, but he couldn't utter a single word. He felt a surge of frustration stuck in his chest, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

He wanted to refute, to rebuke Wei Chen for his sophistry, and to reiterate the Jia family's "special difficulties," but looking at Wei Chen's calm yet sharp eyes, and at Jia Dongxu's equally embarrassed expression, as if he wanted to disappear into the ground, all his words got stuck in his throat.

"Hmm...hmm!" Yi Zhonghai squeezed out two extremely short, indistinct nasal sounds from his nose. The muscles on his face twitched stiffly, and he managed to force out a smile that was uglier than a grimace. "Wei Chen...you...you did well! You did...very well! Hmm, very well!" He practically gritted his teeth to squeeze out those words.

"Thank you for your affirmation and praise, Uncle!" Wei Chen's "sincerity" instantly transformed into a bright smile, as if he had received tremendous encouragement. His voice also became cheerful. "With your words, I feel relieved! I will definitely continue to work hard, learn from Aunt Liu and Grandma Li, and use practical actions to uphold the fine traditions of our compound: 'Respecting the elderly and caring for the young, helping each other, and honoring labor'! I'll go to work now, Uncle, Brother Jia, see you later!"

After saying that, Wei Chen nimbly mounted his bicycle, pushed off with his foot, and the old-fashioned bicycle glided away swiftly, leaving behind a series of crisp bell sounds before quickly disappearing into the morning mist of the alley.

The cold morning wind brushed against Yi Zhonghai's stiff face. He stood there, gazing in the direction where Wei Chen had disappeared, still holding his old bicycle, looking like a weathered stone sculpture.

"Is that what I... meant?" A huge question mark, like a cold iron hook, hooked his heart hard, leaving him bewildered and feeling an unprecedented sense of suffocation and... a vague panic.

This kid is too cunning! Too good with words! How am I supposed to control him in the future? Yi Zhonghai's mind was buzzing, a complete mess. Beside him, Jia Dongxu lowered his head, staring at the tips of his shoes, wishing he could bury his head in his collar. The courage and grievances he had just felt in "apologizing" had vanished completely, leaving only utter embarrassment.

The biting north wind, like countless invisible ice blades, lashed wildly against the towering chimneys and the dusty, rust-covered exterior walls of the Red Star Steel Rolling Mill, emitting a mournful, piercing wail, as if trying to freeze and tear apart the steel skeleton as well.

Inside the factory area, on the cement road covered with a thin layer of ice, workers wearing bulky dark blue overalls and cotton hats with ear flaps hunched their necks and hurried along.

Each heavy breath condensed into thick white mist in the frigid air, only to be mercilessly torn apart and swept away by the howling wind.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of coal smoke, the acrid odor of rusted iron, and the burnt smell of hot machine oil, all mingling and settling together to create a unique and rough breath that belonged to the pulse of heavy industry in this era.

The massive gantry crane moved slowly high in the air, emitting a dull metallic scraping sound that echoed the distant roar of machinery coming from the workshop, forming the cold yet noisy backdrop of this steel jungle.

Winter mornings in Beijing are just this cold; it gets a little better when the sun comes out.

Wei Chen tightened the collar of his old military overcoat and pushed his weathered old bicycle through the heavily guarded factory gate.

Through the small window of the guardhouse, Old Zhang was wrapped in a thick cotton-padded coat that barely covered his neck, with only his eyes, red from the cold, showing. When he saw that it was Wei Chen, he managed a familiar smile and waved his hand, which was also wrapped in cotton gloves, to signal that he could pass.

In the past few months, Wei Chen has become a familiar face among ordinary workers and some key leaders, especially thanks to the "unplanned" meat he occasionally managed to procure in the third purchasing group, which solved the canteen's urgent needs. Naturally, his treatment is different from that of ordinary employees.

He carefully locked his bicycle in the crowded bike shed, stomped his almost frozen feet, rubbed his numb fingers, and then exhaled a long puff of white breath before walking towards the three-story red brick building—the purchasing department's office. His destination was clear: the smaller room on the east side of the building—the office of Group Three.

Pushing open the creaking wooden door, which also exuded a chill, a wave of warm air, a mixture of strong, cheap tobacco smells, the warm smoke from burning coal, and the astringent aroma of cheap tea leaves, rushed in and instantly enveloped my body, creating a stark contrast to the freezing cold outside, like heaven and hell.

In the center of the room, a cast-iron furnace was burning brightly, its walls licked a dark red by the flames. Inside, honeycomb briquettes glowed with a warm orange-red light. On the furnace wall sat a kettle, blackened by smoke and fire, its lid hissing from the steam. The spout relentlessly spewed out thick white steam, emitting a continuous, soft hiss, adding a rhythm of life to this small world.

The office was sparsely populated. The warmest, window seat, closest to the stove, was comfortably occupied by Zhao Dashan and Hu Songnian, the two most senior purchasing agents.

Zhao Dashan was a loud, boisterous man who was now comfortably lounging in a creaking old rattan chair, holding a enamel mug with many chips showing through its black base. Inside was a dark brown, almost black, old tea dregs.

He sipped the scalding, bitter tea, squinted his eyes in satisfaction, and exhaled a long puff of white steam carrying the aroma of tea, as if expelling all the chill from his body.

Hu Songnian, standing next to him, appeared more refined. He wore a pair of old-fashioned glasses with a broken frame held up by tape, and held a crumpled copy of the Workers' Daily in his hand. He slowly looked at it in the light from the stove, occasionally pushing up the slipping frame of his glasses, his brows slightly furrowed, as if he was carefully deciphering the printed words on the page.