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

As dawn broke, a cold wind blew, carrying a strong, acrid smell. The odor was a mixture of burning rubber, wood, and some other indescribable substances.

He Yuzhu squatted on the reverse slope of Hill 597.9, his left hand bracing against the uneven ground, his right hand pulling down his water bottle. As he tilted his head back to drink, the warm liquid slid down his throat, carrying the metallic taste of blood. The bandage on his arm had long been soaked through and turned dark red. The medic offered to change it for him, but he waved his hand and refused—there was no time.

He looked down from the high ground.

The northern slope of Jixiong Mountain is no longer what it once was. Trees have vanished, rocks are charred and cracked, and wisps of smoke rise from the ground. The wreckage of fourteen tanks is scattered everywhere, their turrets twisted and deformed, their tracks coiled like broken snakes. Further away, at the American artillery position, the barrels of 155mm howitzers are twisted at bizarre angles, and one of the gun wheels lies on the edge of a shell crater thirty meters away.

As for people—

He Yuzhu shifted his gaze, his eyes returning to his own position. The soldiers were reinforcing their fortifications, their movements swift and orderly.

Battalion Commander Liu, the big guy, scurried over, his face a mixture of cigarette ash and sweat: "Regimental Commander, the count is complete. Of the original reinforced company of defenders, thirty-seven men survived, most of them disoriented and unable to even hold their weapons properly."

"Our casualties?"

"Seven dead and twenty-three wounded," Liu the Big Guy wiped his face. "Most of them were wounded by stray bullets during the charge. The enemy's resistance was chaotic, and their shooting was completely disorganized."

He Yuzhu nodded silently and stood up to walk towards the main peak. The soil beneath his feet was scorched to an ash-like texture by the high temperature, and he sank slightly with each step. Several soldiers were dragging a damaged M1919 heavy machine gun, and they stopped when they saw him.

"Commander." The voice was young and innocent.

He Yuzhu turned his head and recognized Xiao Shuan, the youngest soldier in the regiment, who had just turned seventeen. Last night, during the charge, this boy followed behind him, his legs trembling but he did not retreat a single step.

"Are you scared?" He Yuzhu asked.

Wang Xiaoshuan nodded first, then quickly shook his head: "I'm scared... but seeing the way those American soldiers look, I think they're even more scared."

Following his gaze, a dozen or so prisoners huddled in the corner of the trench. Their uniforms were burned through, and their eyes were vacant and unfocused. A tall, thin soldier trembled uncontrollably, his lips moving incessantly.

"What is he saying?" He Yuzhu asked the instructor next to him who understood English.

The instructor listened intently, his expression growing increasingly grim: "He's repeating 'the devil,' 'the fires of hell'... and he's even saying the Soviets dropped atomic bombs."

He Yuzhu remained calm. War is a life-or-death struggle, and any means that can instill fear in the enemy and minimize the bloodshed of comrades are acceptable choices on the battlefield. He turned to face the soldiers on the position, his voice steady: "Did you all hear that? The enemy is afraid; that's the effect we wanted."

At this moment, Xiao Zhao, the regimental communications officer, climbed up the position, panting heavily, clutching two pieces of telegram paper tightly in his hand: "Regimental Commander, urgent telegram from Division Headquarters!"

The first note was handwritten by Division Commander Song, consisting of only two lines: "The results of the battle are known. Your unit shall hold its ground and transition to defense. Do not advance rashly."

The second document, from the division chief of staff, was written in illegible handwriting: "Regimental Commander He: Higher command urgently needs detailed intelligence on last night's 'special celestial phenomena.' Were unidentified flying objects observed? Was there any contact with the Soviets? Report immediately!"

He Yuzhu folded the telegram neatly and stuffed it into his pocket. He had anticipated this inquiry—such unconventional sabotage on that scale would inevitably draw questions from his superiors.

"Report back to the division headquarters," he said to Xiao Zhao. "Our unit is consolidating its positions, and we are compiling detailed battle reports and observation records. We will submit them within two hours."

"And what about the Soviet Union..."

"Reply: Unaware, no contact, no sighting of any flying objects." He Yuzhu's tone was firm. "Just say it's an unusual weather phenomenon, caused by a thunderstorm."

Xiao Zhao nodded vigorously, then turned and ran down the hillside.

He Yuzhu turned eastward. The sky was turning a pale white, the clouds tinged with dark red, like blood seeping into cotton. Looking towards Yuanshan Port, several black plumes of smoke rose straight up, slowly dissipating in the morning breeze.

He knew what it was.

One can imagine what Tokyo looks like now.

He straightened his back and wiped his face with his palm. On the battlefield, victory is the greatest justice. The fallen comrades and the homes destroyed by artillery fire reminded him that mercy towards the enemy is cruelty towards the people.

"Commander?" Wu Dayong appeared beside him at some point, handing him an enamel mug. "This is some porridge the cooks just made, keep it hot."

He Yuzhu took the jar, feeling the heat in his palm. He sipped it slowly; the cornmeal paste was thin as water, yet warm and comforting.

"Old Wu," he suddenly said.

"Um?"

"Do you think we've won this time?"

Wu Dayong squatted down, took out a half-smoked cigarette, lit it with the still-smoking sawdust, and took a deep drag: "The position has been retaken, the American troops have retreated, what else is this if not a victory?"

He Yuzhu nodded, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers who were cleaning up the battlefield: "I'm just wondering if this kind of victory will become the norm in the future."

Wu Dayong remained silent for a long time, the cigarette butt flickering between his fingers.

"Commander, I understand what you mean." His voice was low. "But that's how war is—it's a matter of life and death. When the American army used napalm and heavy artillery to plow the ground, they didn't think about what was normal or abnormal. It's a good thing that we have the means to defeat the enemy."

He stubbed out his cigarette on the scorched earth: "Defending our homeland is a matter of course. As long as we can hold our ground and let more comrades go home alive, no means are too much."

He Yuzhu did not answer, but his eyes became even more determined. He finished the last mouthful of the porridge, handed back the jar, and stood up.

Down the hillside, troops were clearing the battlefield. Soldiers collected usable weapons, evacuated the wounded, and laid fallen comrades on level ground, covering them with captured American blankets. In the distance, sporadic gunfire gradually subsided, marking the end of the mopping-up operation against the remaining enemy forces.

Everything was in perfect order, just like a regular victory.

Only the scorched earth, the twisted metal, and the prisoners' empty eyes silently testified to the unusual events of the previous night.

"Reporting, Commander!" The reconnaissance company commander rushed in from the south, his face beaming with excitement. "The forward reconnaissance team reports: the enemy is retreating across the entire front! The second echelon in the Kimhwa direction is turning around, seemingly in a rout!"

He Yuzhu narrowed his eyes.

This was expected. With the command system paralyzed, logistics cut off, and the front lines collapsing, retreat was the only option.

But he knew this was only the beginning.

The U.S. military, having suffered such a heavy blow, will not let this go unpunished. Investigation, retaliation, exhausting all means to uncover the mystery of last night—and he and his regiment stand at the eye of the storm.

"Pass on the order." He Yuzhu's voice carried on the wind, steady and powerful. "Consolidate the existing positions, repair fortifications, and set up guard posts. Inform everyone: the battle is not over yet; be prepared to repel any enemy counterattack at any time."

He paused, then added, "Arrange for shifts and rest, and let the comrades have a hot meal. We... also need to catch our breath."

Wu Dayong accepted the order and left.

He Yuzhu walked alone to the front line of the position and sat down on the edge of a shell crater. From here, one could overlook the entire battle line: the scorched earth and lingering smoke had not yet dissipated, and in the distance, the dust raised by the retreating American troops rolled like a tide.

He stretched out his palm; in the morning light, the spaces between his fingers were studded with indelible gunpowder and bloodstains. Yet the lines on his palm remained clear, stretching out like the latitude and longitude of a map.

The system is still under maintenance, with just over six days left in the countdown. Those 40 million points are frozen and unusable. But at least the position was held, and most of the brothers survived.

This is victory, a pure and unquestionable victory.

Thinking this, he pulled the worn-out amulet from his pocket. His mother's face flashed through his mind—the woman who always waited for her son's return at the village entrance; she didn't understand strategy or tactics, she just wanted to know if her son could come home safely.

"Yes, it will," He Yuzhu murmured to himself, clutching the amulet tightly. "I'll make sure everyone gets home."

The rising sun finally leaped over the eastern ridgeline, casting its light upon this land that had endured destruction and rebirth. In the morning light, the soldiers' shadows were stretched long as they moved across the scorched earth, repairing fortifications and inspecting weapons; every movement exuded a composure born of bloodshed and fire.

A new day has begun.

He Yuzhu stood up, dusted off his uniform, and walked towards the soldiers who were reinforcing the machine gun emplacements. His steps were firm, and his back cast a long shadow in the rising sun, like a new landmark on this high ground—a guardian, a victor, a commander who would surely lead more people home alive.

In the distance, the dust from the retreating American troops was still rising, but He Yuzhu knew it was just a brief calm before the next storm. And he was ready.