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

The cemetery was so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.

He Yuzhu lay prone between two tombstones, his face pressed against the cold stone slab. The rough slab hurt his cheekbones. The patrol had passed by three minutes ago, but he dared not move—there was something sticky where his left hand was pressed.

He glanced down at it.

A rotten offering. It was either fruit or pastry, a dark, mushy mass with maggots wriggling inside. The stench filled his nostrils, like a hand rummaging down his throat. He wanted to vomit, but he clenched his teeth, buried his face in his arms, and held it in for a few seconds before suppressing the wave of nausea.

I climbed twenty meters. When I pushed off with my left leg, my knee hit a dead branch—crack.

He froze.

Three meters to his left, a stray dog ​​peeked out from behind a tombstone. It was black-furred, so thin you could see its ribs, and its eyes gleamed green in the moonlight. It stared at him, letting out a low growl.

He Yuzhu slowly reached for the dagger at his waist.

The dog took a step forward, its nostrils flaring. He Yuzhu held his breath and met its gaze. He could hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, making his eardrums throb.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

The sound of patrol footsteps approached in the distance. The dog pricked up its ears, turned, and ran into the darkness.

He Yuzhu closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The sweat on his back felt cool in the wind.

I climbed for another hour.

The low wall was just twenty meters away, made of gray bricks, with barbed wire strung on top. In the moonlight, you could see a few tattered strips of cloth hanging on the wire—had people tried to climb over before? Or had someone been killed here in a bombing?

He pulled a dagger from his system space; the blade was slender, and the steel edge gleamed coldly. As he crawled the last five meters, his elbow struck a sharp rock, causing him to gasp in pain.

The barbed wire was denser than he had imagined. He cut it one bar at a time, the blade sharp, but each snip made his heart skip a beat.

When I cut the third strip, I heard footsteps coming from the other side of the wall.

He stopped and pressed his face to the ground.

The footsteps grew closer, and people were talking. English, two people.

"This godforsaken place is freezing cold."

"Just bear with it, there are still two hours until your shift changes."

Do you think the assassin will come today?

"It's better if they come. One shot and they're done, then we can call it a day."

The footsteps passed by the wall and faded into the distance. He Yuzhu waited a minute, then continued cutting.

The last wire broke, and he squeezed his head into the opening. Just as he started climbing up, his foot slipped, and he stepped on a piece of broken brick.

The brick landed on the ground with a thud.

He lay motionless on the wall.

There was no movement from the other side of the wall.

He flipped over and landed softly. His feet sank half an inch into the soft soil.

Behind the low wall was a thicket of bushes, the weeds taller than a person.

He crouched in the grass, looking out. Twenty meters away, two American sentries stood there. One held an M1 rifle, the other leaned against the wall smoking. The red glow of his cigarette butt flickered.

He pulled out a crossbow bolt from his system space. The bolt was cold and slippery in his hand. He wiped his hands on his trousers, raised it, and aimed at the man holding the gun.

Fingers on the trigger.

A gust of wind blew by, rustling the grass. The man with the gun looked up at the sky and yawned.

He Yuzhu pulled the trigger.

whoosh-

The sound of the arrow piercing flesh was faint, a muffled thud, like a punch landing on a sandbag. The man holding the gun stumbled forward, the weapon falling to the ground, a gurgling sound coming from his throat. Blood gushed from his mouth; he tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The one smoking paused for a moment, then turned his head.

In that instant, their eyes met.

He Yuzhu saw the fear in his eyes—his pupils dilated instantly, his mouth opened, and the cigarette slipped from his fingers.

He rushed forward.

Five meters. Three meters. One meter.

The man reached for his gun holster. He Yuzhu covered his mouth with one hand and brandished his knife with the other.

The blade sliced ​​smoothly across his throat, like cutting through frozen meat. Warm blood spurted out, splashing onto his wrist and trickling down his forearm. The man struggled for a moment, then went limp.

He Yuzhu helped him up and slowly laid him down.

No sound.

He squatted there, catching his breath. He dragged the two bodies into the bushes and covered them with weeds. Only after he finished did he realize his hands were trembling.

He clenched his fist and stared at the hand.

It's nothing. My hands were just shaking.

The main hall of the shrine was larger than he had imagined.

The temple was made of wood and painted vermilion, with a row of bronze bells hanging under the eaves. The moonlight shone on the bells, giving them a cold gleam. The temple doors were closed, and two people dressed in priestly robes stood at the entrance, heads bowed, motionless.

He went around to the side wall and found a window. The window was half open, just big enough for one person to squeeze through.

He climbed onto the windowsill, and just as he leaned halfway in, his foot touched something—

Ding.

A soft sound rang out, but it sounded like a thunderclap in his ears. He froze, holding his breath.

The hall was pitch black, with only a few ever-burning lamps. The flickering flames cast distorted shadows of the statues. No one was there.

He slowly landed, moved behind the largest statue, and squatted down.

The scent of sandalwood mixed with a musty smell filled his nostrils, making him want to sneeze. He covered his mouth and nose, holding back the breath. His back was pressed against the statue, and he could feel the cool, slightly damp wood.

This place is dedicated to the ghosts who killed Chinese people.

As he was thinking this, the palace doors opened.

A man walked in. He was dressed in priest's robes, tall and thin, with his head bowed. He walked to the statue of the deity, knelt down, and began to pray.

He heard a string of gibberish in Japanese, which he couldn't understand. But He Yuzhu could see the man's face—around forty years old, with a ruddy complexion and well-maintained appearance. This kind of person, whose ancestors had Chinese blood on their hands, was enjoying a life of luxury, yet he still came to worship ghosts.

He Yuzhu walked around from behind the statue and stood behind him.

He struck the back of the neck with a palm strike.

The man tumbled forward, lay face down on the ground, and remained motionless.

When the man woke up, he found himself tied up, with a cloth stuffed in his mouth, and his eyes wide open.

He Yuzhu squatted down in front of him and tore off the piece of cloth.

"Don't shout."

The man's lips trembled as he nodded.

"How many people will attend tomorrow's worship ceremony?"

"Three...three hundred people."

He Yuzhu stared into his eyes. The man's gaze drifted slightly to the left.

lie.

He grabbed the man's hair and pressed the knife against his neck. The blade was cold, and the flesh on the man's neck trembled.

"Say it again. How many people?"

The man's face turned pale, and his lips trembled even more violently.

"Three...three hundred people! Really three hundred people! I'm not lying to you!"

He Yuzhu looked into his eyes. This time, he didn't flinch. His pupils were constricted, and his eyes were filled with fear.

He let go.

The man collapsed to the ground, panting heavily.

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was beginning to lighten, with a sliver of gray light on the eastern horizon.

Three hundred people. They'll arrive at dawn.

He pulled the photo out of his pocket—a picture of Yu Shui and Qin Huairu, which he always kept close to his body. In the photo, the two were smiling happily; Yu Shui was missing a front tooth, and Qin Huairu's hand was on her shoulder.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then stuffed the photo back into his pocket.

He pulled the rifle out of his system space. The metal was cold against his palm.

He chambered the magazine.

The click was exceptionally clear in the quiet hall.

The priest behind him cowered on the ground, staring at him, mumbling something. He Yuzhu walked over, knocked him unconscious with a single blow, gagged him, and stuffed him into the shadows behind the statue.

Outside, the sky was getting brighter and brighter.

He stood by the window, watching the shrine's outline gradually become clearer.

"After dawn."

He said softly.

"Sending you on your way."