Courtyard House: Home Alone

"Whose territory is this? Heh."

Lin Yifan dragged over a chair and sat down, looking down at the two thugs who were slumped over like mud. "The docks, opium dens, casinos, hotels, they take a cut at every level, skimming off every last penny. Now they've gone so far as to rob you outright. You're really making the Green Gang proud."

That shorty of yours, isn't he the waiter from yesterday? He has a sharp eye, but unfortunately—"

He kicked the deformed suitcase with his toe: "Look at this yourselves, how much are two lives and this suitcase worth? Don't try to negotiate with me, you only have two choices: pay to buy your lives or go feed the fish in the Huangpu River."

The two thugs exchanged bewildered glances, beads of sweat forming on their foreheads. The one sprawled on the ground tried to sit up, but found his limbs still as heavy as lead. He could only manage to lift his head with difficulty: "Sir, sir, it's a misunderstanding, all a misunderstanding... That shorty was blind, he didn't realize you were a master..."

"A master? I'm just a passing child with only thirty silver dollars to my name."

He suddenly leaned down, "But you're even robbing thirty dollars, which shows just how corrupt the Green Gang's rules are."

The man smoking a cigarette swallowed hard, his voice trembling: "Sir, you don't know, the police have been cracking down hard lately, and the opium dens are quieter, brothers..."

"So you've switched to a no-capital business?" Lin Yifan interrupted him, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled. "The rule of the Green Gang's 'Da Tong' generation is that robbing merchants results in three cuts and six holes. Who's your boss? 'Da' or 'Tong' generation?"

Upon hearing this, the two men's expressions changed drastically. The one slumped on the suitcase suddenly looked up, a look of panic flashing in his eyes—this young man was so familiar with the gang's internal code.

"Not going to say anything?" Lin Yifan stubbed out his cigarette, took out a pocket watch from his pocket and looked at it. "I'll give you half a cigarette's worth of time. My train ticket is for tomorrow morning, and I happen to be free tonight, so I can slowly take you to 'Little Pudong' to pay your respects."

The words "Little Pudong" were like a bucket of ice water poured over it. It was a place where the Green Gang punished traitors, and it was said that those who went there and came out alive were all crippled.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" The smoking man finally broke down. "It's Master Zhao, the third master of the 'Tong' generation. Shorty Six is ​​his nephew! Master Zhao's been short on cash lately, so he's had the brothers keep an eye on the luggage of unfamiliar faces, to see if there's anything of value..."

Lin Yifan's fingers tapped lightly on the pocket watch cover, the rhythm slow and clear. The distinctive whistle of the Shiliupu Wharf drifted in from outside the window, long and desolate, mingling with the dampness from the Huangpu River and flowing into the room.

He suddenly closed his watch. "Where is Third Master Zhao now?"

"He eats at Guanlan Pavilion every night, and then listens to music there afterward..." The man swallowed hard. "Sir, I've said everything I needed to say, what do you think..."

Lin Yifan stood up: "You two stinking bugs aren't worth my time, but since Master Zhao taught you such things, I have to demand an explanation."

He walked to the window, pushed it open halfway, and the river breeze, carrying with it the smell of coal smoke and fish, rushed in. "Go soak in the Huangpu River for half an hour yourself, clear your head. If I ever see you doing this kind of thing again—"

He glanced back at the two men, his gaze calm and indifferent, yet it sent a chill down the spines of the two thugs.

"Next time, there won't be the privilege of bathing in the river."

The two men scrambled out of the window, slid down the drainpipe behind the hotel, and disappeared into the shadows of the alley. Lin Yifan listened to the splashing water coming from downstairs before turning around to tidy up his rummaged luggage.

The contents of the suitcase remained untouched, except for the few copies of "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" which were worn out from being read so many times. He casually smoothed out the pages and put the pocket watch back into his inner pocket.

When the waiter knocked on the door to deliver the food, everything had returned to normal. The poached chicken was indeed tender, with yellow skin and white meat, melting in the mouth when dipped in ginger paste;

The scallion oil crucian carp was cooked to perfection; the fish meat separated from the bone but didn't fall apart. Lin Yifan slowly finished this belated dinner, piled the leftovers outside the door, and locked the door.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, his mental energy spreading outwards like a tidal wave. The layout of the hotel appeared clearly in his mind: a couple who ran a business lived on the second floor, a down-on-his-luck scholar who smoked opium on the fourth floor, and rats gnawing on the coal pile in the basement. Within a kilometer radius, there was no other Green Gang spy.

After confirming that he was safe, he changed into a dark-colored outfit, put his pocket watch and change into his inner pocket, and left the rest of his luggage untouched in the room.

Before leaving, he slipped a note under the door, written in pencil: "Visiting friends, will return tomorrow morning"—this was for the innkeeper, and also for the Green Gang's spies who might visit again.

Guanlan Pavilion is located on Fourth Road, where the French Concession and the Chinese-controlled area meet. Originally a Suzhou-style restaurant, it gradually became a private gathering place for people of the "Tong" generation because the owner had some connections with the Green Gang.

Lin Yifan didn't call a rickshaw, but walked along Nanjing Road. As dusk fell, he turned onto Fourth Road. The entrance to Guanlan Pavilion was unassuming; the three gold characters on the black signboard were somewhat peeling off, but two gleaming Ford sedans were parked in front.

Lin Yifan sat down at the wonton stall across the street and ordered a bowl of fresh pork wontons, his gaze sweeping through the rising steam as he looked at the three-story building.

My spiritual energy quietly probed in. Seven or eight men in short clothes sat in the lobby on the first floor, their waists bulging; in a private room on the second floor, a middle-aged man in a long gown was listening to music, accompanied by a girl playing the pipa; the third floor seemed to be a storeroom, with several camphor wood chests piled up, filled with opium.

"Little brother, the wontons are getting cold." The stall owner, a woman in her fifties, spoke in a soft, gentle Suzhou accent. "Are you looking for someone?"

Lin Yifan looked up, revealing a sweet smile: "Grandma, my uncle said he'd eat here and told me to come find him."

"Wow, there are so many people eating here! What's your surname, uncle?"

His surname is Zhao, and everyone calls him Third Master.

The stall owner's expression changed slightly, and he paused, scooping up wontons with his spoon: "Little brother, that Third Master inside... he has a bit of a temper. Are you sure he's your uncle?"

"A distant relative." Lin Yifan pushed aside the wontons he had just eaten two bites of, placed eight copper coins on the ground, and said, "A distant relative."

He jumped off the bench and headed straight for Guanlan Pavilion. The man at the door reached out to stop him, but he stopped him with a single sentence: "Tell Master Zhao, someone wants to settle accounts with Dwarf Six for what happened to him."

The man looked at the "child" suspiciously, but ultimately dared not be negligent and turned to go inside to report. A moment later, a man who looked like a manager came out and led Lin Yifan to a private room on the second floor.

Master Zhao was in his early forties, with a fair complexion and no beard, and wore three large jade thumb rings on his fingers. He leaned back in a mahogany armchair. The pipa player had already been sent away, and several plates of exquisite Suzhou-style pastries were laid out on the table, along with a pot of Biluochun tea that was still steaming.

"Little kid," he squinted at Lin Yifan, "I heard you want to settle a score with me?"