Courtyard House: Home Alone

He sat cross-legged on the straw, his mental energy surging out like a tide, penetrating the wooden structure of the ship and bringing the entire "Jiang'an" into his perception range—the captain's cabin was on the second deck, and McDonald was staring blankly at the photo.

Inside the engine room, four Chinese sailors were playing cards; deep in the cargo hold, besides tung oil barrels, there were several wooden crates covered with waterproof tarpaulins, and inside the crates were... opium.

He withdrew his mental energy, not delving deeper. Who among those who sailed this route didn't have multiple identities? The important thing was that this ship could take him to Chongqing, to his parents.

The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered gently, casting eerie shadows on the bulkhead. Lin Yifan took out the cotton-padded jacket that the deputy commander's wife had altered from his spatial storage and put it on. The rough fabric, carrying the fresh scent of soap, reminded him of a morning in the Taihang Mountains and the figure of Grandpa Peng standing in the morning mist.

He took out the four seals from his hidden pocket and examined them closely under the lamp. The instructor's seal was for an ox, the teacher's for a pine tree, and the other two were for a commander's for a tiger and Uncle Peng's for an eagle.

Four seals, four distinct styles, lay quietly in his palm, like four seeds waiting to sprout.

A long, mournful whistle wailed from outside the cabin. Lin Yifan put the seal back into his spatial storage and blew out the kerosene lamp.

In the darkness, he closed his eyes, but his mental energy became increasingly active, like countless tentacles probing into the turbid currents of the Yangtze River—a school of fish swam by underwater, the water plants attached to the bottom of the boat swayed gently, and on the island in the middle of the river further away, a night heron was hunting.

The midnight bell tolled from the Hankou Customs House, its sound muffled and distant. The engines of the "Jiang'an" roared, the hull trembled slightly, and it began to slowly move away from the shore.

The Jiang'an drifted downstream in the darkness, like a blunt knife, slowly but steadily slicing open the belly of the Yangtze River. Lin Yifan lay down on the straw, pulled his cotton-padded coat tighter, and listened to the sound of the ship's hull rubbing against the waves, gradually sinking into a half-dreaming, half-awake state.

Deep within his consciousness, everything in the space was perfectly orderly: weapons, gold, medicine, food, and the poultry and livestock he raised.

What's the point?

Grandpa Peng's voice echoed in my memory.

Lin Yifan smiled in the darkness. This was a question he might spend a lifetime answering. But at this moment, amidst the roar of the Yangtze River, in the night air as he sailed towards Chongqing, the answer seemed simpler—

The image depicts a child whose mother doesn't have to give birth amidst war.

The image depicts a morning when a father doesn't have to say goodbye to his loved ones at the dock.

The ideal scenario is a seven-year-old boy who can simply herd cattle, read books, and dream, instead of using his mental power to monitor for potential dangers within a radius of several miles while sitting on the straw in the storage room.

The boat rocked gently, as if in response. Lin Yifan turned over and buried his face in the collar of his cotton-padded coat. Amidst the sweet scent of soap, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep for the first time.

The Jiang'an docked in Yichang for half a day to replenish its coal and fresh water. Lin Yifan remained in storage room C-7, only briefly releasing his mental energy to survey his surroundings late at night—there were Japanese military police patrolling the dock, but MacDonald's British passport and the tung oil cargo on board provided him with sufficient protection.

At noon on the third day, the ship tilted violently, and the roar of the engine gradually subsided. Lin Yifan awoke from a light sleep, his spiritual energy spreading outwards, capturing a cluster of stilted houses scattered along the riverbank, layer upon layer, clinging to the hillside. They had arrived at Chaotianmen Wharf.

"Young man," Old Zhou's voice came through the iron gate, accompanied by the sound of a key turning, "We've arrived in Chongqing. The captain said you can take the aft gangway to avoid customs inspection."

Lin Yifan stood up, straw falling softly from his cotton-padded coat. For three days, he had only eaten at night; his face was somewhat pale, but his eyes remained clear. He checked the cabin one last time, and only after confirming everything was alright did he push open the door.

The sky over Chongqing was shrouded in a layer of grayish-yellow fog, and the river breeze carried a damp scent.

Unlike the tension in Hankou, this mountain town exudes a peculiar sense of relaxation—the sound of mahjong tiles clattering drifts from teahouses, porters carrying loads shout as they walk up steep stone steps, and even the soldiers and police patrolling the docks seem listless.

"Need directions?" Old Zhou asked, fanning himself with a palm leaf fan. His gaze lingered on the man's face for a moment. "You don't look well."

"No need." Lin Yifan took out a silver dollar and handed it over. "Thank you, Uncle Zhou. Xinglong Inn, I'll remember this."

Old Zhou took the silver dollar, weighed it between his fingers, and suddenly lowered his voice: "Young sir, things aren't peaceful in Chongqing lately. The Military Intelligence Bureau is arresting 'dissidents' everywhere. At your age, walking alone... it's a bit conspicuous. Young man..."

Lin Yifan nodded, keeping those words in mind. He climbed up the stone path along the edge of the dock, his mental energy spreading out like ripples, avoiding any possible intersection of their gazes.

The city's terrain was advantageous to him—winding streets, sudden turns in the slopes, and layered buildings were naturally suited for concealing his movements.

Two hours later, he stood at the entrance of a quiet alley in Zengjiayan.

The mental energy had confirmed the target: the third small blue brick building ahead. A familiar coughing sound came from the second-floor window; it was his father Lin Qiqing's old ailment.

In the kitchen on the first floor, Meng Zhuolin, the mother, was stirring a pot of herbal soup. The baby in her womb was eight months along and moved clumsily and slowly.

Lin Yifan stood under the banyan tree at the alley entrance for a long time. The rough texture of the bark reminded him of the cave dwellings in the Taihang Mountains and the force with which Grandpa Peng patted his shoulder.

He straightened the collar of his school uniform and picked up the wicker trunk.

"Excuse me," he asked in a Beijing-accented Mandarin as he approached the small building, "is this Mr. Lin Qiqing's residence?"

The woman who opened the door was in her fifties, wearing an apron and holding a spatula. She looked the travel-worn young man up and down, her gaze lingering on his pale face for a moment: "You are…"

"I am Lin Yifan," he said, his voice steady. "I come from Beiping. My father is Lin Qiqing, and my mother is Meng Zhuolin."

The spatula clattered to the ground.

When Meng Zhuolin appeared, holding onto the stair railing, Lin Yifan almost didn't recognize her. The mother in his memory always had her hair neatly styled in a bun and wore a well-pressed cheongsam, but the woman in front of him had a protruding belly, her hair was casually tied back, and there were a few red marks on her cheeks from the steam.

"Yifan?" Her voice trembled, and one hand unconsciously covered her abdomen. "You...how could you..."

"mom."

Lin Yifan stepped forward and stopped at the bottom of the steps. He was half a head taller than his mother, yet he maintained an upward gaze. "I came from Beiping. I wanted to...want to see you."

The explanation was full of holes, but Su Wanrong didn't care to investigate further. She staggered down the steps and hugged her son tightly.