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

Old Sun squatted on the doorstep with a bowl in his hand. The porridge was still hot. He picked up some pickled vegetables with the tip of his chopsticks and put them in his mouth.

the phone is ringing.

He cursed, put the bowl on the ground, and his knee cracked as he stood up. He went inside and answered the phone, hearing He Yuzhu's voice; it sounded off, like he was holding something back.

"Old Sun, I have a question for you. It's really stupid. But you have to answer me."

Old Sun paused for a moment. He switched the microphone from his left hand to his right, then back again. "What is it?"

He Yuzhu remained silent for a few seconds.

"If there were a possibility of killing a person's ancestors, would that person still be alive?"

Old Sun opened his mouth, but no words came out. He glanced out the window; it was just getting light, and several chickens were pawing at the ground in the yard. He then looked at the telephone cord in his hand and noticed that it had somehow gotten tangled around his finger, leaving a red mark.

"Did you take the wrong medicine?"

He Yuzhu ignored him.

"Just tell me if you can or can't."

Old Sun untied the telephone cord and then wrapped it up again.

"What kind of bullshit question is that? If the ancestor is dead, the grandson certainly can't get out. Is there even a need to ask?"

He Yuzhu remained silent for a few more seconds.

"What if this grandson has lived for decades, has a wife and children, and goes to work and comes home every day, just like us?"

Old Sun was stumped by the question.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found his mind blank, nothing left. He remembered the last time He Yuzhu spoke to him like this, it was twenty years ago, the day He Yuzhu's father passed away.

"Old He," Old Sun said in a low voice, "tell me first, has something happened to you? Is someone trying to harm your family?"

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

"Tell me the truth, did you kill someone?"

He Yuzhu remained silent.

Then the call ended.

Old Sun stood there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy tone. He put the receiver down, went back to the door, and picked up the bowl of porridge. The porridge had cooled, and a layer of rice oil had formed on top. He stirred it with his chopsticks, then put it down again. He picked up the phone, intending to call back, but his hand remained on the dial pad.

The chickens in the yard came over and pecked at the grains of rice he had just spilled on the ground.

He glanced at it, then suddenly stood up and poured the whole bowl of porridge into the chicken feeder.

"Eat," he said.

I don't know if I was talking to the chicken or to myself.

night.

He Yuzhu sat alone in his office.

The lights were off, and moonlight streamed in through the window, casting long, thin shadows on the wall, like a cage. He sat at the table, half his face pale in the moonlight, the other half hidden in shadow. His eye in the shadow was like a bottomless well.

The light screen was floating in front of me.

The words above are in red.

[The second destruction of the Yasukuni Shrine and the execution of descendants of war criminals]

1200 people.

He reached out and tapped on the details. The list cascaded down like a waterfall, line after line, densely packed. He saw the birth dates—some from the 1960s, some from the 2020s, the most recent one, accurate to the minute, from a hospital in Tokyo.

He did the math.

Right now, the baby should be either nursing or sleeping.

He closed his eyes.

I remember that year when I went to Moscow, and that Soviet man called him a "yellow-skinned monkey," he didn't hold back at all. That's him, He Yuzhu, someone who could act on the spot.

But this one is different.

This wasn't something that was done on the spot.

This involves killing 1200 people. Their heads will be cut off. The remains will be used to create a landmark in front of the Yasukuni Shrine ruins.

He opened his eyes and stared at the line of text.

"system."

The screen flickered.

"You say history won't change. If I killed those people's ancestors, would they still be alive in the 21st century?"

The system displayed a few lines of text.

History is a river with a set course. The existence of descendants of war criminals is itself a stain on history. Erasing the stain doesn't change the fact that the river still flows; it's just less polluted.

He Yuzhu looked at the line of text.

"So they'll die?"

Yes. It will happen simultaneously in the 21st century.

He Yuzhu pressed his hand on the table. A map of Tokyo lay open on the table, several locations marked in red—the Yasukuni Shrine, and the addresses of several people. He stared at the red dots, his fingers pressing on the map until his fingernails turned white.

How old are they now?

[They range in age from 0 to 60. The youngest is just born, and the oldest is already very old.]

He Yuzhu remained silent for a while.

Do they even know what their ancestors did?

The system did not respond.

He Yuzhu waited a while, then asked again.

"Is the wealth they enjoy inherited from their ancestors' blood?"

The system displayed three words.

【most.】

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window.

The moon was bright, casting a long shadow of the old locust tree in the yard, its branches stretching out like a giant hand. A breeze blew, the leaves rustling, and a few fell, swirling in the moonlight.

He recalled that year when he went to Nanjing on a business trip.

I often think of those photos in the memorial hall—the babies who were killed by bayonets, the women who were raped and then disemboweled, the civilians who were buried alive, and the mountains of white bones.

He recalled sitting on the steps at the entrance of the memorial hall for a long time after leaving. An older woman from a tour group next to him asked, "Young man, what's wrong? Are you suffering from heatstroke?" He shook his head, stood up, and felt his legs go weak.

That night, he drank half a jin of baijiu by himself and lay awake in his hotel bed until dawn.

He remembered those numbers.

Three hundred thousand.

Three hundred thousand.

1200.

He turned around and walked back to the table.

Just as I reached out my hand, the landline on the table suddenly rang.

He was startled.

It rang three times. He answered it.

"Old He."

It's Old Sun.

"I've been thinking about this for a while now." Old Sun's voice was deep, as if something was weighing on it. "You asked that question not without reason, right?"

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

"I don't care what you're up to," Old Sun said, "but if you really succeed, come back and I'll treat you to drinks."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu held the microphone, listening to the busy tone for a long time before finally putting it down.

He looked at the screen in front of him.

The line of red text is still there.

He put his hand on it.

I clicked "accept".

[Task accepted and confirmed]

The live stream will start automatically after the mission begins, and will be broadcast to people across the country in the 2020s.

The tipping feature is now activated. Tips will be converted into points proportionally.

Current points: 45,380,000

[Mission Reward: 100,000,000 points]

He closed the interface.

Darkness surged in again.

He sat there, looking out the window. The moonlight cast the shadow of the old locust tree onto the table, obscuring the map. The red dots, hidden in the shadows, were no longer visible.

1200 people.

The youngest one is still nursing.

He closed his eyes.