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

When He Yuzhu read that internal report in Reference News, three days had passed since the bombing.

The paper was rough mimeograph paper, and the writing was blurred into ink blots in some places, requiring close inspection to decipher. The regimental radio station received daily summaries forwarded from the division headquarters; the content was only a few paragraphs, yet it sent a chill down his spine—a chill that crept up his spine, condensed in his chest, and weighed heavily on him. His fingers, gripping the paper, tightened unconsciously, the edges stained dark with sweat.

The first report comes from Reuters: "Unidentified supersonic flight formation spotted in the Far East, suspected to be a new type of bomber with performance far exceeding existing aviation technology."

The second Associated Press report was even more direct: "Washington urgently questioned China and the Soviet Union, demanding an explanation for the 'ghost aircraft' incident over North Korea. The Pentagon stated internally that the aircraft's appearance did not match any known model."

The third TASS response was brief: "The Soviet Foreign Ministry's statement had nothing to do with the so-called 'unidentified flying object' and urged relevant parties to stop spreading misinformation."

He Yuzhu folded the paper into thirds and tucked it into the map's compartment. He paused only after completing the action—this subconscious, hidden movement itself seemed like an admission of something. It was raining again outside, raindrops pattering on the camouflage netting on the tunnel ceiling, the sound a continuous, oppressive thud. He closed his eyes, and the system interface from that night reappeared in the darkness: a ghostly blue light, options so simple they were almost cold, and the icy touch of his fingertips as he pressed the confirm button. It wasn't the adrenaline rush of a soldier pulling the trigger, but rather a detached, almost sacred judgment.

Wu Dayong came in carrying a lunchbox and saw him staring blankly at the map tube, so he put the aluminum lunchbox on the wooden table.

"Eat. The cooks managed to get some canned meat, but they mixed it all into the porridge."

He Yuzhu took the lunchbox but didn't touch the spoon. The warmth from the aluminum reminded him of the faint heat emanating from the system's control panel when it was running. "Old Wu, haven't we made things too big?"

"Big?" Wu Dayong squatted on the ammunition box opposite him, took out his pipe, and slowly filled it with tobacco. "Can it be bigger than the Americans pouring incendiary bombs on our position? Battalion Commander, don't overthink it. If we win, we win."

"It's not about winning or losing." He Yuzhu stirred the paste with a spoon, watching the small pieces of meat roll in the brownish-black viscous liquid, like scattered remnants on a battlefield. "It's... this way of winning isn't right. It shouldn't be like this."

Wu Dayong didn't reply, but struck a match to light his cigarette. The orange light flashed for a moment in the dimness, highlighting the deep lines at the corners of his eyes. Only the faint crackling of the burning cigarette and the sound of rain outside remained in the tunnel.

After a long while, he exhaled a puff of smoke: "The Third Battalion found something while cleaning up the battlefield yesterday."

He Yuzhu looked up.

"An American soldier's diary." Wu Dayong lowered his voice. "There was a kid who knew a little English who flipped through a few pages. Inside, he wrote that he saw 'black demons emerging from the clouds' that night, 'God has abandoned us,' and also said... 'This is not war at all, it's massacre.'"

He tapped his pipe against the edge of the ammunition box, ash falling in a flurry. "Commander, our men have been thinking the same way for the past two years. The difference is, we were the ones being slaughtered. Now that the executioner's blade has suddenly turned around, you feel something's wrong?"

He Yuzhu remained silent. The steam in the lunchbox gradually dissipated, and a film condensed on the surface of the porridge. He stared at that film, recalling the scorched, vitreous surface of the hillside after the bombing—an effect no conventional weapon could achieve. It was an item in the system's catalog, priced at 24 million points, named "Area Tactical Annihilation." He pressed confirm, and then the world changed.

"The battle has come to this point," Wu Dayong stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers, "there's nothing wrong with that anymore. Being alive, being able to push the front line back, and being able to reduce the number of casualties reported to the rear—that's the greatest satisfaction."

He walked to the tunnel entrance and then turned back: "Eat your food while it's hot. I'm going to check on the reverse slope fortifications again."

Silence returned to the tunnel. He Yuzhu stared at the cold, gooey liquid, suddenly feeling nauseous. He forced himself to pick up a spoon and put it in his mouth. It tasted like cardboard. He chewed and swallowed, as if swallowing some kind of incriminating evidence. As his Adam's apple bobbed, the system's cold notification seemed to echo in his ears again: [Strike complete. Points balance: 1627 million. System maintenance countdown: 4 days, 3 hours, and 17 minutes.]

He shivered.

At the same time, in Washington, D.C., at the Pentagon.

Defense Secretary Charles Wilson slammed a stack of photographs onto the conference table. The papers slid off and scattered everywhere—images taken by high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft, blurry but recognizable: entire hillsides charred and vitrified, metal debris twisted into bizarre shapes, like tin toys crushed by children.

"Gentlemen," Wilson said in a low voice, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "can anyone tell me what this is?"

No one answered. Air Force Chief of Staff Hoyt Vandenberg stared at the photographs, his face pale. He picked one up, his fingers trembling slightly: "This turning radius...this thermal profile...this violates all known principles of aerodynamics. If this is an aircraft, then our B-52 designs should be thrown in the trash."

CIA agent Allen Dulles huddled in a corner, his knuckles turning blue as he gripped the folder: "The Soviet denials were thorough. They even turned around and questioned us about whether we were testing 'new, inhumane weapons' and demanded that international observers enter the Guam base."

"And what was the Chinese response?" Wilson asked, turning to Secretary of State John Dulles.

John Dulles pulled out a copy of a telegram and read it very slowly, as if weighing each word carefully: "Zhou Enlai said: 'The Chinese People's Volunteer Army relies on its bravery, tenacity, and correct tactics. We will not comment on the so-called mysterious air force, but we firmly oppose any country using nuclear weapons or engaging in nuclear blackmail in Korea.'"

"What is he implying?" Wilson sneered. "Is he implying that it was an accident during one of our nuclear tests?"

“He’s muddying the waters.” John Dulles took off his glasses and rubbed the deep indentations on his nose. “But the problem is, we really don’t know what it is. If it’s a new Soviet weapon, it means they’ve achieved a groundbreaking lead in aviation technology—twenty years, or even more. If it’s something the Chinese themselves…”

He didn't continue. The temperature in the conference room seemed to drop suddenly.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Omar Bradley's voice was hoarse: "The situation at the front is terrible. Brigadier General Hammer is missing and most likely killed in action. The Ninth Corps has lost 40% of its heavy equipment and two main regiments have been decimated. Morale has completely collapsed, and many refuse to return to the front, saying it's 'fire from heaven' and going back is just suicide. The chaplain reports that the prayer rooms are packed every night."