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

The dampness and sweat in the shack seemed to seep into the cracks in the wooden planks, and the charcoal brazier only made the air more stale, mixed with the pungent smell of cheap tobacco. He Yuzhu sat behind the creaking table, without a lamp, staring at several worn-out military mail receipts in his hand by the light filtering in through the ventilation hole.

Sender: He Weiguo.

Recipient: He Yushui, No. XX, Nanluoguxiang, Beiping City (to be forwarded to the deaf old lady).

The items in his inventory were obtained from the newly opened "Non-Combat Supplies" section of the system: two cans of captured US military food, five bags of compressed dry rations, two cans of milk powder, and a bag of chocolate. The system deduction was barely a whisper, a mere thousand points. In his current total of over 1.2 million points, it was nothing more than a ripple. Yet, as he filled out the form, his palms were sweating—more tense than when he first handled a gun.

The explanation for the source was already prepared: spoils of war "casually" looted from the American kitchen and medical station during the last raid on the regimental headquarters, which he had kept ever since. The reconnaissance company was notorious for its eclectic looting; no one would really scrutinize a few cans of baby formula. When the veteran at the military post station inspected the goods, he grinned: "Company Commander He, your company has quite the eclectic looting; you even have your hands on baby food."

He Yuzhu just smiled. Watching the package being sealed, stamped, and stamped with the triangular military postmark, the weight that had been hanging over him finally lifted. Whether it would arrive, whether he would be questioned, whether they would like it—all were unknown. But doing it was better than just worrying about it.

Sending it out was like throwing an extremely thin yet incredibly strong thread from this icy, snowy foreign land towards the gray yet warm courtyard house of his memory. At the other end of the thread was the part of him who was still warm as "He Yuzhu".

Days passed in a cycle of waiting and rest. Dozens of new recruits joined the company, their skin so tender it seemed you could squeeze water out of them, their eyes filled with longing and apprehension. Training resumed, and Old Geng's voice boomed louder than a diesel engine. Besides overseeing training, He Yuzhu spent most of his time on that "tactical thought report." The pen was harder to wield than the gun—every word had to be thought through several times, he had to have ideas but not go astray, he had to use rudimentary methods but also package his advanced insights as "observational summaries." Writing it made his scalp tingle.

About a month later, the sound of artillery fire from the front lines became sporadic and frequent again. That afternoon, the communications officer ran over and handed him a dirty envelope with torn edges. The letter was written on straight paper, the handwriting crooked but neat, and it contained his unit number and name.

My heart skipped a beat.

He waved for the messenger to leave, then carefully took the letter to a sheltered corner behind the shack before tearing open the seal. The letter was thin, two sheets. One sheet had large, childlike characters, like a child's painstakingly drawn characters: "Brother," "Hero," "Hero," "Return," "Home"—each character occupying a line, the ink bleeding. The other sheet had the slightly hasty yet well-structured handwriting of an old-fashioned scholar, copied by a scribe at the alleyway corner at the deaf old lady's request:

"My dear grandson Zhuzi, it's as if I'm seeing you in person. I received the package last month; the milk powder is excellent. Yushui makes a cup every morning, and her little face is getting rounder. She's also eating more, consuming about half a bowl more at each meal. She's very sensible; knowing it was from you, she doesn't want to eat too much and always says she wants to save some for Grandma. I'm doing well, so don't worry. Yushui practices calligraphy every day with great care. The first character she learned and the one she writes most often is 'brother.' Everything is peaceful at home, and the neighbors are very supportive. Please be careful out there; don't worry about home. I only hope for your speedy recovery and safe return."

The letter was short, filled with mundane everyday details. Yet, He Yuzhu held those two light sheets of paper as if they weighed a ton. He could almost see Yushui lying under the dim yellow oil lamp, her small hands tightly gripping a pencil, carefully tracing the character "brother" stroke by stroke; he could see the deaf old lady squinting as she leaned close to the window light, meticulously reading the reply written by the ghostwriter, instructing him not to omit a single word.

Something was stuck in his throat. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket. The thin paper pressed against his chest, as if carrying a trace of warmth from the distant north.

As evening training ended, He Yuzhu went to check the barracks of each platoon. Reaching the entrance to the semi-underground bunker where the new recruits lived, he heard suppressed sobs and a veteran's low rebuke: "What are you crying for! Every soldier goes to war; who doesn't miss home? Go back inside!"

He lifted the curtain and went inside. The light was dimmer, and there was a strong smell of youthful sweat and earth. In the corner, a new recruit, no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, had his head buried in his knees, his shoulders shrugging. His fellow recruits next to him looked helpless, while the veteran sergeant's face was ashen.

As soon as the company commander entered, everyone fell silent and stood at attention. The crying recruit hurriedly looked up, his face still wet with tears, and turned pale with fright.

He Yuzhu didn't curse. He walked up to him, looked at the new collar insignia that wasn't sewn on properly, and asked, "What's your name? Where are you from?"

"Reporting... Reporting to the company commander, Sun Mancang, from Baoding, Hebei..." the new recruit said with a heavy nasal voice.

"Missing home?"

Sun Mancang bit his lip, not daring to answer, and tears welled up again.

He Yuzhu was silent for a moment, then took out the letter he had just put away from his pocket, unfolded the one written in the old lady's voice, and slowly read it aloud by the dim light of the oil lamp in the bunker. His voice was not loud, and there was no inflection; he simply read the sentences about milk powder, eating, and practicing calligraphy in a plain voice.

The bunker was so quiet that only the occasional crackling of the lamp wick could be heard. The new recruits listened in a daze, even Sun Mancang forgot to sob.

After reading it, He Yuzhu carefully folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He looked around at the young, inexperienced faces filled with anxiety at being far from home, and then his gaze returned to Sun Mancang's face.

"My younger sister's name is Yushui. She's about seven years old this year," he said, his voice clear in the small space. "When I left home, she wasn't even as tall as the stove. Now, she should be able to stand on the table and practice writing."

He paused, then continued, "We're here, lying in the ice and snow, risking our lives. What's the point?"

No one answered.

"I just want," he said slowly and deliberately, "that the people back home, my parents, brothers, and sisters, can eat their fill in peace. That children can write properly in a bright place without living in fear. That ordinary people like Sun Mancang's parents won't be woken up by gunfire in the middle of the night."

He looked at Sun Mancang and said, "You're crying here because you miss home. Your parents are back home, and they miss you even more and are even more afraid of hearing bad news. If we fight well and make the enemy suffer and be afraid, they'll shed fewer tears at home and have more peaceful meals."

He didn't say anything more, patted Sun Mancang on the shoulder, and turned to leave. The bunker remained quiet, but the helpless crying and restlessness seemed to have quietly dissipated with his simple words.

That night, He Yuzhu was awakened by an urgent radio call. The division headquarters forward command relayed top-secret intelligence: through aerial reconnaissance and intelligence infiltration, the enemy may have located the approximate area of ​​the Volunteer Army Headquarters command post and planned to launch a bomber formation to launch a key surprise attack at 8:00 AM the next morning, intending to destroy the command center.

The air in the shack seemed to freeze instantly. He Yuzhu stared at the telegram, his mind racing through the map and the known locations of enemy airfields.

Time is too tight.

He glanced at his pocket watch—three in the morning.

Something has to be done. Even if the intelligence is only 50% accurate, we can't afford to gamble.

He shouted, "Everyone assemble. Rest period over."

[Points Consumption: Exchange for non-combat supplies, -1000 points.]

Current battlefield score: 1,223,398 points.

Main quest progress: 1.223%

The warmth brought by the letter from home, before it could fully warm the heart, was once again overshadowed by the iron and blood of the front lines. The thin line cast into the distance was now taut like a bowstring.