Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan sat down without being invited and poured himself a cup of tea: "Third Master's men went through my luggage at the hotel. Should we settle this score?"

Master Zhao tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, his gaze gradually darkening. He waved his hand, and the steward bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

"Shorty Liu is my nephew," he said slowly, "Where is he now?"

"I didn't see Shorty Liu. The other two Green Gang underlings are soaking in the Huangpu River; they won't die."

Lin Yifan took a sip of tea. "Third Master, I'm not here for revenge. I know the rules of the Green Gang. Does the saying 'Even thieves have their code of honor' still hold true today?"

Master Zhao's pupils contracted slightly. This "child's" manner and bearing were clearly not something an ordinary family could cultivate. He sat up straight, his jade thumb ring tapping crisply on the table: "Young friend, who is your teacher?"

"No affiliation, self-taught." Lin Yifan put down his teacup. "Third Master, let's speak frankly. Zhang Xiaolin has defected to the enemy, Huang Jinrong is turning a blind eye, and Du Yuesheng is preparing to flee to Hong Kong—the Green Gang is heading straight for the rocks. And you, a member of the 'Tong' generation, have taken up robbery and plunder..."

Third Master Zhao's expression changed several times, finally settling on a complex look. He slowly stood up, walked to the window, and remained silent for a moment with his back to Lin Yifan.

"Young man," he said in a low voice, "I had no choice. I have so many men to feed, I...I..."

"I know there are quite a few men of courage in your Green Gang, which is why I haven't attacked you."

Otherwise, those two scoundrels in the hotel today would be drowning in the Huangpu River and feeding the fish by now. Lin Yifan's voice was calm, but it made Third Master Zhao's back tense slightly.

He turned around and re-examined the "child" sitting in the armchair. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows of varying depths on the child's tender face, but those eyes—those eyes were like two deep wells, bottomless, only giving off a cold feeling.

"Little friend, are you referring to me by saying that?" Third Master Zhao slowly sat back in his chair.

"You could say that, or you could say I'm saving you. I hope you think carefully about the path ahead. Alright, I have things to do tonight, so I'll take my leave now. I hope I won't come looking for you again."

Master Zhao's fingers hovered over the jade thumb ring, his knuckles turning slightly white from the pressure. He stared at the wind stirred by Lin Yifan's clothes as he stood up, which lifted a yellowed copy of the Shen Bao newspaper on the corner of the table, revealing the headline "The War in North China is Intensifying" in the corner.

"etc."

Lin Yifan's hand was already on the doorknob. Hearing this, he stopped but did not turn around.

"Little friend," Zhao Sanye's voice, less tentative than before and more hoarse and weary, "you said the Green Gang's ship is crashing into the reef—and what about you? Which ship are you on?"

The fingers on the doorknob tightened slightly. Lin Yifan turned half his face to the side, the candlelight perfectly outlining the contours of his nose, like a short sword yet to be drawn.

"Third Master," he said, opening the door. In the corridor, the pipa player's tune was playing, "The flowers are in full bloom, a riot of colors." "You'd better not know; it won't do you any good." With that, he was already outside.

Tonight was another busy night. After leaving Guanlan Pavilion, Lin Yifan headed straight for Wusong Road.

This place is a gathering place for Japanese expatriates. Although they are called expatriates, most of them also have another identity: they are spies planted by the Japanese military or the Black Dragon Society.

Lin Yifan's mental energy surged like a tide over the Japanese-style buildings on both sides of the street. Those seemingly ordinary izakayas, general stores, and photo studios concealed too many things that shouldn't be there—radios in darkrooms, gun blueprints in basements, and lights that never went out in attics.

He stopped at the intersection of Wusong Road and North Sichuan Road, and ducked into the shadows of a pastry shop that was still open. The shop owner, a chubby man from Ningbo, was yawning and tidying up the counter, completely unaware of the "child" standing there.

From this position, with a radius of over 5000 meters, he brought most of the Japanese troops' gathering places under his control.

Lin Yifan sensed it for a moment, then instantly teleported into a three-story building across the street.

The signboard of the pastry shop swayed gently in the night breeze, the three red characters "Shen Dacheng" already faded and peeling. As the shop owner closed the last door, a figure suddenly appeared in the second-floor window of the three-story building across the street.

Lin Yifan stood in the darkness, his spiritual power spreading out like a spider web. The small building was an ordinary Japanese-style house, with blue tiles and white walls, and two neatly trimmed pine and cypress trees placed at the entrance.

However, the walls of the basement were unusually thick, and there were more than a dozen tin boxes inside, sealed with wax, emitting a faint bitter smell—it was quinine, an important raw material for making explosives.

In the study on the third floor, a middle-aged man in a kimono was writing a letter. Lin Yifan's spiritual power "saw" the contents of the letter: it was written in Japanese, addressed to "Black Dragon Society Shanghai Branch," and detailed the unloading situation at Wusong Road Wharf today, as well as the sailing timetable of a certain British merchant ship.

"Ito Nakayuki, head of the intelligence group of the Black Dragon Society's Shanghai branch, whose ostensible identity is the manager of 'East Asia Products Co., Ltd.'..."

None of this mattered to Lin Yifan. His purpose in coming to Wusong Road today was to sweep it up, and the reason for choosing this place as his first target was very simple: it was located in the middle of Wusong Road, so he could save himself the trouble of going back and forth.

In this three-story building and the backyard, there were twenty-seven people, including Sato. Lin Yifan first gave each of the other twenty-six people a bullet, then teleported behind Ito and snapped his neck. At the same time, he threw his body into the backyard.

Lin Yifan would be spending most of the night here, and he didn't want to spend the whole night facing a corpse and smelling the stench of blood throughout the room.

He sat down in a chair, chose a position that he thought was comfortable, closed his eyes, and extended his mental energy to the easternmost part of Wusong Road, beginning to clear out the Japanese expatriates one by one.

His primary targets were homes containing weapons, radios, or classified documents—these were beyond scrutiny; under his mental scan, nothing could escape his notice.

The first target was the "Songyue Photo Studio" on the street corner. The owner, Yamamoto Ichiki, was an outsider of the Black Dragon Society. In the darkroom, he hid a German-made Leica camera and a complete set of developing equipment, specializing in photographing military facilities within the concession.

Yamamoto was developing a stack of photographs, the images showing sentry posts in the International Settlement. A bullet entered through the back of his head, and Yamamoto collapsed into the developing solution, the unfinished evidence gradually sinking into the murky liquid.

The second target was "Sakura Izakaya." The proprietress, Michiko, was a liaison officer for the Special Higher Police. Two radios and two boxes of grenades were hidden in the basement. Lin Yifan used his mental power to pinpoint her location, and a bullet pierced the wooden wall on the second floor. Inside the izakaya, there were four tables occupied by thirteen Japanese ronin drinking, which Lin Yifan treated equally.

The third target was the "East Asia Trading Company," which was a front for arms smuggling.