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

The battle was over, or rather, this wave of attacks had temporarily ceased. The battle line, like a severely wounded python, writhed in agony, barely managing to remain coiled in a stalemate, licking its wounds and gathering strength for the next bite.

The place where the reconnaissance battalion rested after their withdrawal was slightly better than the previous shack area, with a few North Korean houses that hadn't completely collapsed, offering some shelter from the wind and cold. The newly painted slogans on the mud walls were glaringly red—"Learn from the heroes of the reconnaissance battalion," the ink stains against the gray background resembling undried blood.

The commendation order from the division headquarters arrived with great fanfare, an unprecedented display. The official document, bearing a prominent seal, stated in black and white: "Comrade He Weiguo, commander of the reconnaissance battalion under the division, is awarded the honorary title of 'First-Class Combat Hero,' awarded a Special Merit Citation, and commended throughout the entire army."

It wasn't just the division staff officers who came; there were also personnel from the corps political department, carrying cameras. He Yuzhu was led to the slogan wall, where a brand-new, heavy metal medal was pinned to his chest. Its shape was similar to the previous Special Merit Medal, but more intricate, and its touch was cold. A camera was pointed at him, and a flash of light went off; he instinctively squinted. He stood ramrod straight, but his face was expressionless, like a statue posed according to instructions.

After the ceremony, the people from the Corps shook his hand vigorously, offering many words of praise and expectations. He Yuzhu responded with "Thank you for the organization's cultivation" and "Continue to serve the people," but his heart felt empty, as if he were watching a play through frosted glass, the person on the stage, enveloped in honor, far removed from him.

The victory celebration was held in the slightly larger, dilapidated room at the battalion headquarters. There was no alcohol; every drop of alcohol at the front was reserved for the medical team. The so-called "feast" was the result of the cooks' best efforts: a large bowl of soft potatoes, with a few specks of oil floating on top; several bowls of pickled vegetables; and a few cans of US Army C rations left over from the last ambush – these were the only substantial dishes. The cans were carefully opened, revealing a thick mixture of beans and minced meat, which was distributed to each officer's small enamel bowl, just covering the bottom.

Division Commander Song also arrived, sitting among the soldiers, each holding the same worn-out bowl filled with the same potato porridge. His speech was brief, without many platitudes, simply stating that the reconnaissance battalion had displayed great spirit and thwarted the enemy's arrogance. The soldiers listened, most heads down, eating, occasionally one looking up and grinning—a smile that reflected both weariness and a genuine sense of satisfaction. After all, today's meal had a bit more oil.

He Yuzhu sat beside Commander Song, silently chewing on the strange-tasting canned beans, both salty and greasy. He was enveloped by the surrounding noise: Old Geng was laughing and arguing with someone over half a compressed biscuit; Zhang Dashan carefully tucked the few fruit candies he had received into his pocket, saying he wanted to save them for the wounded; Wu Dayong was gesturing as he described how he had used a grenade to blow up the sandbag fortifications that night…

The excitement belonged to them. The emptiness in his heart was now filled with a list that had just arrived, the ink still wet—not a list of awards, but a summary of the casualties and reinforcements of the reconnaissance battalion in this battle. Black and white on the paper, each name was followed by "sacrificed," "seriously wounded and evacuated," or "lightly wounded and retained." The "sacrificed" column listed fifty-three names. He could picture the faces of many of them with his eyes closed: the trembling when he first handled a gun, the bruises and welts from training, the hoarse roars during charges… Now, only a cold name remained, perhaps accompanied by a meager pension. Their families might receive a "certificate of honor," or perhaps see a report of "Reconnaissance He Weiguo" in a blurry newspaper sent from home to the front lines. But that glory couldn't warm the empty bed where loved ones had been lost, nor fill the pot without its pillar.

By the time the banquet ended, it was already dark. Before leaving, Commander Song patted He Yuzhu on the shoulder and whispered, "Being awarded a medal is a good thing, but it's also a pressure. You know that. Zheng Guotao's stuff... it's been put on hold for now. But you're riding high, and there are quite a few people watching you. Think things through more in the future."

He Yuzhu nodded, remaining silent. Suppressing it doesn't mean it's gone. The thorn is still buried in the flesh, and it's unknown when it will resurface.

As night deepened, the camp fell silent, save for the regular footsteps of the sentries and the sporadic sounds of artillery fire in the distance—the front lines never truly slept.

He Yuzhu remained alone at the camp headquarters. The oil lamp flickered dimly, casting a yellowish light. On one side of the table lay a list of casualties, and on the other, a battle map filled with red and blue arrows. The blue circle representing "Eagle's Nest" had been crossed out sharply with red pen, and next to it were hastily scribbled notes of captured points and enemy assessment summaries. His gaze swept over the familiar markings on the map, each corresponding to a stealth operation, a firefight, a life-or-death moment from his memory. Glory and scars, like the red and blue on this map, were inextricably intertwined, impossible to separate.

He summoned the system screen. The numbers pulsed coldly:

[Current Battlefield Score: 4,913,398 points]

Main quest progress: 4.913%

[To reach 5,000,000 points and unlock more detailed previews of intermediate technology projects, 86,602 points are needed.]

Four million nine hundred thousand. Just one step away from five million. "A more detailed preview of intermediate technology projects" sounded more appealing than the vague technology tree. However, looking at the numbers and comparing them to the fifty-three names on the list, he felt no excitement whatsoever.

How many of these points were earned through these names? The system only calculates results, not the cost.

He sat quietly for a long time, exchanging 53 sets of supplies. Each set of supplies contained a piece of cloth and a bag of brown sugar, which were the only relatively safe and practical comforts he could think of that could be delivered to the families.

He picked up his pen and began writing a letter by the light of the oil lamp. It wasn't for the rain and the old woman, but for the families behind those fifty-three names. The letter was concise and repetitive: it began, "Dear Family Member of Comrade So-and-so," informing them that their loved one was a hero, had sacrificed heroically, and would be forever remembered by the army. He then introduced himself as their battalion commander, expressing his deep sorrow and sense of responsibility, and included a small token of his sympathy. Finally, he wrote that if the family faced any truly insurmountable difficulties, they could write to this address, and he would do his best to help.

He knew these words were futile, and these things wouldn't solve the root of the problem. The wounds of war would require the entire nation and many years to heal. But this was all he could do. As battalion commander, this was the only thing he could do for those who would never return home, besides leading them to victory and doing his best to keep them alive.

He wrote letter after letter, the pen scratching softly across the paper. As he wrote, his wrist ached, and his eyes burned. Suddenly, the flame of the oil lamp flickered, casting a swaying shadow on his face.

The faint sounds of changing of the guard drifted in from outside; a new day was about to begin. The names on the list would not be erased, and the road ahead remained fraught with thorns. Glory draped over them, heavy and cold like iron armor; wounds etched into their bones, a hidden pain that would never heal.

But the road must still be traveled. Carrying the living, bearing the names of the dead, towards the goal of one hundred million points, towards the "technology preview" promised by the system that might change something, and also towards the day when this war ends and everyone can return home.

He blew out the oil lamp and carefully wrapped the letter he had written and the items he had prepared. In the darkness, only the system screen emitted a faint, cold light, illuminating his calm yet resolute face.

Glory upon him, wounds etched into his bones.

This is his path.