Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

He Yuzhu was awakened by the shockwave from the artillery shell.

It wasn't just sporadic volleys; it was a barrage of attacks. Dust fell from the tunnel ceiling, landing on his face, his neck, and in the bowl of cold gruel. He opened his eyes; the lantern above him was swaying, making the shadows of the ammunition boxes on the wall move as well.

"What time is it?"

Old Zhou's lips moved, but his voice was mostly drowned out by the sound of the cannon fire. He Yuzhu saw the shape of his lips—two dots.

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

The armistice agreement was signed at 10:00 AM, eight hours before it takes effect.

Eight hours is enough time for the artillery on the other side to plow this hillside three more times.

He sat up, leaning against the ammunition box. The wound on his left leg rubbed against him, making him wince in pain. The medic had changed the dressing yesterday; the bandage was thick, making it feel like he had a piece of wood strapped to his leg when he moved.

The tunnel was quiet. Not truly quiet, but a silence muffled by the sound of artillery fire. No one spoke, no one moved, only the muffled thuds of shells falling, one after another, like someone smashing a mountain with a sledgehammer.

He Yuzhu glanced into the depths of the tunnel.

Twenty or thirty people were crammed there. Some sat against the wall, some lay on their beds, and some were lost in thought. Near the corner, someone was writing with a notebook on their knees, the pencil stub moving very slowly.

Suicide note.

He didn't say anything and turned his gaze away.

Another shell landed nearby, dust falling from above. He raised his hand to dust off his shoulder, a gesture that reminded him of yesterday—when the recruit was carried in, his leg was broken, blood seeping from his fingers. 20 points, exchanged for a first-aid kit, a new leg, and the first and last time he would ever have his wound cleaned and stitched in a mine.

The system interface popped into my mind.

[Currently available points: 55,100,000]

He'd seen that number countless times. From 5500 million to 5510 million, to 5520 million, and now to 5510 million. He stared at the string of numbers for a few seconds, then closed it.

Shells are still falling. Soil is still falling from above.

The young soldier sitting against the wall began humming a song, his voice very soft, the tune indistinct. After a couple of lines, someone next to him joined in, and slowly, three or four people hummed along. It wasn't a military song; it was a tune from his hometown. He Yuzhu couldn't make out the words, but the melody reminded him of something his mother used to hum when he was a child.

He didn't hum along. He just listened.

21:55.

The shelling subsided. It wasn't a sudden cessation; rather, the intervals between each shell grew longer, like a person slowly walking after running until they were tired. He Yuzhu stood up, his left leg twitching slightly as he put weight on it, but he ignored it and walked out, supporting himself on the tunnel wall.

He squinted as he stepped out of the tunnel.

Night fell. The moon was obscured by clouds, and a few stars peeked out, cold and distant. The searchlights across the way were still on, their beams slowly traversing the night sky, sweeping over the hillsides plowed countless times by artillery fire, over the charred tree stumps, and over the barbed wire that hadn't yet been taken down.

Several people were standing on the hillside. They were all from the camp. Some had their hands on their hips, some had their hands tucked in, and some were leaning against each other, all looking at the other side.

He Yuzhu walked up to a soldier. The soldier glanced at him, then turned back without saying a word.

A voice came from inside the tunnel: "Four minutes left!"

Someone started counting down.

"two hundred--"

"One hundred and ninety—"

The noise grew louder, and more and more people joined in. He Yuzhu didn't count. He stood there, watching the beam of light slowly move, sweeping from east to west and back again.

He thought of Changjin Lake.

It wasn't intentional. It was the cold. The wind from the tunnel entrance rushed into his collar, and he hunched his shoulders. This action suddenly brought back memories—a similarly cold night, lying in the snow waiting for the bugle call, and when he heard the first system notification, he was terrified, thinking he'd gone mad. The first time he used points to exchange for something, his hands were shaking, afraid of being discovered, afraid of being treated like a monster. And then there was the land of Shangganling, scorched like glass, those black wings emerging from the clouds, and Shen Lian's eyes behind his glasses.

"thirty!"

"twenty!"

"Ten, nine, eight, seven—"

He didn't move.

"Six, five, four, three, two—"

The beam of light on the other side was still sweeping.

"one!"

Quiet.

It wasn't the quiet of the dead of night. It was a silence forged by nearly a thousand days and nights of blood and fire, a silence as sharp and uniform as if cut by a knife.

The artillery fire stopped. The gunfire stopped. Even the sound of airplane engines ceased.

He Yuzhu stood there, his ears ringing, a lingering effect of the prolonged impact of the artillery fire. He could hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, each beat striking his chest.

Someone is crying in the tunnel. Not wailing, but a suppressed sob, the kind where the shoulders shake.

He didn't turn around.

The system screen appears at the edge of the field of vision.

[A major timeline milestone has been detected: the Korean War armistice.]

[The battlefield points acquisition window will be temporarily closed.]

[Current total points: 44,270,000.]

[Distance to next stage target: 44,900,000 points.]

He stretched out his hand and made a gesture in the air.

The screen disappeared.

7 month 28 day.

The first morning after the armistice took effect.

There was no sun. The sky was overcast, and the clouds hung low. He Yuzhu stood at the door of the small hut in the garrison, looking at the hilltops that had been leveled by artillery fire in the distance. People were moving on the hillside, wearing the uniforms of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army, and also the yellow-green uniforms worn by those across the way. They held small flags in their hands, measuring or marking something.

The messenger rode up on a bicycle with a canvas bag strapped to the back. He jumped off, pulled a piece of paper from the bag, and handed it to He Yuzhu.

"Order."

He Yuzhu took it and unfolded it.

"The special operations battalion, along with part of the 20th Army Corps, will remain in Korea to assist the Military Armistice Commission in monitoring the implementation of the ceasefire. This is effective immediately."

He finished reading the order and folded it up.

The correspondent stood there, waiting for him to ask questions.

He Yuzhu looked up at him.

"How long will you stay?"

The correspondent shook his head.

"I don't know. The chief of staff said it might be a few months, or it might be a long time—maybe we'll just settle down here." He smiled at the end, a bitter smile.

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions.

He stuffed the order into his pocket, turned, and walked into the house. After taking two steps, he stopped and looked back.

The correspondent was still standing there, pushing his bicycle, watching him.

"Go back and tell the chief of staff," He Yuzhu said, "the special forces battalion has received the order."

The messenger nodded, got on his bike, and pedaled away. He Yuzhu stood at the door, watching the figure grow smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared into the gray morning mist.

The wound on my left leg started hurting again.

He glanced down and saw that the bandages had loosened a bit.

In the distance, on the hilltops leveled by artillery fire, men carrying small flags were still moving about. The ceasefire was over. The war was over. Yet he was still standing there.

He turned and went inside.

On the table lay a pile of captured documents, codebooks, frequency tables, and a radio with a shattered screen. Beside it was his own notebook, the open page bearing the inscription: "Three years, from the Yalu River to Kaesong. Some names I remember, some I don't. But they're all here."

He sat down and closed his notebook.

The unopened letter in his left breast pocket pressed against his chest.

He took it out and placed it on the table. The envelope was as soft as an old piece of cloth, its edges frayed, and the dried bloodstains had turned a dark brown, patchy like dots marking battlefields on a map. He stared at the letter, his fingers tracing the edge of the envelope.

Someone outside was calling him.

He looked up and responded, then put the letter back in his pocket.

As he stood up, he pressed his palm to his chest. The letter was still there. His heartbeat traveled back through the letter, one beat after another.

He pushed open the door and went out.

In the morning mist, the outlines of those mountain peaks slowly became clear.