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

It wasn't until the third day that everyone at the research institute learned the news.

That afternoon, He Yuzhu was bending down to get closer to the newly installed blast furnace model, his fingertips just touching the cold metal shell. The workshop smelled strongly of machine oil, mixed with the acrid odor of welding, making it hard to breathe.

Lin Jianguo rushed in through the door.

The soles of his shoes thudded on the terrazzo floor, like blows to a heart. He clutched a newspaper in his hand, his expression unreadable, a mixture of anger and something else. When he reached me, he opened his mouth, but no sound came out; he simply handed me the newspaper.

He Yuzhu took the newspaper.

The front-page headline was large and in bold: Japanese right-wingers rebuild Yasukuni Shrine, scheduled to visit on September 18.

He held the newspaper up to his eyes and read it word by word.

Lin Jianguo stood to the side, panting heavily, his chest heaving.

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He started folding the newspaper. Not the usual neat folding, but folding it once, pressing it flat with his fingers, folding it again, and pressing it flat again.

Ma Yuejin came over from the side, glanced at the newspaper, and his expression changed immediately.

"Those bastards."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clenched through his teeth, each word sounding like it was being squeezed out from between his teeth.

The others in the workshop gathered around. Some cursed, some said they wanted to boycott Japanese goods; the noise was chaotic. A young technician gripped his wrench tightly, veins bulging on his neck:

"Dean, we can even conjure chips from sand, so how could we not handle a few?"

Before he could finish speaking, an experienced craftsman next to him grabbed his sleeve. The craftsman didn't say anything, but simply raised his chin and pointed in He Yuzhu's direction.

He Yuzhu was still folding newspapers.

He folded it to the size of a palm before looking up, his gaze slowly sweeping across everyone's faces.

"Get to work, everyone."

The voice wasn't loud or fierce, but it just made it impossible for anyone to speak.

The crowd dispersed. The machines started up again, buzzing as if nothing had happened.

He Yuzhu stuffed the newspaper into the left breast pocket of his Zhongshan suit, close to his heart. Then he turned back to look at the model, his fingertips touching the cold metal again.

Lin Jianguo stood to the side for a long time before leaving.

That evening, He Yuzhu was alone in his office.

He didn't turn on the light.

The moon was bright outside the window, casting a pale, stark light on the pile of documents on the table. He sat in his chair, motionless, just sitting there.

The voice in my head rang.

It wasn't the usual calm beeping tone; it was a sharp, piercing electrical sound—like the eerie radio waves received by an old-fashioned radio in the dead of night.

Immediately afterwards, the system interface popped up.

No, it didn't just pop out. It surged out. Like fresh blood, it welled up from the depths of my mind, instantly staining my entire field of vision red.

[Special Mission Triggered]

Five characters, black, as black as inscriptions on a tombstone.

[Mission Name: Second Destruction of Yasukuni Shrine and Execution of War Criminals' Descendants]

[Mission Objective: Execute 1200 descendants of war criminals, cut off their heads and bring them back to be displayed as a landmark in front of the Yasukuni Shrine ruins.]

[Task Reward: 100,000,000 points]

[Special Note: This task will be streamed live in its entirety. Viewer donations can be converted into points, with no upper limit.]

[Current points: 45,380,000. Upon completion of the mission, total points will surpass 100 million. The "Rise of Yanhuang Plan" will be fully activated.]

He Yuzhu stared at the words, motionless.

A red light flickered in the darkness, reflecting on his face and making his eyes shine. His face was half-lit and half-shadowed, making his expression unreadable.

1200 people were killed. Their heads were severed. The remains were used to create a spectacle.

One hundred million points.

He recalled the snow at Changjin Lake that year. Forty degrees below zero, lying prone in the snow, he couldn't even pull back the bolt of his rifle. His comrade beside him, frozen stiff, remained in the aiming posture.

He recalled the scorched earth of Shangganling. Shells had shaved the hilltop down by two meters; a handful of soil could yield more than a dozen pieces of shrapnel.

He remembered that rainy night in Jincheng. He led a platoon infiltrating behind enemy lines. By dawn, only three men remained in their platoon.

He thought of his comrades who had fallen on the battlefield, those who never returned.

He thought of the Yasukuni Shrine.

Thinking of the names of those war criminals, the blood-stained memorial tablets, and the descendants in the 21st century enjoying the wealth stained with the blood of their ancestors—they live in the houses left behind by the war criminals, spend the money they plundered, and never mention what those names mean.

The system displayed another line of text.

History will not change; what will change is the deaths of the descendants of war criminals. When they enjoy the wealth stained with the blood of their ancestors in the 21st century, did they ever imagine this day would come?

He Yuzhu closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, he reached out and closed the interface.

Darkness surged back in, filling the entire office. The moonlight outside the window suddenly dimmed, as if clouds had obscured the moon.

He sat motionless in the darkness.

After some time, he picked up the phone and dialed Lao Sun's number.

When the call connected, Old Sun's voice sounded sleepy.

"What is it?"

He Yuzhu held the microphone and remained silent for a few seconds.

"Help me look something up."

Old Sun didn't answer immediately. There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, Old Sun's voice had completely changed—no longer the drowsy sound of someone half-asleep, but the alertness of someone speaking in a low voice on the battlefield:

"Old He, tell me the truth, what exactly are you trying to do?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

The moonlight shone on his face, casting a dim glow. His knuckles were white as he gripped the microphone.

Old Sun waited for ten seconds.

Then he said, "Okay. Three days. But you have to promise me one thing—no matter what the investigation reveals, don't bear it all alone."

The phone hangs up.

All that could be heard from the receiver was the dial tone, each beep clearly audible in the darkness.

He Yuzhu held the microphone for a long time before slowly putting it down.

He stood up and walked to the window.

The moon hid behind the clouds. The long shadows in the yard disappeared as well, leaving only a blurry darkness.

He just stood there, motionless. Only blood can wash away the blood feud. Even if I die, I will have descendants. I will not rest until all the martyrs are killed.

The folded newspaper in my pocket, a small, hard piece pressed against my heart.