Rebirth in a Courtyard: I Am a Little Hunter

The oppressive, tense atmosphere was even more intense than during the day. The air itself seemed to be thick with a sense of tension, as if it could explode at any moment.

Someone coughed softly in the darkness, then immediately swallowed it back down. Someone was whispering something, their voice barely audible, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. The entire courtyard was like a bowstring stretched to its limit.

Midnight was approaching. The courtyard gate was gently pushed open a crack, and a dark figure darted out. Then came a second, a third... more than a dozen figures gradually emerged from the darkness and gathered at the alley entrance. No one spoke, only the low breathing and light footsteps could be heard.

Everyone was dressed the same: completely covered, their faces veiled with headscarves, only their eyes visible. Some carried sacks of grain, others clutched short sticks or machetes, cautiously looking around. The moonlight was faint, mostly obscured by thin clouds, providing them with a natural layer of cover.

Wei Chen was among them. He was dressed in dark clothes, and his face was covered with a black headscarf, revealing only a pair of sharp eyes that were still visible in the night.

He didn't carry any extra weapons—the iron bar hidden inside was more than enough for him. But like everyone else, he carried a coarse cloth grain sack and looked no different from the people around him.

His gaze swept across the crowd, quickly recognizing several familiar figures: Yi Zhonghai stood at the very front of the line, his posture ramrod straight, leaning on a gleaming wooden stick; Liu Haizhong stood beside him, a woodcutter's knife tucked into his waistband; Sha Zhu stood slightly behind, carrying a sturdy carrying pole; Xu Damao huddled in the middle of the crowd, clutching a screwdriver, his eyes darting nervously around.

Yi Zhonghai counted the number of people, confirming that all twelve were present, then lowered his voice and said, "Remember this—once we arrive, follow my instructions. No running around or talking loudly. After buying your things, return the way you came. If anyone gets separated from the group, find your own way back. Don't wait for them or look for them. Understand?"

A low "hmm" sound came from the darkness.

"And another thing," Yi Zhonghai added, "regardless of whether you manage to buy it or not, you must be out within an hour. Anyone who gets greedy and lingers will be responsible for any problems that arise, and shouldn't drag others down with them."

Liu Haizhong chimed in, "Everyone, hold your weapons tight. The ghost market is a mixed bag; you can find all sorts of people there. We won't cause trouble, but we can't let anyone bully us either. If anyone dares to touch our stuff, don't hold back; strike first!"

Sha Zhu snorted in the darkness, "Uncle, Uncle, don't worry. There are so many of us, all of one mind, who would dare to rob us? If he dares to come, this carrying pole of mine won't be trifled with."

Xu Damao shrank his neck and muttered in a low voice, "That's true, but in a place like that... it's best to be careful." His voice was a little weak, but he gripped the screwdriver in his hand even tighter.

"Let's go." Yi Zhonghai waved his hand and led the way into the depths of the alley. The twelve dark figures, like ghosts, silently blended into the city's night.

The footsteps were so light they were almost carried away by the night wind; their breathing was suppressed and short, carrying an air of tension and resolve. No one spoke; everyone's nerves were taut, their eyes scanning the surrounding darkness warily.

Wei Chen walked in the middle to the back of the group, his steps steady and alert. He could feel the tense and rapid breathing of the people behind him, and he could also hear the occasional sound of wind or footsteps coming from the distant streets and alleys. His hands hung at his sides, his fingertips lightly touching the folding knife hidden in his pocket, ready to deal with any unexpected situation.

He wasn't nervous at all—with his current perception, he could detect any movement within a hundred paces.

What he was truly worried about were his neighbors and colleagues. Most of them were ordinary people, lacking his skills and perception. If they were to encounter robbers or city management officers, they could easily get into trouble in the chaos.

They moved along secluded alleys and lanes, avoiding any main roads where people might pass by, like a group of ants groping in the dark, carefully navigating the city's intricate network.

Occasionally, the distant barking of dogs or the sound of scattered footsteps would cause the group to stop briefly, hold their breath, and wait for a moment to make sure there was nothing amiss before continuing on their way.

After walking for about half an hour, they left the city and stepped onto a dirt road half-covered by wild grass. In the moonlight, they could vaguely see the shadow of a low city wall ahead—the ruins of the old city wall in the south of the city, and the entrance to the ghost market was right at the foot of the wall.

Yi Zhonghai stopped and turned around, lowering his voice to say, "We're almost there. Everyone, stay alert. From now on, no one is allowed to make a sound. Follow me. Don't panic or look around randomly, no matter what you see."

His voice was deep and powerful, like a stone pressing down on each word: "Remember, you didn't come alone, we are one. Look out for each other and get home safely together."

In the darkness, twelve figures nodded, gripping their weapons tightly. Wei Chen stood among the crowd, gazing at the indistinct outline of the city wall ahead, his eyes slightly narrowed. The night wind carried a scent of earth and decaying grass, blowing from the direction of the city walls. That was the direction of the Ghost Market, the destination for everyone's adventure tonight.

The group started moving again, silently heading towards the shadow of the city wall. Moonlight peeked through the clouds, illuminating a short stretch of the path before being swallowed by darkness. The twelve figures, like twelve arrows released from a bow, each carrying their own hopes, fears, concerns, and resolve, plunged into the unknown depths of the night.

At the foot of the city wall lay an open area. By day, it was wasteland and a garbage dump; by night, it became the outskirts of the ghost market. In the distance, Wei Chen could see a few dim, yellow lights twinkling in the darkness—oil lamps or kerosene lamps lit by the vendors who had already set up their stalls. The lights flickered in the night wind, casting blurry, wary images on their faces.

We've arrived at the ghost market.

Yi Zhonghai stopped in the shade of an old locust tree, turned around, and lowered his voice: "Listen up—the rules of the Ghost Market: once inside, don't ask where the goods come from, don't argue with the vendors, buy if the price is right, leave if not. Don't stare at one thing for too long; it'll cause trouble. After you've bought your things, come back here to meet up. Got it?"

The entrance to the Ghost Market was even more chaotic than Yi Zhonghai remembered. He hadn’t been there for a long time because the disasters had become more and more severe and food prices had risen. Many people who came out of the Ghost Market at night were often robbed!

The wasteland at the foot of the city wall, which originally had only one narrow dirt road leading in, is now covered with bare mud on both sides, with scattered rotten vegetable leaves, scraps of paper, and even the soles of shoes that have been trampled off.

The figures moved about indistinctly, like schools of fish swimming underwater; their faces were indistinct, only the outlines of their shoulders and backs were visible. A complex odor filled the air—sweat, dust, the stench of rotting vegetables, and some indescribable smell of anxiety and hunger.

Yi Zhonghai stopped and turned around, lowering his voice to say, "We're here. Jie Cheng, Guang Tian, ​​you two stay here."

Yan Jiecheng and Liu Guangtian squeezed their way up from the back of the line. Yan Jiecheng was twenty-one years old this year and worked odd jobs on the street. He was strong and sturdy, but his personality was just like his father's—shrewd and unwilling to suffer losses.

Hearing this, he didn't respond immediately. He glanced around first before whispering, "Uncle, we'll stay here by the corner of the wall and won't go far. If you go inside and hear any noise, we'll retreat to the locust tree over there and wait for you."

Liu Guangtian is seventeen years old and is Liu Haizhong's second son. His older brother, Liu Guangqi, is still in school, so the family sent him along this time. The young man is tall and thin, with a youthful face, but his eyes already reveal a strong will. He gripped a sharpened carrying pole and said, "Uncle, don't worry, we'll take turns keeping watch. If there's any noise, I'll meow like a cat."

Yi Zhonghai nodded: "Okay. Be quick-witted." He then turned to the others, "Remember the rules for entering—the entrance fee is one cent, pay your own. From entering to leaving, it's one hour. Whether you buy something or not, you must leave on time. No one is allowed to dawdle, and no one is allowed to act alone. Keep an eye on what you buy. Once you're inside, it's all up to you. No one is allowed to ask about other people's prices or weights."

Xu Damao muttered under his breath in the crowd, "I know the rules. Whoever buys something at a higher price or a lower price has to accept the loss. No one is allowed to hold anyone accountable later."

Yi Zhonghai ignored him and glanced at everyone: "Any other questions?"

No one speaks.

"Let's go." Yi Zhonghai waved his hand and led the way towards the entrance.

The entrance fee was collected meticulously. At the entrance sat a tattered table, behind which sat a middle-aged man in an old military overcoat, clutching a wad of small bills, with a metal box in front of him. Without looking up, he mechanically repeated, "One cent, in. Don't push, one at a time." Beside him stood a burly man, arms crossed, expressionlessly scanning each person entering.

A dozen or so people lined up, silently paying and entering. Wei Chen, positioned towards the back of the line, pulled out a one-mao (10 cents) bill and placed it on the table. The middle-aged man didn't even glance at it, casually stuffing the bill into the metal box and muttering, "Go in."

He stepped over the "threshold" made of bricks and planks, and the view before him suddenly opened up. The narrow open space at the foot of the city wall was illuminated by torches and kerosene lamps, casting dappled shadows.

The stalls stretched along the base of the city wall, densely packed together, one next to another, like a dilapidated shed of varying heights. The ground was covered with burlap sacks or straw mats, on which were displayed all sorts of things—but the most abundant were grains.

Wei Chen stood at the entrance, not in a hurry to squeeze in. He glanced at the layout of the entire ghost market, silently calculating in his mind. This ghost market was larger than he had imagined, with at least dozens, maybe even a hundred stalls, and with the shoppers coming and going, the total number of people was no less than several hundred.

People were packed together, shoulder to shoulder, and everywhere there were whispers of bargaining, mixed with the occasional shouts of vendors, creating a noisy and chaotic atmosphere.

"Excuse me, could you move aside?" Someone gently pushed Wei Chen from behind.

Wei Chen stepped aside. It was an elderly woman with a headscarf, carrying a bamboo basket that was already half-filled with golden-yellow cornmeal. She squeezed past him and disappeared into the crowd without looking back. Wei Chen walked inside, his gaze sweeping over each stall.

There were many stalls selling grain, but they sold mostly the same things: dried sweet potatoes, cornmeal, sorghum, and corn flour. Occasionally, a few stalls would have bags of wheat flour or millet, and there would be a noticeably larger crowd around them.

He didn't need to ask about the prices of grain; he could tell just by looking at the strips of cloth or small blackboards hanging on the stalls: dried sweet potatoes were 18 cents a pound, cornmeal was 25 cents a pound, wheat flour was 3 yuan a pound, and millet was 4 yuan.

These prices were three to five times higher than those of state-run grain stores. Even so, almost every grain stall was crowded with people, grabbing bags of grain to weigh, as if money wasn't money, but just useless pieces of paper.

Wei Chen didn't rush to buy anything. He stood next to a stall selling dried sweet potatoes and watched the stall owner haggling with a middle-aged man.

"Two cents a pound? That's outrageous! It was only one and a half cents the day before yesterday!" The middle-aged man's voice was tinged with exasperation.

The stall owner was a thin, old man, squatting behind his stall with a tattered burlap sack in front of him, half-filled with sun-dried, whitish sweet potato chips. Without looking up, he said indifferently, "The day before yesterday was the day before yesterday, and today is today. The day before yesterday I was selling them for fifteen cents, but today the price of grain has gone up, so my price has gone up too. Buy it or not, I'm not worried about selling them."

"You—" The middle-aged man choked, stood there for a while, and finally bent down, took out a wad of small bills from his pocket, and said, "Weigh out five jin."

The stall owner deftly grabbed a handful of dried sweet potatoes, placed them on the scale, and weighed them: "Five pounds, one yuan."

The middle-aged man gasped, but still handed over the money. He took the five pounds of dried sweet potatoes, turned, and squeezed into the crowd, disappearing from sight. The stall owner put the money in his pocket, squatted back down in his original position, and waited for the next customer.

Wei Chen stood aside, silently watching the scene unfold, pondering to himself: The price has indeed risen sharply. Last month, Tiger Brother mentioned that dried sweet potatoes were only 12 cents a pound in the ghost market, but now they've risen to 18 cents. At this rate, grain prices will continue to rise until most people can no longer afford them. Keep in mind, dried sweet potatoes used to cost only a few cents a pound, but now they've increased several times over!

He looked away and turned to walk deeper into the ghost market.

He hadn't walked far when he stopped in front of a cornmeal stall. This stall was slightly larger than the others, displaying two bulging burlap sacks—one of cornmeal and the other of sorghum. The stall owner was a robust man in his thirties with a full beard, busy weighing cornmeal for a customer. Wei Chen didn't rush over but stood aside, listening to the conversation between the customer and the stall owner.

"Why is your cornmeal two cents more expensive than that other store's?" the buyer asked, his voice filled with dissatisfaction.

"Mine is freshly ground. Look at the color, it's a bright yellow, and there's not a trace of bitterness. That other stall over there has been stale stock for over half a year. Can you compare?" The stall owner's tone was curt, but his scales moved with surprising speed. "If you buy it and steam some cornbread, I guarantee it won't turn sour."

The buyer hesitated for a moment, then took out the money: "Give me three jin."

After observing for a while, Wei Chen made up his mind: the cornmeal at this shop was indeed of good quality, with fine grains and a vibrant color—it was fresh grain. Although the price was a bit higher than other shops, it was worth it. He didn't buy any and continued walking inside.

He wasn't visiting the ghost market to buy food. His spatial backpack was overflowing with all kinds of food, a complete range of varieties, and of better quality than any stall in the ghost market.

What he really wanted to see was the price trends and market dynamics here. After all, if he wanted to continue doing business with Brother Tiger under the identity of "Iron Tower," he had to keep abreast of the changes in the black market—what was selling well, what was in short supply, whether prices had risen or fallen—these were all pieces of information he needed to know.

He walked and observed, quietly noting down the prices and types of goods at each stall, occasionally stopping to listen to the conversations between customers and stall owners, gleaning useful information from them.

He stopped in front of a stall selling pickled vegetables. Several jars were displayed on the stall, filled with pickled radishes, mustard greens, and pickled mustard greens, emitting a sour and salty smell.

An old man in a worn-out cotton-padded coat squatted behind a stall, holding a pipe in his hand, watching the crowds come and go with an unhurried air. The pickled vegetables in the jars on the stall in front of him were almost empty.

"How much are the mustard greens?" A woman squatted in front of the stall, her voice tinged with a hint of flattery.

"Three cents a pound, no bargaining." The old man tapped his pipe, his tone indifferent.

"So expensive?" the woman gasped. "It was only a dime two months ago..."

"You were still able to eat your fill two months ago," the old man said without looking up. "What isn't going up in price now? If you want to buy, weigh it; if not, don't interfere with my business."

The woman remained silent for a moment, then handed over the money: "Weigh out three jin."

As Wei Chen watched this scene, he made another note in his mind: pickled vegetables were 30 cents a pound, a 20% increase from last month. Just as he was about to continue walking inside, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a figure in the crowd out of the corner of his eye.

The man was wrapped in a gray cotton-padded jacket, wearing an old, faded cotton hat, and had a hemp rope tied around his waist. He was squatting in front of a grain stall, arguing with the stall owner about something. Wei Chen recognized him without even seeing his face—his figure, his habitual squatting posture, and his slightly hunched back.

Yan Bugui.

Wei Chen didn't go over; he just stood a few steps away, using the crowd as cover, watching the old man, who had been thrifty all his life, haggle with the stall owner.

"Your dried sweet potatoes don't look very fresh, so why are they 16 cents a pound? That stall over there is only selling them for 15 cents." Yan Bugui's voice was full of a penny-pinching spirit. He squatted in front of the stall, holding a dried sweet potato in his hand, looking at it over and over, constantly finding fault with it.

The stall owner, a man in his thirties, looked impatient: "Are you going to buy it or not? My dried sweet potatoes have been sun-dried for three days and three nights. Look at the color and the firmness; they won't spoil even after a year. That stall over there? Those are all old stock; some are even moldy. Would you dare eat them?" With that, he snatched the dried sweet potato from Yan Bugui's hand. "If you don't want to buy it, fine, but don't touch my stuff."

Yan Bugui didn't budge, chuckling, "What are you saying? I was just looking. Doing business isn't easy these days, and I'm not an unreasonable person. How about this, 14 cents a pound, I'll buy five pounds, is that alright?"

"Fourteen cents? Are you here to buy something or to rob me?" The stall owner glared at him. "My purchase price is more than fourteen cents. Do you think I'd sell it to you at a loss?"

"Then name a fair price."

"Eighteen cents, not a penny less. Take it or leave it."

Yan Bugui haggled for another ten minutes or so, talking about quality, price, market conditions, and personal relationships until his lips were almost worn out. The stall owner, annoyed to the point of turning pale, finally turned away and ignored him. Yan Bugui squatted in front of the stall, looking at the bag of dried sweet potatoes, and finally gritted his teeth, pulling out a neatly folded stack of small bills from his pocket: "Fine, eighteen cents it is, three jin."

The stall owner snorted, grabbed a handful of dried sweet potatoes with annoyance, and weighed them: "Three pounds, fifty-four cents."

Yan Bugui counted out 54 cents, handed it over, took the bag of dried sweet potatoes, carefully put it in his pocket, and turned to squeeze into the crowd.

Wei Chen stood a few steps away, watching the notoriously shrewd Third Uncle disappear into the crowd, a mix of emotions swirling within him. Yan Bugui was known throughout the courtyard for his shrewdness, meticulously calculating every penny. But even the most astute shrewd man couldn't keep up with soaring grain prices. After haggling for half an hour, he ultimately had to buy three jin of dried sweet potatoes at the stall owner's asking price. In those days, no matter how accurately the abacus beads clicked, they couldn't outpace the rising grain prices.

Wei Chen withdrew his gaze and continued walking. After taking a dozen steps, he suddenly stopped beside an old wooden pillar. A man was squatting next to the pillar, holding a cloth bag, and talking quietly with a flour vendor. The man was wearing a slightly worn blue cotton jacket, had a stocky build, broad shoulders, and a steady squatting posture. Although his face was covered, Wei Chen recognized him at a glance from his build and posture—Yi Zhonghai.

In front of Yi Zhonghai was a white flour stall with a half-full burlap sack filled with dazzlingly white flour. The stall owner, a woman in her forties with a blue headscarf, was speaking softly to Yi Zhonghai: "This is top-grade white flour, ground by my own family, without a single impurity. Smell it, it smells wonderful."

Yi Zhonghai reached out and grabbed a small handful of flour, smelled it, and then rubbed it between his fingers: "It's top-grade flour. How much per pound?"

Three pieces.

Yi Zhonghai remained silent for a moment, without haggling. He took out his money, counted it, and handed it over: "Give me five jin."

The woman weighed out five jin of wheat flour, wrapped it in an old newspaper, and handed it to him. Yi Zhonghai took it, put it in his pocket, and then turned to a nearby stall selling cornmeal: "How much is the cornmeal?"

"One dollar and eighty cents."

This is real cornmeal, not cornbread. It contains corn cobs and bran! It's made from corn kernels, not as fine as wheat flour, but it's still considered a refined grain!