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

As the white light dissipated, He Yuzhu found himself standing on empty ground.

The wooden plank beneath his feet snapped with a creak, and he stumbled, stepping into a pile of rotten wood. It was pitch black all around, with a hole in the ceiling through which moonlight streamed in, like a knife piercing the ground. Where the blade had struck, shards of tile piled up into a small mountain, and rusted sheet metal lay askew to one side, its edges curled like a torn can.

The air filled my nostrils: a musty smell at the base, covered by the stench of urine, with a fishy odor in between—something had been rotting in a corner for a long time.

Abandoned warehouse. Tokyo. 1958.

He took off his special forces uniform and changed into a gray cloth jacket and black trousers. He stored his Type 95 rifle in his system space, leaving only a dagger tucked behind his waist. He pushed open the door; outside was a narrow alley, the wooden houses on both sides quiet. He lowered his head and walked out onto the main road.

There weren't many people on the street. People in work clothes hurried by carrying lunchboxes. In the distance, there was a ramen stall, steaming hot, with the owner calling out to customers. He mingled in the crowd, not even looking up.

The Yasukuni Shrine was larger than he had imagined. The gate was made of wood, painted a dark brown, and had a plaque hanging above it. Two policemen stood motionless at the entrance, wearing black uniforms and white gloves.

He went around via a side path, lay down in a spot with a good view, and took out his low-light night vision binoculars.

In the shot, the main hall floats in the darkness, like a crouching giant beast. Two guards stand on either side of the gate, their white gloves gleaming in the night, occasionally exhaling white breath as they talk. He Yuzhu shifts the camera to the east—a dark figure walks along the base of the wall, pauses for a few seconds at the corner, turns around, and walks back.

He silently counted in his mind: from east to west, two hundred steps, one trip every fifteen minutes.

The camera then pans to the small gate on the west side. There's no guard, but a brightly lit lamp shines through the doorway. A person standing there casts a shadow that stretches for miles.

He closed his notebook and tapped his fingertips on his knee. He'd been staring at it for two hours; his shift ended at four in the morning.

The system sent the list the following evening.

1200 people. Names, photos, addresses, schedules. He Yuzhu huddled in the warehouse, looking through the information by the light of a kerosene lamp he'd found. As he flipped through the pages, his hand stopped.

The first name on the first page: Yamada Ichiro, a priest at Yasukuni Shrine, 43 years old. The photo shows a thin, middle-aged man in priest's robes with a stern face. His address is not far from the shrine, a fifteen-minute walk.

Grandfather: Masao Yamada, former major of the 16th Division of the Japanese Army, participated in the Nanjing Massacre.

He Yuzhu stared at the words. His finger pressed on "16th Division" for a long time. He recalled photos, texts, and survivor testimonies he had seen in another timeline. The 16th Division, the main force that captured Nanjing. Machine guns were set up outside Zhongshan Gate, people were herded into the river at Yanziji, and a competition to kill as many people as possible was held at the foot of Zijin Mountain…

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the paper was crumpled in his fist.

Memorize the address.

At two in the morning, the streets of Tokyo quieted down.

He Yuzhu squatted behind the locust tree at the entrance of the alley to the Yamada family's house, staring at the wooden door. The door was closed, and the lights were off. The alley was narrow, and the residents on both sides were asleep.

At 4:10, the wooden door opened.

Yamada came out, dressed in a Shinto priest's robe and carrying a briefcase. But behind him was a young woman in a kimono, who stood at the door and said something. Yamada turned around and waved. The woman bowed, closed the door, and went inside.

He Yuzhu waited for three seconds. Yamada walked forward, and he followed, but his pace was two steps slower than planned—if he had rushed forward just now, would the woman have heard him? Would she have shouted? A thin layer of sweat appeared on his back.

The alley was long, and the streetlights were spaced far apart. Reaching the first dark spot, He Yuzhu was about to speed up when suddenly car headlights came on at the alley entrance. A black sedan turned in, Yamada stepped aside to let it pass, and He Yuzhu was forced to stand pressed against the wall.

A car drove past him, its window open, revealing two men in suits inside. One of them glanced at him. He Yuzhu lowered his head, his hand reaching for the hilt of his knife at his waist. The car passed. He looked up; Yamada had already walked twenty meters away.

He chased after him. His heart was pounding.

Yamada walked to the middle of the alley, where there was a corner that was even darker. He Yuzhu quickened his pace, catching up to him within three meters. Yamada heard the footsteps and turned around.

Their eyes met.

Yamada paused for a moment, then suddenly lunged forward—he didn't shout, but his body moved first. He Yuzhu chased after him, but Yamada had already turned around, pulled a short knife from his pocket, held it horizontally in front of his chest, the tip pointing at him.

"Who is it?" Yamada asked in a steady voice, staring at He Yuzhu, then took a step back and pressed his back against the wall.

He Yuzhu stopped. The two were three meters apart, and the only sounds in the alley were the distant barking of dogs and Yamada's heavy breathing.

"Chinese?" Yamada asked in broken Chinese.

He Yuzhu didn't answer. He took a step forward.

Yamada flicked his wrist, the tip of the knife drawing a semicircle: "Come on!"

He swung his blade. He Yuzhu dodged to the side, the blade grazing his chest and creating a gust of wind. He didn't retaliate, he just dodged. A second strike. A third strike. Yamada's breathing grew heavier, his swordplay more erratic.

He Yuzhu was waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for Yamada to reveal a weakness? Waiting for a voice in his head to say, "This is the right thing to do," when he had to make his move.

The fourth strike missed, and Yamada staggered forward. He Yuzhu's hand moved. The dagger was drawn from behind his waist and plunged into Yamada's right shoulder. Yamada groaned, and the knife fell to the ground. The second strike pierced his left shoulder, and his knee slammed into the ground with a dull thud. The third strike pierced his right leg, and he fell forward. The fourth strike pierced his left leg, and he lay motionless on the ground.

Blood gushed out and seeped onto the concrete floor.

He Yuzhu stood there, panting. Blood streamed down his face, dripping onto his clothes and onto the ground. He stared at the corpse, his mind blank. No voice said this was to be expected. Nothing.

Yamada lay on the ground, his face pressed against the cold earth, panting heavily. He turned his head to look at He Yuzhu, his eyes no longer filled with fear, but with a strange light.

"My grandfather..." Yamada suddenly said in Chinese, haltingly, "...died...ten years ago...died in bed...you're too late..."

He Yuzhu gripped the knife handle tightly.

"My father... also died... three years ago..." Yamada's lips twitched, almost as a smile, "You're too late..."

He Yuzhu squatted down, staring at him: "You're still alive. You're still wearing the priest's robes, burning incense for them. Your knife has inscriptions—passed down from your grandfather, right?"

Yamada didn't say anything.

"Hold it tight," He Yuzhu said, "and you won't be wronged."

A knife.

Blood spurted out and splattered onto my clothes; it was warm.

He lifted his head, holding it up to the moonlight. Yamada's face remained in the expression he had before death—eyes wide open, mouth half-open, as if he had something left unsaid. In the moonlight, his skin appeared bluish-white, like frozen flesh.

He Yuzhu stared at that face. It wasn't Yamada Ichiro's face. It was someone else. Yamada Masao? Or was it the person in those photos whose face he couldn't remember, the one in military uniform standing among piles of corpses, smiling?

he does not know.

He stored his head in the system space. Turning around, he looked at the headless corpse lying on the ground. Moonlight shone through the hole in the wall, illuminating the corpse, which was lying prone with its head facing the mainland, as if kneeling.

He stood there for two seconds, then turned and walked into the darkness.

Back in the warehouse, He Yuzhu wiped the knife clean. Bloodstains soaked into the tattered cloth, making it stiff, and he tossed it aside.

He took the head out of the system space and placed it in the corner, against the pile of rotten cardboard boxes.

Moonlight streamed through the hole in the roof, shining directly on his head. Yamada's face was reflected in the light and shadow, his eyes fixed on the moldy cardboard boxes, the rusty sheet metal, and the stain that had been left in the corner for who knows how long.

He Yuzhu sat down, leaning against the wall. The musty smell was still there, the stench of urine was still there, and the fishy stench was still there. There was something else in the air—the stench of blood, which hadn't completely dissipated.

He looked down at his hands. There was still blood under his fingernails, dried and dark red.

Suddenly, my mind went blank.

[Live stream is now live]

Current number of users online: 1,234,567

[Bullet Comments]

Holy crap, is this real?

1958? Time travel for revenge?

Keep it up, streamer!

This is fucking hardcore.

I tipped 100 yuan.

Current reward points: +12,345 points

[+56,789 points]

[+56,789 points]

He Yuzhu froze, watching the comments fly by one after another. People in the 21st century were watching and giving tips.

The comments section was still flooded with messages.

[The streamer is awesome!]

Is this true?

Who's next?

I tipped 500.

He Yuzhu leaned against the wall, staring at the words. Line after line flew past his eyes. He looked down at his hands. The blood under his fingernails had dried, a dark red, and would easily come off if scratched.

The head was in the corner, bathed in moonlight, its eyes beginning to cloud.

He suddenly wanted to ask those people a question: What you're seeing, is it revenge or murder?

But he didn't ask. He simply raised his head, facing the void, facing those unseen eyes, and uttered two words:

"Next."

The live chat exploded.

Holy crap!

【Next!】

[Start tipping!]

[I will always support you, streamer]

积分数字疯狂跳动：【+123，456点】【+234，567点】【+345，678点】

He Yuzhu stopped watching. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. The barrage of comments filled his ears, and the smell of blood and mildew mingled in his nostrils. In the corner, a head faced him, and the moonlight slowly moved over, illuminating that stiff face.

There are 1199 more.

he thinks.

tomorrow.