Rebirth in a Courtyard: I Am a Little Hunter

In the front yard, in Sha Zhu's little hut, he was drinking alone with a small dish of pickled vegetables. The cries and curses coming from the Jia family clearly pierced his ears, especially Qin Huairu's tearful roar, "...the grain belongs to the public...the meat has to be handed over to the canteen..." It pierced his heart like a needle.

"Bang!" Sha Zhu slammed the bottle heavily on the table, spilling a few drops of cheap liquor. His eyes were bloodshot, and veins bulged on his forehead. "Wei Chen! You bastard!"

He gritted his teeth and growled, "Sister Qin even came to your door to beg you! She said all that! Bang Geng and the others are starving, don't you have any sympathy at all? Public institution? Regulations? Bullshit! You're selfish! Cold-blooded! You look down on people!" The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, and Wei Chen's calm and expressionless face, which he saw as full of "pretentiousness" and "false arrogance," seemed to appear before his eyes.

"Fine! You've got guts, huh? Not giving Sister Qin any face, huh? You really think no one in this courtyard can handle you?" Sha Zhu suddenly stood up, his burly frame appearing somewhat oppressive in the cramped room. He walked a few steps to the corner, where his prized, gleaming mulberry wood-handled cleaver leaned against the wall. With a clang, he pulled the knife from its sheath!

In the dim light, the foot-long, gleaming blade reflected a chilling sharpness. Sha Zhu extended his rough fingers, his fingertips moving slowly, with an almost reverent ferocity, across the sharp edge. The icy touch traveled from his fingertips, stimulating the blood boiling within him, fueled by alcohol and rage.

He narrowed his eyes, staring at the gleaming blade, his gaze as fierce as a predatory beast ready to devour its prey. A savage grin spread across his lips, his voice low and menacing: "Kid... just you wait. The dignity of the men of Beijing isn't so easily lost. Sister Qin's grievances weren't suffered for nothing. You'll learn... what the rules of the Courtyard War God are all about!"

He picked up the whetstone and poured a ladle of water on it. "Sizzle... sizzle..." The monotonous and piercing sound of sharpening the knife suddenly rang out in the silent night, carrying a chilling feeling that pierced through the thin walls and echoed eerily in the oppressive air of the courtyard, like a beast sharpening its claws in the darkness.

Wei Chen's small house in the east courtyard.

Wei Chen wasn't asleep in the wicker chair by the window. He held a copy of "The Nameless Secret Manual" in his hands. He had gotten it from his master and would flip through it whenever he had free time. The faint sounds of the Jia family crying and cursing outside the window, as well as the deliberately amplified, provocative sound of sharpening knives in the front yard, clearly reached his ears.

He put down his book, walked to the window, and gently lifted a corner of the curtain. His gaze, sharp as lightning, pierced through the darkness, precisely targeting the two windows emitting light from Yi Zhonghai's house in the middle courtyard and Sha Zhu's house in the front courtyard.

The small hole in the paper window of Yi Zhonghai's house still seemed to retain traces of peeping, while the "sizzling" sound of sharpening knives in Sha Zhu's house was a blatant demonstration.

Wei Chen showed no fear; instead, a cold, mocking smile appeared on his face. Yi Zhonghai's scheming, Liu Haizhong's official arrogance, the Jia family's greed, Sha Zhu's recklessness... the demons and monsters in the courtyard, catalyzed by the food crisis, could no longer contain themselves and were about to jump out and put on a show.

"Joint pressure? Moral blackmail? Threat of force?" Wei Chen muttered to himself silently, his eyes as cold as an icy pool. "Come on. Let me see just how shameless your so-called 'collectivism' banner can be. Let me see just how sharp your 'neighborly affection' knife can be."

He slowly drew the curtains, completely shutting out the nauseating scheming and provocations outside. Inside, all was quiet. The glass of cold water on the table reflected a cool light under the lamp. Wei Chen sat back in the wicker chair, picked up his book again, his expression focused and calm, as if the turbulent undercurrents and menacing threats outside were nothing more than a gentle breeze brushing past the window.

The ropes binding the grain coupons had been tightened, and the stage in the courtyard had been set up. He wanted to see what kind of "wonderful" drama these neighbors, each with their own ulterior motives, could put on in this farce triggered by two pounds of grain. And he, the spectator and potential prey who held the "granary," was already prepared—whoever came, he wouldn't mind fighting to the bitter end.

Jin Aimin, deputy head of the security department of the steel rolling mill, had a voice that was hoarse and broken like a broken gong in the makeshift relief station set up at the former site of the City God Temple.

He waved his thick arms, trying to maintain order in the line distributing the relief gruel, but with little effect. Hunger, like an invisible whip, lashed at the fragile nerves of every disaster victim, driving them into a chaotic and restless torrent.

"Line up! Don't push! Everyone gets a table! If you push, no one will get to eat!" Jin Aimin's shout was drowned out by suppressed gasps and the clattering of bowls and chopsticks.

A pair of withered, muddy hands gripped the chipped, rough porcelain bowls tightly, their fingernails embedded with indelible grime, like drowning people clinging to their last piece of driftwood, their murky eyes fixed on the large iron pot in front of them, which was emitting thin steam.

The cornmeal porridge in the pot, with a few yellowed vegetable leaves floating on top, emitted a bland aroma mixed with musty and starchy smells.

Wei Chen, dressed in faded blue overalls with worn-through elbows and a striking red armband with the word "Security" on it, silently patrolled the edge of the crowd.

Here, he witnessed the most naked struggle of humanity on the edge of survival. What he saw was a thousand times heavier than the sordid squabbles in the courtyards over a pound of grain coupons or half an ounce of oil.

His gaze swept across the area like a searchlight. An old man, almost bald and with his back hunched so low it was parallel to the ground, leaned on a gleaming, worn-out tree branch. He walked with a shaky gait, as if a gust of wind could knock him over.

His cloudy eyes held little emotion, only a numbness, almost deathly, drained by the long journey of famine and prolonged hunger. He stood at the end of the line, and every slight commotion ahead made his already swaying body even more unsteady.

Not far away, a young woman huddled on the cold stone ground, clutching a swaddled baby tightly in her arms. The infant's face was as yellow as old paper, and sparse lanugo clung to his scalp, making his head appear unusually large. His eyes were closed, and his little mouth opened and closed unconsciously, emitting faint whimpering sounds, like a kitten abandoned right after birth.

The woman's head was bowed, her dry, cracked lips pressed against the baby's equally withered forehead, moving silently as if humming a long-forgotten lullaby, or perhaps making a desperate prayer to a nonexistent god. Beneath her thin clothes, her shoulder blades were clearly visible, like a pair of broken wings.

These are all disaster victims who have just arrived at the relief station, and the government is doing everything it can to provide them with medical care.

"Make way! Make way! Doctor! Doctor, this way!" A security guard anxiously pushed through the crowd, his voice filled with panic.

Wei Chen's heart tightened, and he looked in the direction of the sound. In the corner, he saw a barefoot doctor wearing a faded white coat kneeling on a straw mat, examining a lying child.

The child was about five or six years old, with limbs as thin as sticks, but an unusually large, distended belly. His skin was stretched and shiny, displaying a chilling bluish-yellow hue, like an overinflated balloon about to burst. The child's eyes were tightly closed, and his long eyelashes cast heavy shadows on his bloodless face. His breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible.

The barefoot doctor's brows furrowed, his fingers carefully pressing on the child's swollen abdomen, producing a dull "plop" sound. He looked up at Director Wang from the neighborhood committee, who had rushed over, his voice heavy as if weighed down by lead: "Director Wang... it's still edema... it's very serious. Long-term lack of protein and fat has caused internal organ failure... relying on this little bit of gruel... I'm afraid..." He didn't finish, only shaking his head heavily, his eyes filled with helplessness.

Director Wang, this usually decisive and authoritative female cadre on the streets, seemed to have lost all her energy at this moment. Her heavy eye bags almost reached her cheekbones, and the white hair at her temples had turned as white as frost in just a few days.

She looked at the swollen belly, at the child's lifeless face, her lips pressed into a pale line, her jawline taut.

She didn't speak, but clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging deep into her palms until her knuckles turned white from the force. Her slightly trembling shoulders betrayed the immense pressure and pain she was enduring. This silent heaviness was more suffocating than any cry.

She did her best, using everything she could from her own home, and also mobilizing the community.

These scenes, like red-hot irons, burned fiercely into Wei Chen's heart. The faces of those who fought and schemed over half a cornbread or a piece of pickled vegetable in the courtyard now seemed so petty, ridiculous, and even carried a nauseating sense of guilt.

Here, hunger was not a bargaining chip, but a guillotine hanging overhead, ready to fall at any moment, a gaping maw that devoured lives. A mixture of pity, anger, and a heavy sense of responsibility, like molten lead, filled his chest, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

As evening fell, the last spoonful of porridge was distributed. Exhausted, the people huddled on the musty-smelling hay, sipping their "food" from their bowls in small sips. The only sounds in the air were suppressed swallowing, occasional coughs, and the weak, intermittent cries of babies.

The last rays of the setting sun shone through the cracks in the dilapidated roof, casting several dim, yellow beams of light. Tiny dust particles danced in these beams, adding to the desolate atmosphere.

Director Wang stood alone in the corner of the courtyard under the bare old locust tree, her back to the crowd, rubbing her throbbing temples. Her back was hunched, her shoulders slightly slumped, and she let out a long, heavy sigh as she looked at the gray sky. That sigh seemed to bear a thousand-pound burden, filled with exhaustion, anxiety, and boundless powerlessness.