Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Autumn arrives suddenly and fiercely in Beijing.

For more than ten days in a row, the sky was overcast, with leaden-gray clouds hanging low over the city walls like a giant shroud. The wind blew in from the north, carrying the chill of the borderlands, swirling up fallen leaves and ashes from the streets, making them dance in the empty streets.

Martial law has been declared.

From the day of the explosion at No. 95 Nanluoguxiang, the entire city of Beijing entered a state of war. All exits from the city were manned by checkpoints, with police and militia on duty 24 hours a day, checking every vehicle and every person. Inside the city, patrols worked in three shifts, constantly traversing the streets and alleys. A curfew was imposed after 8 p.m., and apart from the patrols, not a single living person could be seen on the streets.

They checked information door-to-door, verifying household registrations, temporary residence permits, and work permits. The entire street office, neighborhood committee, and police station were mobilized for a thorough search. Abandoned factories, vacant houses, basements, air-raid shelters, and even public toilets were turned upside down.

But Chen Feng seemed to have vanished into thin air.

More than ten days have passed, and there's still no clue. The source of the ammonium nitrate was traced to several chemical plants, but all of them were stolen over a period of six months, making it impossible to pinpoint who took it. The fuse was a common industrial product on the market, and too many people buy it. Apart from the explosion debris, almost no valuable clues were left at the scene—the fire destroyed everything, even the bodies were burned beyond recognition.

The pressure on the police was immense. Superiors called three times a day to inquire about the progress. Although the media was suppressed from reporting, the news still spread among the public—an escaped prisoner had killed more than 30 people, then blew up the entire compound, killing more than 20 people, and now the entire city was searching for him but they couldn't catch him.

Various rumors began to circulate among the people. Some said that Chen Feng had already escaped the city and gone to another place; some said that he was hiding somewhere underground and had dug a tunnel; others said that he was not human at all, but a vengeful ghost who had come to earth to seek revenge.

Fear spread like a plague. People dared not go out at night and tried to move around as little as possible during the day. Neighbors distrusted each other, seeing everyone as a suspect. The entire city of Beijing was shrouded in a suffocating panic.

---

In front of the ruins of No. 95 Nanluoguxiang, dozens of coffins are lined up densely, like a black forest of tombstones.

The coffins were all thin-skinned, the cheapest kind. Some weren't even painted, just the raw wood color, and you could see the gaps between the rough planks. There was no other way; so many people died at once, the neighborhood committee had no money, and the families had even less, so they had to make do with what they had.

The coffin lids were all open, and the contents inside were all different.

In some coffins, one could barely make out a complete corpse—though charred black and missing limbs, at least a general human shape remained. Family members knelt before the coffin, burning paper money, wailing, and could still call out names to the charred remains.

In some coffins, there were only a few larger pieces of bone, pieced together to form a human shape. The skull was burned and cracked, the sternum was broken into pieces, and the bones of the limbs were scattered at the bottom of the coffin, like a pile of firewood. The family members couldn't even cry; they just stared blankly, their eyes empty.

In some coffins, there was only a small pile of ashes and broken bones—those were from families where large pieces of remains couldn't be found; the fire department had dug them out from deep within the rubble, mixed with mud, ashes, and brick fragments, making it impossible to distinguish one piece from another. The neighborhood committee could only symbolically fill the coffins, as a token gesture to the families.

The scene was in chaos.

The cries rose and fell, some wailing, some sobbing softly, some crying until they fainted and had to be carried away. Ashes from burning paper money danced in the wind, landing on coffins, on heads, and in the ashes of the ruins. The smell of incense mingled with the stench of burning and corpses, creating a nauseatingly complex odor.

The staff at the neighborhood office were swamped with work. Zhao Jianguo, dressed in a blue work uniform with a white flower pinned to his chest, walked through the crowd, his face pale, dealing with various issues.

"Director Zhao, our old Li's coffin is too small; it won't fit his bones..."

"Director Zhao, are there any mistakes with these ashes? My husband, Lao Wang, is lame; his leg bone is clearly fine..."

"Director Zhao, when will the compensation be paid? My child needs the money to go to school..."

Zhao Jianguo answered mechanically, his voice hoarse: "We can change the coffin if it's too small, we'll double-check the ashes issue, and the compensation will be distributed next Monday..."

But his gaze was unfocused. He stood there, looking at the coffins and the wailing people, but his mind was elsewhere.

In the ten days or so since the explosion, he has barely slept a full night. Every night when he closes his eyes, he sees the image of his wife, Wang Yulan, dead—her throat slit, blood staining half the living room. Then the scene shifts to the ruins, to the charred corpses.

Chen Feng... it was all done by Chen Feng.

He hated. He hated so much he gritted his teeth, his heart bled. But he was even more afraid.

He killed Old Sun, he forged the "Chen" character at the scene, and he spread the news that Chen Xiaoyu was by the moat—all of this was to lure Chen Feng out so he could avenge his wife.

But now, Chen Feng hasn't been caught, the courtyard house has been blown up, and more than twenty people have died.

Although the police are currently blaming Chen Feng for everything, Zhao Jianguo knows in his heart that if he hadn't set a trap to provoke Chen Feng, such a devastating explosion might not have happened.

He was an indirect murderer.

This thought gnawed at his heart like a venomous snake, day and night.

"Director Zhao," a middle-aged woman grabbed his arm, her eyes swollen like peaches, "it's just me and my child left in our family, how...how are we going to survive..."

Looking at that heartbroken face, Zhao Jianguo's throat tightened. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he couldn't utter a single word.

How to survive? He didn't know either.

This blood feud is so deep that it's impossible to tell who owes whom. An endless cycle of revenge has dragged everyone in; no one can escape unscathed.

He broke free from the woman's hand and walked to the edge of the ruins.

More than ten days have passed since the explosion, but the scene remains a horrific sight. The entire courtyard has been razed to the ground, leaving only a few sections of charred ruins. The ground is riddled with craters, some three or four meters in diameter and waist-deep, filled with sewage from the previous days' rain, with a layer of oil and ash floating on the surface.

Some things that haven't been cleaned up can still be seen in the ruins: a deformed iron pot, a shattered enamel mug, half a charred quilt, and a child's shoe with the upper burned away, leaving only the rubber sole.

Zhao Jianguo squatted down and picked up the shoe. It was very small, probably worn by a five- or six-year-old child. He remembered a child in the yard named Xiaojun, five years old, whose parents had died and who lived with his grandmother. On the day of the explosion, both his grandmother and Xiaojun were inside the house.

Now, the owner of this shoe should be lying in a coffin, or... there isn't even a coffin, just a handful of ashes.

Zhao Jianguo's hands were trembling. He put down his shoes, stood up, and took a deep breath.

The nauseating smell still lingered in the air.

"Director Zhao," a young staff member from the subdistrict office ran over, "Deputy District Chief Liu is here, looking for you."

Zhao Jianguo composed himself and followed the clerk to the alley entrance. A jeep was parked there, and Deputy District Chief Liu stood beside it, his face grave.

"Old Zhao," Deputy District Chief Liu patted him on the shoulder, "You've worked hard."

Zhao Jianguo smiled wryly: "It's only right."

"Have the casualty statistics been released yet?"

"Preliminary statistics show that 23 people are dead and 5 are seriously injured—the seriously injured are in the hospital and are estimated to have no more than a few days to live. Two people are missing and may be buried deep in the rubble, not yet dug out."

Deputy District Chief Liu remained silent for a moment, then sighed, "It's terrible. In all these years since liberation, Beijing has never seen such a heinous case."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "Old Zhao, the pressure from above is immense. Chen Feng must be caught, alive or dead. Your street office must fully cooperate with the police; report any leads immediately."

"clear."

"Furthermore," Deputy District Chief Liu glanced at the coffins and wailing crowd in the distance, "the funeral arrangements need to be completed as soon as possible. Having so many coffins here is creating a very bad impression. A unified funeral procession will be held tomorrow, with the body buried in a cemetery outside the city. The district will cover part of the costs, the subdistrict office will cover part, and the families will bear the remaining portion."

"Okay, I'll arrange it right away."

Deputy District Chief Liu gave a few more instructions, got into his car, and drove off. Zhao Jianguo stood there, watching the jeep disappear into the alleyway, feeling a deep emptiness in his heart.

The funeral is tomorrow. Once he's buried, is that the end of it?

Those who died, those broken families, those unresolved hatreds... can they really be buried in the ground and be done with it?

he does not know.

---

In an abandoned warehouse in the east of the city, Chen Feng sat on a broken sofa, reading a newspaper by the dim light of a kerosene lamp.

The newspaper was delivered by Skinny Monkey this morning; it was the *Sijiucheng Daily* from three days ago. The front page headline was a report on the bombing; although the wording was cautious, the seriousness of the incident was still evident between the lines.

"...A massive explosion occurred at No. 95 Nanluoguxiang, causing significant casualties. The police are making every effort to track down the perpetrator..."

Chen Feng turned to the second page of the newspaper, where there was a commentary titled "On the Rule of Law and Social Stability." The article condemned acts of violent revenge and called on the public to trust the government and the law.

He finished reading it and threw the newspaper aside.

Legal system? Law?

Where was the law when he was falsely accused of indecent assault? Where was the law when his parents were burned to death? Where was the law when Xiaoyu went missing?

Now that he has killed someone and blown up the yard, the law has come into play.

hypocritical.

Chen Feng stood up and walked to the warehouse window—the window was boarded up, leaving only a few gaps. He looked out through the gaps and saw a desolate factory area, overgrown with weeds and deserted.

It's safe here. It's been over ten days, and the police haven't found this place yet. Skinny Monkey brings food and water every two days, along with news from the outside world.

The bombing shocked the entire city, and the police launched a full-scale manhunt, but to no avail. The black market temporarily shut down; the atmosphere was too tense, and no one dared to make any deals. Rumors spread like wildfire; some said Chen Feng had already escaped the city, while others said he was hiding somewhere underground.

A cold smile tugged at the corner of Chen Feng's lips. Escape? He hadn't even found Xiaoyu yet, how could he escape?

The wound on my right shoulder has almost healed; the scab has fallen off, leaving a pink scar. The knife wound on my back has also healed, leaving only two faint marks.

But he still hadn't found his sister, and he was still on the run; the road ahead remained shrouded in darkness.

Moreover, there is still one person whose problem remains unsolved—Zhao Jianguo.

The person who plotted against him, Director Wang's husband, is currently the acting director of the neighborhood committee. This person knows too much and hates him to the core; he will be a threat sooner or later.

Chen Feng walked back to the sofa and took out a piece of paper from his pocket—it was brought by Skinny Monkey yesterday, and it contained Zhao Jianguo's whereabouts.

Zhao Jianguo, 45 years old, acting director of the subdistrict office. He lives in Unit 2, Building 3, Chengxi Workers' New Village. He leaves for work at 7:00 AM every morning and returns home at 6:00 PM. He eats lunch at the subdistrict office canteen. His wife, Wang Yulan, was murdered by Chen Feng two months ago; they have no children.

His movements were very regular, like a typical cadre.

But Chen Feng knew this man was no ordinary person. He was meticulous and ruthless in his planning to kill Old Sun and frame him, and in spreading false information to lure him to the moat.

Such people should not be allowed to live.

Chen Feng folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. He was thinking about when and how to make his move.

Going directly to their homes? That's too risky. The workers' village is crowded and full of suspicious people; it would be easy to be spotted.

On my way to work? There are quite a few people near the neighborhood office.

The best way is to create an accident. Like a car crash, a fire, or...

Just as Chen Feng was thinking, there was a knock on the door.

"Three long and two short" is the skinny monkey's code.

Chen Feng walked to the door and peeked through the crack. It was indeed Skinny Monkey, alone, carrying a cloth bag.

He opened the door, and the skinny monkey slipped in and quickly closed the door.

"Big Steel," Skinny Monkey said in a low voice, "the situation outside is getting tighter. The police started their second round of thorough searches today, even turning over dog kennels in the shantytowns."

Chen Feng nodded: "Is it safe here?"

"It's safe for now," Skinny Monkey said. "This factory area is too big, with hundreds of abandoned warehouses. The police can't investigate it all in a short time. But we can't be careless. I suggest we go somewhere else."

"Is there a safer place?"

Skinny Monkey thought for a moment: "There is one, but the conditions are worse. It's in the north of the city. It used to be an air-raid shelter, but it was abandoned. The place is secluded, but it's damp and cold, so you can't live there for long."

Air raid shelter… Chen Feng pondered. Such places were indeed secluded, but the environment was too harsh for recuperating.

"Don't change it yet," he decided. "The police won't be able to find this place. Don't come here recently, and reduce contact."

"Understood," the skinny monkey put down the cloth bag on his shoulder. "This contains three days' worth of food and water, and today's newspaper."

Chen Feng looked at the cloth bag; inside were steamed buns, pickled vegetables, a pot of water, and today's newspaper.

"What other news is there outside?" he asked.

"The funeral procession will be held tomorrow at the courtyard house," said Skinny Monkey. "Dozens of coffins will be taken to a cemetery outside the city for burial. It's organized by the neighborhood committee, and the district also sent people to participate."

The funeral is tomorrow… Chen Feng’s heart skipped a beat. This is an opportunity.

During a funeral procession, there are many people and it's chaotic, making it an easy opportunity to commit a crime. Moreover, Zhao Jianguo, as the acting director of the subdistrict office, will definitely be present.

If they create chaos at the funeral, kill Zhao Jianguo in the confusion, and then escape amidst the chaos...

This idea made Chen Feng's eyes light up.

"Do you know the exact time?" he asked.

"At nine o'clock in the morning, we set off from Nanluoguxiang, exited the city through Chaoyangmen, and were buried in the East Suburb Cemetery," said Skinny Monkey. "I heard that district leaders also went, and the police will maintain order."

Chen Feng quickly calculated in his mind. It would take about forty minutes to walk from the warehouse in the east of the city to Nanluoguxiang. The funeral procession would be slow; it would take at least an hour to get out of the city. He had plenty of time to get there, and then…

"Skinny Monkey," he looked up, "come pick me up at seven tomorrow morning. Take me to the vicinity of Nanluoguxiang, and then you don't need to worry about me anymore."

Skinny Monkey was taken aback: "Big Steel, you want to...?"

"Let's go see what's going on!" Chen Feng's voice was calm.

The skinny monkey looked into Chen Feng's eyes, which were devoid of any emotion, as cold as two deep wells. He shivered and dared not ask any more questions.

"Okay, I'll be there at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."

"Also," Chen Feng pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket, about a hundred yuan, "get me a gun, a small one, easy to hide. Bring it with me tomorrow."

The skinny monkey took the money, nodded, and didn't ask what it was for.

After explaining all that, Skinny Monkey left. Chen Feng was left alone in the warehouse again.

He walked to the window and peered through the crack at the darkening sky outside.

The funeral will be held tomorrow.

He will go to see those "old neighbors" off on their final journey. And while he's at it, he'll also take care of any remaining potential problems.

Zhao Jianguo must die.

This person is too smart and too dangerous. Keeping him around will only lead to trouble sooner or later.

Zhao Jianguo was killed.

Then he can focus on finding Xiaoyu.

at all costs.

Chen Feng returned to the sofa and began inspecting the weapons. The Type 54 pistol was spotless, and the magazine was full. The dagger was razor-sharp, gleaming coldly under the kerosene lamp.

He then took out a cloth bag from under the sofa, inside which were the things he had found from Wang Ba Lian—besides money and a seal, there were a few small items: a switchblade, a steel wire rope, and a packet of sleeping pills.

The drug was a white powder wrapped in paper with the words "Three Steps to Death" written on it. It was something that circulated on the black market and was said to be able to make someone fall unconscious very quickly.

Chen Feng tucked the sleeping pill into his pocket. He might need it tomorrow.

After preparing all this, he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

I need to rest and recharge. Tomorrow will be a tough battle.

Outside, the wind was getting stronger.

Tomorrow will be a bloody farewell.

---

Early in the morning, the sky was overcast, as if it were about to rain.

Over a hundred people had gathered in front of the ruins of No. 95 Nanluoguxiang. Dozens of coffins were lined up side by side, each with family members standing in front of it, dressed in mourning clothes and weeping. People from the neighborhood committee were busy arranging for coffin bearers and maintaining order.

Zhao Jianguo, dressed in a black Zhongshan suit with a white flower pinned to his chest, stood at the front of the crowd. His face was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot; he hadn't slept well again last night.

Deputy District Chief Liu also arrived, along with several other district leaders, all dressed in dark clothing with solemn expressions. A dozen or so police officers were present, maintaining order and vigilantly scanning the crowd.

The atmosphere was so oppressive that it was hard to breathe.

The sounds of weeping, the smoke from burning paper money, the smell of incense and candles, and the acrid odor of ruins mingled together, creating an eerie funeral atmosphere.

"The time has come," an old funeral worker said to Zhao Jianguo, glancing at his pocket watch.

Zhao Jianguo nodded, walked to the front, picked up a tin megaphone: "Fellow family members, leaders, neighbors... Today, we are here to bid farewell to the victims of the tragedy at No. 95 Nanluoguxiang..."

His voice, dry and hoarse, came through the loudspeaker and drifted through the morning air.

The crowd quieted down, with only a few scattered sobs.

Zhao Jianguo read the eulogy, the official, formulaic language leaving him clueless about what he was saying. He just read it mechanically, his eyes fixed on the coffins and the grieving faces.

He suddenly stopped halfway through reading.

Behind the crowd, at the entrance of the alley, he saw a person.

The man was wearing a tattered gray cotton-padded coat and a worn-out hat, the brim pulled low so his face was obscured. But Zhao Jianguo felt that the man was looking at him.

No, it wasn't looking, it was staring.

That gaze, cold and sharp like a knife, still sent chills down his spine even from dozens of meters away.

Chen Feng?

Zhao Jianguo's heart skipped a beat. But when he looked more closely, the person had already turned around and disappeared into the alley.

Is it just my imagination? Or...?

Zhao Jianguo forced himself to calm down and continued reading the eulogy. But his voice began to tremble, and his hands shook as well.

The eulogy was finally finished. The old funeral worker shouted, "Lift the coffin—"

The men carrying the coffin came over, two to a coffin, and tied ropes to it. A shout rang out, and the coffin was slowly lifted, swaying precariously.

The funeral procession began to move. In front were the soul-guiding banners and paper figures and horses, followed by the coffin, with family members following behind, and then leaders and other people seeing them off.

The queue was very long, like a black river, slowly flowing through Nanluoguxiang and moving towards Chaoyangmen.

The cries were deafening. The family members, supporting the coffin, wept uncontrollably. The crowds lining both sides of the road also wore solemn expressions and whispered among themselves.

"It's terrible, so many people died at once..."

"I heard the killer hasn't been caught yet..."

"What a terrible thing to do..."

Zhao Jianguo walked in the middle of the group, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. He was looking for that person, the one who had been watching him from the alley entrance.

But there were too many people and it was too chaotic; it was impossible to find anything.

The procession exited Chaoyang Gate and onto the road leading to the East Suburb Cemetery. The road was narrow, flanked by farmland and scattered graves. The fields were desolate in late autumn, with withered grass trembling in the wind.

Halfway there, it started to rain. Fine raindrops fell, hitting our faces with a cool sensation.

A commotion arose in the procession. Some people took out umbrellas, others covered their heads with their clothes, but the coffin couldn't get wet, so the pallbearers quickened their pace.

Zhao Jianguo hadn't brought an umbrella, and the rain quickly soaked his hair and clothes. He wiped the rain off his face and suddenly saw that person again.

Not far ahead, under an old locust tree by the roadside, the man stood there, leaning against the tree, as if taking shelter from the rain. His hat brim was pulled low, but Zhao Jianguo could sense that the man was watching him.

This time it wasn't an illusion.

Zhao Jianguo's heart began to race. He slowed his pace, falling behind the group, and quietly reached for his waist—where a gun was tucked, which he had bought on the black market and always carried with him.

The man moved too. He stepped out from under the tree, blended into the funeral procession, and slowly approached Zhao Jianguo.

The distance is getting closer and closer. Twenty meters, fifteen meters, ten meters...

Zhao Jianguo gripped the gun handle. He stopped, turned around, and faced the man.

The rain was pouring down harder and harder, and through the rain, their eyes met.

Chen Feng.

Although the brim of the hat covered most of his face, Zhao Jianguo recognized him. Those eyes were cold and filled with hatred; they were the same eyes that had appeared countless times in his dreams.

Zhao Jianguo drew his gun.

But Chen Feng was faster. He lunged forward, reaching Zhao Jianguo before he could fire. With one hand covering Zhao Jianguo's mouth, he plunged the dagger into Zhao Jianguo's stomach with the other.

"Uh..." Zhao Jianguo's muffled groan was muffled by a hand covering his mouth. He stared at Chen Feng, his eyes filled with shock and fear.

Chen Feng leaned close to his ear, his voice low and cold: "Director Wang's husband? Trying to frame me? In your next life."

The dagger churned inside Zhao Jianguo's stomach, and his body went limp. Chen Feng supported him, gently laying him down on the ground and using his body to shield him from view.

The whole process took less than five seconds. The sound of rain masked everything, and the funeral procession continued on its way; no one noticed what was happening behind them.

Chen Feng pulled the dagger from Zhao Jianguo and wiped the blood on his clothes. Then he quickly took the gun from Zhao Jianguo's waist and stuffed it into his own pocket.

He stood up, glanced at Zhao Jianguo, who was already dead on the ground, turned around, and quickly left.

The rain intensified, quickly washing away the bloodstains on the ground.

The funeral procession was still moving slowly, the sounds of weeping and rain blending together.

Zhao Jianguo's body lay by the roadside, his eyes wide open, staring at the gray sky.

The rain pelted his face, streaming down like tears.

Another enemy is dead.

But is this bloody revenge truly over?

Chen Feng's figure disappeared into the rain.

The sky over Beijing remained overcast, as if it would never clear up.