Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

(Brain Storage)

(This article is from the Siheyuan Film and Television World; some content differs from reality. Please don't take it too seriously.)

(This book recently acquired the title "Changshan Zhao Zilong," and has been in and out of the "black room" seven times. The most revisions of a single chapter were eight times. The latest time, it was in the "black room" for five consecutive days. Everyone is welcome to watch.)

Please continue reading! This book is a slow burn; it only gets really good after more than 20 words.

cold.

A cold that chills you to the bone.

Zhao Ping'an was awakened by the musty, chilly air emanating from the hard bed.

He opened his eyes and saw not his two-bedroom apartment where he had lived for over ten years, but a low-ceilinged mud-brick house.

The roof beams were dark and grime-covered, and frost clung to the corners of the walls. A stench of sweat, tobacco, and cheap coal smoke assaulted the nostrils.

"Where the hell did this come from?" Zhao Ping'an's words were barely finished.

Memories, like a burst dam, surged into my mind.

Zhao Ping'an, in his early thirties, lost his parents at a young age and had just received a fairly generous compensation payment from the foreign company that was closing its factory.

Just as he was pondering whether to change his way of life or continue to lie flat, he woke up to find himself as another "Zhao Ping'an" in the twelfth lunar month of 1948.

He was a small platoon leader in a regiment of the 35th Army under Commander Fu Zuoyi—or more accurately, a newly formed regiment that had just been approved for formation and whose designation had not yet been fully established.

As a platoon leader, he had fewer than twenty soldiers under his command who could breathe and stand upright.

The rest were either lying in the next shed, groaning and moaning after being injured,

Or he'd be running a fever, staring blankly at the drafty roof, his life hanging in the balance, depending entirely on whether he could pull through.

The original owner of this body probably died quietly last night due to cold, hunger, and infection after the injury.

When he opened his eyes again, he had become Zhao Ping'an, who was nearly eighty years in the future.

"Platoon leader, you're awake?" A thin, pale-faced soldier, wrapped in a tattered single garment, approached, carrying a bowl of thin porridge so clear you could see your reflection.

With a shy yet delighted look on her face, she said, "Have something hot to drink. Today, I added an extra half handful of brown rice to the porridge."

Zhao Ping'an didn't take the bowl. His gaze swept over the mud house that served as both a platoon headquarters and a ward, and his heart felt as if it had been ripped open by the chipped edge of the broken bowl.

This was the situation of the lower-ranking officers and soldiers of the deputy commander's direct subordinate troops who were trapped in Beiping on the eve of the Pingjin Campaign in 1948.

No, perhaps this is still considered good; at least I have a place to shelter from the wind and rain—though it doesn't really provide much protection.

After all, he was a true direct descendant, and he had an older brother to protect him.

More fragments of memory surfaced: the eldest brother, Zhao Dongliang, was the former battalion commander of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Regiment, 101st Division of the 35th Army, and is now the acting commander of the "newly formed regiment".

Although it was called a regiment, its actual strength was barely enough to form a full-strength battalion, and it consisted mostly of defeated soldiers, new recruits, and wounded soldiers.

Zhao Dongliang was once Fu Zuoyi's personal bodyguard. He was loyal, reliable, and hardworking.

He followed Commander Fu in the fight against the Japanese, rising from bodyguard to company commander, and then to battalion commander.

They just suffered a defeat in a battle against our army, their troops were decimated, and they had to withdraw to reorganize and replenish their forces.

Perhaps out of nostalgia or because he still needed people, Commander Fu gave him the title of acting regimental commander and told him to "find a way" to restore the organization.

Find a solution? Food, medicine, clothing, weapons... none of these are free, and they require connections.

Although Commander Fu gave the order, the items were all under the control of the Central Army, so how could they be obtained?

Even his own younger brother had to endure illness, so one can only imagine the situation of others.

Zhao Dongliang had been running around for days, begging and pleading, and this morning he went to the headquarters in the city again.

They said they absolutely had to get some food and medicine back, otherwise their brothers wouldn't have survived on the battlefield.

They would starve to death, freeze to death, or die from festering wounds in this icy wasteland.

And the little thoughts that "he" had harbored before were now known to Zhao Ping'an without reservation.

During the previous encounter in Shijiazhuang, the predecessor had seen the opposing team's logistical support; to be precise...

The predecessor was "lucky"; a platoon of men unexpectedly caught two cooks delivering food and "reaped" a hearty meal. Otherwise, they might not have been able to escape back to the outskirts of Beiping.

As for the two cooks, Zhao Ping'an naturally released them. After all, the ranks were filled with unease, and many soldiers and even junior officers were secretly discussing their future.

"I" am not stupid; I can't bring myself to kill someone if I have no grudge against them.

After that hearty meal, he ran back to the former site outside Beiping City and began to have ideas.

They were thinking about whether they could find an opportunity to take the dozen or so men in the platoon who were still able to walk back and "surrender."

At least it's a way to make a living; maybe it can even be considered an "uprising".

Zhao Ping'an couldn't help but give his predecessor a thumbs up for his judgment; at least he wasn't a fool and could see the situation clearly.

Just then, a completely emotionless, mechanical voice suddenly rang in Zhao Ping'an's mind:

[Accommodation detected... Spacetime parameters stable... "Love in the Courtyard" world confirmed... "Cross-border Trade System" binding in progress... Binding successful.]

[Host: Zhao Ping'an]

[Permission Level: Lv.1 (0/100)]

System currency: 0

System space: 100 cubic meters (initial)

Core Function: Time-Space Trade.

The host can consume precious metals from this plane (gold, silver, etc.) to exchange for system currency at a specific ratio.

This allows users to purchase goods from the baseline timeline (2025 AD) in the system's shop.

[Currently available products: All daily necessities; some basic industrial products and low-tech military products]

[Special Note: The equipment and technology are locked for 2001 and earlier. Upgrading your privilege level will unlock them.]

[The prices in the mall are adjusted based on a combination of the base time-space price and the scarcity of resources in the host's time-space.]

[Special Note: Transporting large/heavy goods requires additional resources; the system will provide logistics solutions as needed.]

[New user guide complete. We wish you a pleasant trading experience.]

Zhao Ping'an was stunned. It took more than ten seconds for the buzzing in his head to gradually subside.

A system? A marketplace? Goods from 2025? The world of "Love in the Courtyard"?

He clenched his fist tightly, his nails digging into his palm, the real pain telling him this was not a dream.

The ecstasy lasted only a moment before being suppressed by a heavier reality and a more turbulent set of thoughts.

The original plan to "lead a dozen people to join the uprising" suddenly became laughable.

What if... what if we could get our older brother Zhao Dongliang involved?

Even a mere acting regimental commander, or a commander in name only, can still lead a relatively complete force, even if it's not at full strength.

To turn to the light at a critical moment—that weight and that merit—can never be compared to that of a mere platoon leader. And that contribution to the country—can never be compared to that of a dozen or so people.

Moreover, he remembered that his elder brother Zhao Dongliang had several sworn brothers.

They were all his close associates who started out with Commander Fu, and now they are all officials of moderate rank.

What if?

More importantly, I have a system...

Zhao Pingan narrowed his eyes.

He glanced at the bowl of watery porridge in the soldier's hand, then looked at the pale-faced, shivering soldiers inside and outside the house.

First, you need system currency.

The system wants gold, silver, and even ocean dollars.

My elder brother went to headquarters to request supplies, but the hope was slim. Waiting wouldn't get them.

They need to find their own way to get "start-up capital" and win over the hearts of the people while the tiger is away.