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

The wooden planks in the attic were only two fingers wide, and they hurt my ribs.

He Yuzhu lay on his side, his right cheek pressed against the rough wooden board, his left eye fixed on the half-centimeter-wide gap. Candlelight from the main hall below shone through the gap, flickering on his face. He could hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, mingling with the chanting of the priests below, like some strange ensemble. The taste of dust in his throat was still there, but now there was something else—the sandalwood scent wafting from below was too strong, so strong it made him want to vomit.

More and more people.

One by one, people dressed in black entered, heads bowed, expressions solemn. The oldest were in their sixties, the youngest in their early twenties; there were men and women, some even leading children. They stood in neat rows before the statue.

He Yuzhu stared at those people, silently counting them in his mind.

Thirty...fifty...one hundred...

At two hundred, an old man walked in, leaning on a cane. He walked very slowly, each step feeling like he was walking on cotton. Someone was supporting him beside him; it was a young woman, her head bowed, her face obscured.

The live stream chat started flooded with comments.

[They're here! They're here! All three hundred people are here!]

[Damn it, are these the people? Their ancestors killed our compatriots!]

[That old man's father was an officer involved in the Nanjing Massacre; I've seen his photo in historical records.]

[Don't let any streamers get away!]

Let's give a tip!

He Yuzhu glanced at the comments but didn't say anything.

Below, the priest began reciting a prayer. It was a jumbled mess of words, incomprehensible to the reader, but the intonation and rhythm made it sound quite authentic. Those dressed in black followed suit, bowing once, twice, three times.

He brought up the system interface and typed a line of text.

"Is there any poison gas? The kind that, once used, will render them powerless to resist?"

The system replied instantly.

[Nerve-paralyzing gas (single-use): Colorless and odorless. Inhalation causes general weakness within three seconds, lasting for fifteen minutes. Cost: 500,000 points]

He clicked "redeem".

[Redeem successful. Points consumed: 500,000]

Current total points: 73,811,233 - 500,000 = 73,311,233 points

He took a small, clear glass bottle from his system space, filled with a colorless liquid. He unscrewed the cap and poured it onto the attic floor.

The liquid begins to evaporate upon contact with air; it is colorless, odorless, and sinks.

The people below were still bowing and chanting, completely unaware of what was happening.

He Yuzhu stared at the old man with the cane. He was in the front row of the crowd, bent over, but standing very steadily.

One minute.

People below started to sway.

A middle-aged man grabbed a nearby pillar, his legs buckling. Those around him tried to help him, but they too could not stand. More people began to sway; some knelt, some sat on the ground, and some lay there unable to move.

The eulogy stopped.

The priest stood on the platform, mouth agape, unable to utter a sound. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey him, and he collapsed onto the altar.

The old man with the cane was the first to fall. He knelt on the ground, his cane rolled to the side, and struggled to get up, his hands trembling violently as he braced himself on the ground.

He Yuzhu stood up and jumped down from the attic.

boom--

He landed on the main altar, the wooden planks beneath his feet vibrating and humming. The candlelight flickered, and several went out.

The people dressed in black below looked up at the person who had descended from the sky.

A brief silence.

Then screams erupted.

He Yuzhu drew the dagger from his waist, the blade gleaming coldly in the candlelight. He jumped off the altar and landed in the crowd.

The first cut slit a man's throat. The man clutched his neck and collapsed, blood spurting out and splashing onto the face of a woman nearby. The woman screamed and tried to run, but her legs were weak and she couldn't move. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back, stabbing her again.

The second head rolled off.

The third one, the fourth one, the fifth one...

He moved through the crowd. A blade flashed, blood splattered, and a head rolled off.

When I had killed fifty of them, my knife got stuck.

It was stuck in the collarbone of a burly man, and couldn't be pulled out. The burly man wasn't dead yet; he glared, cursed something in Japanese, and punched He Yuzhu in the face. He Yuzhu dodged to the side, but the fist still grazed his cheekbone, causing a burning pain.

He pulled out a spare dagger from his waist and plunged it into the man's heart before the man could throw his second punch.

The man twitched twice and then stopped moving.

He Yuzhu, panting heavily, pried the first knife out of his collarbone. The blade was already chipped. He threw that knife away and took a new one.

The live stream chat exploded.

[Holy crap, that almost crashed!]

[Watch out, streamer!]

Who is that burly man?

[Let's give a tip to calm the streamer's nerves!]

When they had killed a hundred, someone in the crowd pulled out a gun.

It was a man in his forties, hiding behind a pillar, holding a Nambu pistol. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn't aim properly, and when he fired, the bullet went nowhere.

He Yuzhu rushed over and sliced ​​off the man's gun-wielding hand with a single stroke. The hand fell to the ground, and the gun fell with it. The man screamed in agony as He Yuzhu slit his throat.

When he had killed 150 of them, he saw the old man with the cane.

The old man lay sprawled on the ground, unable to move. The young woman lay beside him, shielding him with her body. She looked up at He Yuzhu, her eyes filled with terror.

He Yuzhu walked over and picked her up.

She shouted a string of words in Japanese very quickly, which he couldn't understand.

"speak English."

He held a knife to her throat.

The woman hesitated for a moment, then switched to broken English: "Please... my grandfather's matter... has nothing to do with me... I don't know..."

Her tears fell and dripped onto his hand, warm.

He Yuzhu looked at her, thinking of Qin Huairu and the child in her belly.

three seconds.

He asked, "What was your grandfather's last name?"

The woman's lips trembled: "Yama... Yamada."

He Yuzhu moved the knife in his hand forward an inch.

Yamada. The Yamada from the 16th Division.

A knife.

The old man lay on the ground, watching her fall, making a hoarse sound in his throat. He Yuzhu picked him up and stabbed him.

When they had killed two hundred, footsteps sounded at the entrance of the main hall. American soldiers were shouting, in Japanese and English, creating chaos. Someone was giving orders, telling the soldiers to rush in.

But the doorway was blocked by people fleeing for their lives. Those who were still alive and those who could still move all crowded towards the door, blocking it completely.

The US military can't get in.

When he had killed 250, he switched to his third knife.

They killed 280, 290, 295...

The last one was a young man in his early twenties, cowering at the feet of the statue. He raised his head, looked at He Yuzhu, neither begging for mercy nor resisting. He just stared at him with a strange light in his eyes.

He Yuzhu squatted down in front of him.

Who is your grandfather?

The young man answered in English, his voice calm.

"16th Division, Lieutenant Colonel. Nanjing."

He Yuzhu looked at him.

Are you scared?

The young man remained silent for a moment.

"I'm scared. But I've been waiting for this day since I was a child."

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

The young man continued, "My grandmother was from Nanjing. She survived. My grandfather didn't know."

He Yuzhu's hand froze in mid-air.

The young man looked at him.

"Let's get started."

A knife.

The three hundredth head rolled off.

He Yuzhu stood there, panting heavily. He was covered in blood, sticky and dripping down his clothes. He glanced down, unable to tell if it was his own or someone else's.

The ground was littered with corpses, blood, and heads.

Fifteen minutes.

Three hundred people.

He took out the large bag from his system space and began collecting the heads. He picked them up one by one and tossed them into the bag. Some were facing upwards, staring at him. Others were facing downwards, their expressions unreadable.

After collecting nearly half of them, a loud bang was heard at the entrance of the main hall.

The door was kicked open.

American soldiers rushed in, armed with M1 rifles, shouting "Don't move!" A dozen gun barrels were pointed at him, dark and menacing.

The leading officer raised his hands and shouted in English, "Put down your weapons! Surrender!"

He Yuzhu glanced down—his left hand was still holding the bag containing the heads, and his right hand gripped a dull knife. He was covered in blood, it was hard to tell if it was his own or that of the three hundred men.

He looked up at the dark gun barrels.

The officer shouted it again.

He didn't move.

The hall suddenly fell silent. Only the crows on the roof were cawing, "caw, caw, caw."

The candlelight flickered, casting a long shadow behind him.