Courtyard House: Home Alone

Meng Zhuolin noticed his gaze moving quickly across the paper, his brows furrowing more and more, and his knuckles turning white as he gripped the letter.

"What's wrong?"

Lin Yifan didn't answer immediately. He folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, his movements so slow it seemed like he was deliberately delaying something.

"The pharmaceutical factory in Beiping has started production, and everything is going smoothly. Also, the Japanese have replaced the commander of the North China Area Army."

He said, "Okamura Yasuji, that Japanese devil is more difficult to deal with than Prince Asaka and Doi-machi. So I have to hurry back to Beiping."

The Japanese have suffered enormous losses in North China, and they will certainly retaliate with bloodshed. Therefore, under no circumstances should the Japanese be allowed to set foot in Beiping again.

It's been about twenty days since this letter was sent. I wonder how things are in Beiping now?

Meng Zhuolin unconsciously gripped the corner of the blanket. She had seen the name Okamura Yasuji in the organization's internal intelligence briefings; he was a notorious "China expert" in the Japanese Army, ruthless and adept at using Chinese against Chinese.

With the deaths of Prince Asaka and Doihara, and the loss of three commanders in the North China Expeditionary Army, the Japanese high command was bound to be furious, and furious beasts are often the most dangerous.

"A bloody revenge..." she repeated her son's words, her voice strained, "You mean, a massacre?"

"Perhaps it's more troublesome than a massacre." Lin Yifan stood up, walked to the window, and pushed the wooden window open completely. The distant mountains swayed slightly in the summer heat, like a watercolor painting soaked with water.

He turned around, standing backlit, his face shrouded in shadow: "But Beiping is different. Beiping is a symbol of prestige, a signboard of 'the land of benevolent rule,' so the Japanese are determined to take it."

When are you leaving?

"Tomorrow," Lin Yifan said, "I'll go to the dock right away to find Uncle Zhou and see if there are any ferries to Shanghai tomorrow. Once I get to Shanghai, I can take the train; that will be faster."

"Your sister is only a month old, I..."

Meng Zhuolin's words trailed off, like a taut string suddenly slackening. "Go check on the boat first. I'll talk to your dad when he gets back."

Lin Yifan nodded and turned to walk downstairs.

Two days later, at the Shiliupu Wharf in Shanghai, a cargo ship belonging to the British Swire Shipping Company was slowly docking. A thin layer of oil slicked the surface of the river, shimmering iridescent in the midday sun. The shouts of the laborers on the dock rose and fell, mingling with the chimes of the customs clock tower, creating a distorted sense of prosperity amidst the chaos of the times.

Lin Yifan stood in the shadow of the pier, wearing a slightly worn indigo cotton jacket. His luggage and a package had been stored away in his spatial storage when he disembarked.

He didn't rush to leave, but instead used his spiritual power to check the situation in the warehouse area next to the dock. The Bund was not just a name; since he was here, it would be a disgrace to the name "Ghost" if he didn't take something with him.

His spiritual power spread out like a spider web, penetrating the thick brick walls and tin roof, and wandering between the warehouses.

Cotton yarn, tung oil, raw silk, hardware—these wartime scarce supplies were piled up like mountains. Several warehouses were filled with wooden crates labeled with foreign languages. When one probed inside with spiritual power, they found whole crates of sulfanilamide powder and quinine.

Lin Yifan's lips twitched slightly. These things were hot commodities on the black market in Beiping, but here they were nothing more than a string of numbers in the foreign firm's ledger.

After thoroughly investigating the situation in the warehouse district, he didn't linger and immediately hailed a rickshaw, heading straight for the International Settlement.

The Japanese invaders haven't yet torn off the veil of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere and completely occupied the International Settlement. Their actual control within the Settlement is limited to the area along Yangshupu Road to the Huangpu River; other areas are defended by troops from Britain, the United States, France, and other countries.

Lin Yifan gave the driver a silver dollar and had him pull the cart westward along Yangshupu Road, passing through the checkpoints and barbed wire fences that were flying the Rising Sun flag.

The driver was a man in his forties, his back bent like a bow from the handlebars, yet he ran steadily. A single silver dollar cost three to five times the usual price, so he naturally knew this customer wasn't looking for a quick journey, but rather to see the sights. Thus, the wheels rolled along at a leisurely pace, just what Lin Yifan wanted.

Occasionally, trucks would roar past, revealing neatly bundled supplies peeking out from under canvas awnings. Lin Yifan's mental energy covered the entire area from both sides of the road to the Huangpu River.

The images of the Japanese army camps and the warehouses along the river appeared in his mind.

"Sir, Huishan Wharf is just ahead," the driver panted. "Ahead, the Japanese are tightening their checks, and our cart..."

"Take a detour via Zhaofeng Road."

The driver turned into a narrow alley, where rainwater from the previous night had accumulated on the stone pavement, splashing up tiny droplets.

The alley was lined with low shacks, and patched-up clothes hung on clotheslines. A woman was squatting on the doorstep breastfeeding her child. When she saw the car coming, she hurriedly stepped aside to avoid it.

Lin Yifan's gaze lingered for a moment on the face of the baby in her arms—the child was so thin that his ribs were clearly visible, but he had a pair of bright black eyes and was suckling at his mother's withered breast.

At the end of Zhaofeng Road, the barbed wire suddenly disappeared, replaced by rows of red-brick houses and plane trees. Annamese policemen from the police station, wearing round-topped helmets, leaned lazily against their posts, smoking and ignoring the rickshaws coming and going. The rickshaw drivers' steps became noticeably lighter, and they talked more:

"Young master, you're from the north, aren't you? In this International Settlement, the foreigners have strict rules; the Japanese can't get in yet. If you need a hotel, the Huizhong Hotel on Nanjing Road and the one behind Xianshi Hotel are both clean. If you're looking for connections…"

"Why would I need connections? I'm just a kid here to find my relatives. I've only just arrived in Shanghai and wanted to look around and see the sights of this bustling metropolis."

The driver chuckled, revealing teeth stained yellow from smoking: "Looking for relatives? You jest, young master. These days, nine out of ten people coming from the north are refugees, and the remaining one—"

He lowered his voice, "I'm not doing business, I'm just looking for a way to make a living. But since you want to take a look around first, then I, Old Zhong, will tell you what I can do."

As the rickshaw turned off Zhaofeng Road, the outline of the Bund suddenly unfolded before him. A river breeze carrying the smells of diesel fuel and fish rushed towards him, and Lin Yifan squinted.

Several Japanese warships were moored on the Huangpu River. Their gray-white hulls resembled lurking giants, with their cannons pointed at the Bund's collection of international buildings on the shore.

"That's the 'Izumo'," the driver gestured toward the river. "It came in three months ago, supposedly to protect our overseas Chinese, but in reality, it blocked our Wusongkou."

Young master, do you see that layer of oil floating on the river? The other day, a British merchant ship tried to force its way in, but it got blown up by a mine, and the sailors who were pulled out were all burned.

Lin Yifan didn't reply. His gaze crossed the river and landed on a cluster of gray-brown factory buildings in Pudong on the opposite bank. It used to be the site of the Shenxin Textile Factory, but now the chimneys were deserted, and only the Japanese Marine Corps flag fluttered on the rooftops.