Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan reined in his horse and stopped behind a small earthen slope. From there, the entire track gleamed with a greyish-white light under the moonlight, like three sleeping giant pythons lying across the embrace of the Taihang Mountains.

9:45.

Lin Yifan closed his eyes, his mental energy spreading outwards like a tide. His domain was now completely empty. He spurred his horse and galloped towards the airport entrance, using his mental energy to observe the situation in the distance as he ran.

9:55.

He returned to the airport, took a deep breath, and let his consciousness sink into space.

Three hundred and seventy-two aircraft stood silently arrayed in the void of darkness, like a flock of silver eagles poised to take flight.

With a thought, he conjured a neat array of aircraft on the airport runway. Then came anti-aircraft machine guns, anti-aircraft cannons, their shells, bombs, and fuel tanks. They only stopped when all three runways and the adjacent temporary warehouses and fuel depots were completely full.

At this moment, a wave of dizziness struck. Lin Yifan quickly retrieved the spiritual spring from his spatial storage and drank a few mouthfuls. The cool liquid slid down his throat, and the familiar, warm energy rapidly spread throughout his body.

The dizziness subsided like a receding tide, and his vision returned to clarity. He breathed a sigh of relief, only then realizing that his back was soaked with cold sweat.

Under the moonlight, the three runways were densely packed with silver-gray fighter jets, their surfaces gleaming with a cold metallic sheen in the night.

The anti-aircraft gun barrels pointed diagonally towards the sky, and the oil storage tanks were neatly stacked in the oil depot area, like rows of silent behemoths. The entire airport seemed to have transformed overnight from a desolate wilderness into a heavily guarded military fortress.

Lin Yifan glanced at his watch—12:07. Slightly earlier than scheduled, but it wasn't a big deal. He walked to the center of the track, took out a lantern from his storage space, and then sat on the ammunition box to wait.

It was quickly past two in the morning when faint sounds came from afar. Lin Yifan's mental energy instantly expanded, detecting more than a dozen figures quietly sneaking in from the valley entrance. The one in the lead walked steadily, his breathing deep and even—it was Grandpa Peng.

He didn't go to meet them, but simply raised the lantern a little higher. The halo expanded, illuminating just the nose of a Type 97 fighter jet at the edge of the runway—its distinctive inverted gull wing was clearly outlined in the moonlight.

"Good! Good! Good!"

Grandpa Peng's voice came from the darkness, trembling with suppressed emotion. He strode to Lin Yifan's side, his gaze fixed on the planes, as if afraid they would disappear in the blink of an eye.

Several cadres following behind also appeared one after another, all of them staring wide-eyed, some even subconsciously pinching themselves.

"Three hundred and seventy-two..." Old Man Peng muttered to himself, reaching out to run his hand over the wing of the nearest plane. His rough palm made a slight scraping sound as it touched the smooth aluminum. "I, Peng, have fought for twenty years, and I've never seen so many iron machines."

"Uncle Peng," Lin Yifan handed over a list, "this is the detailed list. One hundred and forty-eight fighter jets, ninety-six bombers, forty-eight reconnaissance aircraft, and eighty transport planes. There are also seventy-two spare engines, various types of bombs..."

"Don't talk about that yet," Grandpa Peng suddenly interrupted him, turning to stare into Lin Yifan's eyes. "You look terrible. Were you just now...?"

"It's nothing, I just moved a lot of stuff and I'm a bit exhausted," Lin Yifan said casually. "You can have someone take inventory; I need to go check on the fuel storage over there."

Grandpa Peng gave him a deep look, then turned and instructed the cadres to organize manpower. Lin Yifan then walked towards the oil depot area, his mental energy sweeping over every corner again—the sealing of the oil tanks, the depth of the firebreaks, the clearing of the surrounding vegetation, leaving no detail unattended.

"Comrade Xiao Fan!" A young technician caught up with him, holding a notebook. "We can't understand these... these foreign characters. Is it written in Japanese or English?"

Lin Yifan took the notebook; it was a maintenance manual for a certain type of bomber. He quickly flipped through a few pages and noticed that it contained technical terminology mixed with Japanese and English. He said, "There's Japanese and English in this, but we're not in a hurry for now. The textbooks will arrive tomorrow, and someone will translate them."

The technician nodded and left.

At 3:45 a.m., the inventory was basically completed. Grandpa Peng personally checked the numbers three times before finally signing his name on the list. His handwriting was strong and vigorous, but the last stroke was slightly upturned, revealing the excitement in his heart.

"We'll go back together at five o'clock sharp."

Grandpa Peng carefully folded the list and stuffed it into his breast pocket. "Now, walk with me."

The two strolled slowly along the track. A night wind began to rise, carrying the unique chill of the Taihang Mountains, causing their clothes to flutter in the wind. In the distance, the figures of vigilant sentries were faintly visible in the moonlight, like silent sculptures.

"Xiao Fan," Grandpa Peng suddenly spoke, his voice extremely low, "that 'ghost' of yours... what are they after?"

Lin Yifan paused slightly. He had thought about this question a thousand times over.

What's the point?

He gazed at the dark sky, where a few early morning stars were faintly visible. "Perhaps... I'm looking for a different China."

"A different China..." Grandpa Peng pondered these words, then suddenly smiled, "Good! What a different China!"

He stopped, turned to face Lin Yifan, and the moonlight etched deep shadows on his weathered face: "I don't care where you come from, or who 'Ghost' is. As long as you sincerely fight the Japanese and sincerely seek a way out for us ordinary people, I, Peng, will consider you my friends."

Lin Yifan didn't speak, but nodded solemnly.

At this moment, the airport was brightly lit in the night. Soldiers carrying torches moved back and forth on the runway, dragging planes into pre-dug bunkers and temporary hangars. Grandpa Peng suddenly took out a pipe from his pocket, but did not light it; he simply held it to his nose and sniffed it.

"I've quit."

He spoke as if explaining, yet also as talking to himself, "Last year at a headquarters meeting, the boss said our base was lacking in medical supplies and medicine, and smoking was expensive. I threw away my flint and steel on the spot."

Lin Yifan looked at the young faces illuminated by the torches. Some soldiers were using ropes and logs to move the bomber behind the earthen slope. A dozen men were shouting slogans, their sweat glistening in the firelight.

"Uncle Peng," he began, "these planes cannot be deployed for combat for three months."

The pipe paused in Grandpa Peng's hand: "What do you mean?"

"Pilots, ground crew, maintenance personnel—you can't leave any of them out."

Lin Yifan pointed to a Type 97 fighter jet in the distance where its wing was being disassembled, "You see, just changing a spark plug requires a special wrench. Without a complete support system, flying up there would be suicide."

After a long silence, Grandpa Peng suddenly tucked his pipe back into his waistband: "Three months it is. I'll send a telegram to headquarters right now and ask them to send another batch of engineering students. Aren't those students from Tsinghua and Nankai who fled here waiting in Xi'an?"