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

November 5, 1952, around 11 p.m.

The area outside the tunnel was eerily quiet.

He Yuzhu squatted in the storage hollow behind the regimental command post, his back against the damp rock wall, looking up through a crevice. There were actually stars in the sky, a few scattered, their light cold and piercing. The dust from the daytime explosions hadn't completely settled, and the air smelled of sulfur mixed with a burnt odor, stinging his lungs when inhaled.

He pulled the map atlas out of his pocket again, his fingers tracing the contour lines in the darkness. 597.9, 537.7—he could draw those numbers with his eyes closed. The casualty reports from earlier that day came in. One company in the Third Battalion had been reduced to only seventeen men still able to move. The company commander, dragging his half-crippled leg, yelled into the phone, "The position is still there!" before passing out.

Half an hour ago, Xiao Liu, a radio operator from the regimental headquarters, crouched down and handed over a copy of the division headquarters' reply telegram. It contained only one line: "Received. Prepare according to the plan. Song."

There wasn't even a question mark.

He Yuzhu folded the paper again and again, finally stuffing it into his inner pocket. Commander Song was betting his life on him, or rather, betting the fate of the entire front on the vague "decisive support" from a nineteen-year-old regimental commander.

His throat felt a little dry, and he swallowed, feeling like there was sand grinding in his throat.

The system interface emerged from the darkness, its eerie blue light illuminating his face. He had read that line of text countless times: [Strategic Bombing Squadron (One-Time Use), Exchange Required Points: 10,000,000.]

Ten million. He saved up for so long, through so many deaths, just to exchange for this button.

My fingers trembled slightly as they hovered in mid-air. It wasn't fear, but the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing full well that jumping off might mean certain death, but looking back, all I saw was a sea of ​​fire, with no way out.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, not knowing who he was cursing at.

Press your finger down.

For a moment, it seemed as if all sound vanished, yet simultaneously, all sounds surged in—the faint distant boom of artillery, the groans of the wounded in the trenches, his own heartbeat. The system interface rippled like water, then the line of text changed:

Points deducted: 10,000,000.

[Remaining points: 450,000.]

[Strategic bombing formation activated.]

[Formation forming... Estimated arrival time: after 00:29:57.]

Three coordinate input boxes pop up below, with the cursor blinking.

He Yuzhu paused for two seconds, then abruptly tore open the map and pulled out the nearly used pencil stub from his pocket. His mind raced, like an overloaded machine.

The first coordinate was easy to find. The enemy's main attack assembly area, reported by the daytime observation sentries, was in a depression on the northern slope of Jixiong Mountain, where at least two battalions of infantry, along with a dozen tanks and self-propelled artillery pieces, were huddled. He chose the largest of the three heavy artillery group coordinates detected by the artillery radar, near Erqingdong.

The pencil scratched across the paper, and numbers popped out one by one.

He hesitated for a moment regarding the second coordinate. The system indicated that it could engage maritime targets, so it had to be done. The US aircraft carriers were constantly loitering in the distance, their carrier-based aircraft swarming the positions like locusts. He remembered that enemy communications intercepted a couple of days ago mentioned the location of the "Valley Forge," roughly in the area around 124 degrees east longitude and 37 degrees north latitude. The supply hub was even easier to find; the open-air storage yard at Wonsan Port, the photos taken by reconnaissance soldiers showed supplies piled up like mountains.

The pencil tip paused on the paper, then added: Yeongdeungpo Ammunition Depot. That's the largest supply depot near Seoul; blowing it up would be a disaster for them.

The third coordinate...

He Yuzhu's finger stopped there.

The system's example listed "Tokyo." The first thing that popped into his head was the Yasukuni Shrine—he'd heard captured Japanese officers mention it; it housed the memorial tablets of war criminals. If only he could bomb it…

He shook his head. No, it's too far, and he can't handle the political repercussions. There are too many ordinary people in Tokyo; he can't become the kind of person he hates most.

The pencil scribbled a few times on the paper, finally landing on a coordinate: Yokosuka Naval Base. The largest US naval base in the Far East, the headquarters of the Seventh Fleet. If they couldn't bomb Tokyo, they'd bomb this.

After entering the three coordinates, the system pops up a confirmation message: [The team will be divided into three groups to execute the mission. Please confirm the target priority.]

He Yuzhu prioritized the "current battlefield," followed by "at sea and in the rear," and lastly "far-reaching objectives."

The instruction has been confirmed.

[Estimated arrival time of the formation: after 00:24:33.]

The system has entered an overload cooling-off period; most functions are temporarily locked. Cooling-off time: 72 hours.

The screen went dark, eventually displaying a line of small text: 【Summoning in progress…】

He Yuzhu leaned against the rock wall and let out a long breath. His palms were sweaty and icy cold.

That's it. Ten million points were exchanged for a thunderbolt from the sky thirty minutes later.

He froze for a few seconds, then suddenly stood up and ran towards the command post. His legs were a little weak, and he almost tripped. As he rushed into the trench, Wu Dayong was yelling something into the phone. Seeing him come in, Wu covered the receiver and turned around: "Regimental Commander, the Third Battalion over there..."

"All units, immediately move into the artillery shelters and fortified bunkers." He Yuzhu's voice was a little hoarse, but he enunciated each word clearly. "I repeat, everyone who can still move, get into the bunkers. No one is allowed to be exposed on the surface for thirty minutes."

Wu Dayong was stunned: "But what if the enemy takes advantage of the situation..."

"Execute the order." He Yuzhu stared at him. "Also, connect me to the last safe line from headquarters."

The communications soldier's hand trembled slightly as he handed over the headset. He Yuzhu grabbed the microphone, took a deep breath, and said into the other end, "Thunder has arrived, counterattack immediately."

Just seven characters.

There was a two or three-second silence on the other end, then Commander Song's voice came through, deep and resonant, as if it came from underground: "Understood."

The phone hangs up.

He Yuzhu put down the microphone and turned to look at everyone in the tunnel. Their faces were covered in mud and sweat, their eyes were red, but they were all looking at him.

"I heard everything," he said. "Thirty minutes. Everyone stay hidden. Once the commotion has died down, when I say 'Charge,' you all rush out and chase as far as you can."

No one asked why, no one asked what was going on. These soldiers had followed him from north of the Yangtze River to south of the Yangtze River, from the Five Campaigns to Shangganling, and had long since learned one thing: when the regimental commander ordered them to hide, there must be a reason for it; when the regimental commander ordered them to charge, they had to wade through mountains of knives if necessary.

He Yuzhu watched them crouching low as they retreated deeper into the tunnel, then suddenly remembered something and grabbed Wu Dayong: "Old Wu."

"What's wrong, Commander?"

"What if... what if I miscalculated this time?" He Yuzhu's voice lowered, "What if there's no movement in thirty minutes, and the enemy takes the opportunity to advance..."

"Then let's just die here." Wu Dayong grinned, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow by smoking. "What else can we do? Anyway, with you, our regiment has never fought a humiliating battle."

He patted He Yuzhu on the shoulder, then turned and crawled into the depths of the tunnel.

He Yuzhu stood alone in the command post. The radio indicator light was still on, the map lay open on the table, and the pencil had rolled to one side. He walked over, folded the map neatly, put the pencil back in his pocket, and then sat down on the tattered chair to wait.

Time ticked by, second by second.

He remembered many things. He remembered when he first transmigrated, fighting for the cooking spoon in the mess hall; he remembered his first time on the battlefield, his hands shaking so much he couldn't pull back the bolt of his gun; he remembered Old Geng teaching him how to lie in ambush in the snow; he remembered Qin Huairu's eyes were red when she handed him that peace charm.

He also thought of those who had died in the past six months. He remembered some of their names, and some he didn't. But they must all be watching from heaven, watching him use the lives they had earned to make this final stand.

A sudden gust of wind swept in, and a whistling sound echoed from the cracks in the rocks. He Yuzhu looked up, as if he heard a sound from afar, a deep, muffled sound like the sound before a summer thunderstorm.

But he knew it wasn't thunder.

He stood up, walked to the tunnel entrance, and looked up. Through the narrow gap, he could see a small patch of night sky. The stars were still there, shining coldly.

Then, he saw the first shadow.

It was so fast it seemed like an illusion, gliding across the northern sky without sound or light, silently cutting through the night. Then came a second, a third… He couldn’t count them all, only seeing a black, streamlined outline, like a flock of silent night birds, flying south.

They fly so high that ground-based artillery fire can't reach them, and even the beams of searchlights can't sweep across them.

He Yuzhu stood there, his fingers gripping the rock face tightly, his fingernails filled with dirt.

coming.

He truly brought elements from another era into this war.