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

Days slipped by slowly amidst the smoke and torment. Even tearing a page in the calendar didn't seem to take this long—before I looked up, the calendar had already turned to November. Winter in Korea hadn't fully unleashed its power, but the winds in the mornings and evenings were already like knives, scraping my face painfully. The two peaks of Shangganling had long since lost their mountain appearance; they looked like two gnawed-on buns, standing dark and bare, emitting smoke day and night, indistinguishable whether it was gunpowder smoke or something smoldering underground.

He Yuzhu's regiment was also nearly exhausted. A few sporadic batches of reserve troops, promised by the division, arrived, but they were all farmers who had just put down their hoes and could barely hold a gun. Whether they would survive three days in the trenches was entirely up to fate. The ammunition depot was running low; hand grenades were being counted on their fingers, and mortar shells were as precious as eyeballs. Food was manageable—fried noodles with snow water—enough to keep them from starving, but the rough, raw taste scraping down their throats and burning their intestines was truly torturous.

On the other side, Hammer seemed to be exhausted by the war of attrition. Their daytime offensive momentum noticeably weakened, and they no longer deployed entire battalions and companies. But they didn't retreat either, occupying the surface positions, providing fire support during the day and sending small groups to harass at night, like a piece of chewing gum that couldn't be chewed or spat out, stuck firmly to their throats.

Inside the regimental command post, the air was so oppressive it felt like it could be wrung out of water. Old Geng sat in the corner, repeatedly wiping his submachine gun with a rag until the barrel gleamed, almost reflecting a person's image. Political Commissar Zhao stared at the casualty list, his brows furrowed in deep frown, before finally letting out a sigh. He Yuzhu, meanwhile, was glued to the map, his hands on the edge of the table, his back hunched, his eyes fixed on two small circles on the map—597.9 and 537.7—extra repeatedly marked with red pen, almost worn out from being poked.

Breaking.

These two words had been swirling in his mind a thousand times. A direct confrontation was impossible; resources were dwindling. A flanking maneuver? A flank maneuver? The defensive zone was limited, the enemy was watching closely, and the slightest movement would trigger a deluge of artillery fire. A tunnel counterattack? They could recapture some surface positions at night, but at dawn, enemy artillery and air superiority would plow the positions again. It was a never-ending cycle, only adding to casualties.

The fragmented military knowledge he possessed from later generations, like a jumbled pile of pieces, proved utterly powerless before this specific yet immensely desperate meat grinder. Asymmetric warfare and system disruption—without the most basic technological means and material foundation, it was all empty talk.

system……

Subconsciously, even with a hint of despair, he recalled that presence deep within his consciousness. Seven million points sounded like a lot, but compared to the futuristic gadgets on the intermediate technology tree that cost tens of millions, it was still dirt poor. Those things were good, but they couldn't quench his immediate thirst.

Is there any way to use the existing points to pull off something big? Not to exchange for a few machine guns or cannons, but... a one-time, decisive move that can completely break the deadlock, no matter the cost...

The thought was like a flickering will-o'-the-wisp in the darkness, weak and fleeting, yet it sent a shiver down his spine. He knew how crazy and absurd the idea was. The system could provide things ahead of their time, but the "reasonable" appearance of those things required countless preludes and cover-ups—like the previous exchange of medicines and weapons, which could be excused as spoils or special supplies. But what if they actually produced some earth-shattering weapon of mass destruction? Would it fall from the sky? A mysterious aid from an allied nation?

But... what if? What if the system hides some "one-off" solution that he doesn't have the authority to see but whose points are barely enough to access? It's like a gambler with nowhere to turn, knowing that the hope is slim, but still unable to resist checking his pockets to see if there are any chips he might have missed.

He excused himself, saying he needed some quiet time to think, and sent Lao Geng and Political Commissar Zhao away. He was left alone in the bunker, the oil lamp flickering erratically. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let his consciousness sink into that familiar, dimly lit system space.

Points balance: 7,138,398 points.

He skipped over the dazzling array of individual equipment and logistics areas, which were useless at the moment, and his mind reached deeper into the system interface like tentacles—those areas that had been grayed out and blurred due to insufficient points were now marked with "strategic" and "campaign" labels. He used to think it was a luxury not to even glance at them.

My thoughts swept over those dark, massive icons:

"Tactical nuclear weapons (low yield)" - the points required start at eight figures, followed by a string of zeros that makes people dizzy.

"Regional meteorological intervention (localized heavy rain/fog)" - requires 5 million points, the effect is uncertain, and it requires complex prerequisites.

"Strategic electronic suppression (paralyzing enemy operational command and communications)" - the score is also frighteningly high, but the duration is limited.

None of them were things he could touch. His heart sank lower and lower.

Just as he was about to give up and his mind was about to exit—in a very remote corner of the list, almost completely obscured by other icons—his "eyes" swept over an extremely inconspicuous option icon, so dark it almost blended into the background. The icon was abstract, like a few contrails streaking across the sky.

He focused his mind and "looked" over there.

A line of small print appeared: "Strategic bombing formation (one-off/21st century standard)".

His heart skipped a beat. He immediately tried clicking it; the icon lit up slightly, and detailed information popped up:

[Project: H-20 Strategic Bomber Formation (One-Time Call)]

[Composition: 20 H-20 stealth strategic bombers (fully loaded)]

[Ammunition configuration: Each aircraft carries 24 500kg-class air-to-ground thermobaric bombs (FAE), totaling 480.]

[Mission Mode: The host designates a target area (not exceeding 50 square kilometers). The system-controlled formation arrives at the designated time and executes a single carpet bombing raid. The formation disappears after the bombing.]

[Special Note: The system will ensure that the summoning, bombing, and evacuation processes are absolutely covert and will not be detected by any current-era detection methods. The bombing effects are comparable to those of the early 21st century.]

[Points required for redemption: 10,000,000.]

[Current host points: 7,138,398. Insufficient points to redeem.]

Ten million points!

He Yuzhu's consciousness was instantly jolted back to reality, as if doused with ice water. Seven million versus ten million—a difference of nearly three million. Three million points—normally meant annihilating tens of thousands of enemies, destroying a large amount of technical equipment, and fighting several tough battles. But now, the troops were almost wiped out; where were they going to earn those three million?

But that description… twenty stealthy H-20 bombers, over four hundred thermobaric bombs… if they could truly be summoned and used against Hammer’s attack launch sites, artillery clusters, and logistical hubs… he could almost imagine the cataclysmic scene. That was an attack that no army in this era could withstand. The stalemate might truly be broken in one fell swoop.

But what will be the cost?

Putting aside the ten million points, the unknown consequences of this operation alone sent chills down his spine. A weapon decades ahead of its time suddenly appeared and vanished into thin air. Even if the system guaranteed "absolute concealment," the results were undeniable. How could he explain this to his superiors and subordinates? How could he answer to history? Would it trigger unpredictable chain reactions?

More importantly—does he really have the power to decide the life and death of tens of thousands of people and forcibly reverse the course of history in such a near-miraculous way? This is completely different from his previous use of the system to exchange for resources and knowledge to improve his combat power within the existing framework.

Madman... He felt this thought was utterly insane.

But another voice screamed in my heart: Look at the brothers dying outside every day! Look at the wounded in the tunnels, their eyes nearly blinded from waiting for water and medicine! Look at this endless, agonizing stalemate! If there were a way to end all this, no matter how bizarre or unspeakable the method...

Two conflicting thoughts tore at his mind, his temples throbbed, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Commander?"

Old Geng's voice rang out from the entrance of the shelter, filled with worry.

"Are you alright? You look terrible."

He Yuzhu snapped back to reality, his consciousness exiting the system. Opening his eyes, he realized his fingers were still gripping the edge of the table tightly, his knuckles white. He loosened his grip, loosened his stiff fingers, and forced a smile: "It's nothing, I just... got lost in thought."

Old Geng walked in and put down a bowl of still slightly steaming fried noodle soup: "Eat it while it's hot. Political Commissar Zhao just came back from a round of the battalions and said morale is alright, but everyone... is exhausted to the point of collapse."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "The Third Battalion reports that they conducted a small-scale attack last night, taking out an enemy outpost and capturing some canned goods and ammunition. They suffered four wounded and two killed."

He Yuzhu listened silently, picked up the porridge, and shoveled it into his mouth without tasting it. Casualties, spoils, stalemate... everything continued on its original track, slowly and cruelly rolling on.

After finishing his meal and putting down his bowl, he said to Lao Geng, "Notify all battalions to take the time to rest and replenish ammunition. Also... have the reconnaissance company send out a few more groups of men, not just to look at the front, but to investigate the possible logistics nodes and command post locations deep within the enemy's territory in more detail. Update the maps as soon as possible where necessary."

Old Geng asked doubtfully, "Commander, given our current situation, can we still...?"

"Let's prepare first," He Yuzhu interrupted him, his gaze returning to the map, his eyes holding something extremely complex that Lao Geng couldn't understand. "Who knows... what will happen next?"

Ten million points stood like an insurmountable chasm between that crazy idea and the cold reality. But that idea itself, like a seed unintentionally buried in scorched earth, though its hope was slim, had stubbornly taken root in the deepest part of his heart.