Courtyard House: Home Alone

Outside Rongxian Hutong, a black Ford sedan had been waiting for some time. Zhao Gang drove it himself, with four Xingyi School disciples in plain clothes acting as escorts in two rickshaws.

"Master, should we take Xizhuan Hutong or go around Qianmen?" Zhao Gang asked, gripping the steering wheel.

"Let's take Xizhuan Hutong," Tang Baolin said in a deep voice. "Since they've already figured out the map, we don't need to hide anything. Let's see if this Dong San from Qingshui has the guts to follow us."

The car slowly started, rolling over the puddles on the bluestone road.

The signboard of Zhimeizhai is faintly visible among the plane trees on Xuanwumen Inner Street. This three-story wooden building has withstood more than seventy years of wind and rain. The vermilion doors and windows are somewhat mottled, but it still exudes the calm and dignified style of an old brand.

Tang Baolin's car stopped at the alley entrance. Zhao Gang got out first, his eyes sweeping across the old man selling candied hawthorns on the street corner, the driver squatting against the wall in the sun, and the half-open window on the second floor of the teahouse diagonally opposite.

"Master, the private rooms on the third floor have been cleared out, and our people are at the bottom of the stairs," Zhao Gang said in a low voice. "But..." he hesitated.

"explain."

"At the other end of Xizhuan Hutong, there's a vendor selling roasted sweet potatoes; he's a complete stranger. And that guy drinking tea in the teahouse, with calluses on his hands, he's a gunman."

Tang Baolin sneered, "Don't worry about them. Xiao Fan said he'll take care of it, so he'll arrange everything."

"No way," Zhao Gang shook his head. "The sweet potato vendor glanced in our direction every half an incense stick's time; it was too deliberate. The guy in the teahouse, on the other hand, didn't look up once."

Tang Baolin, leaning on his cane, slowly walked towards the threshold of Zhimeizhai. He paused at the door, then suddenly tapped the bluestone steps with the tip of his cane: "Zhao Gang, go tell the kitchen that we're not doing business today, and close the door."

"Master?"

"Since we're going to talk, let's talk quietly." Tang Baolin's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable authority. A hint of surprise flashed in Zhao Gang's eyes, then he clasped his hands in greeting and left.

Tang Baolin went up to the private room on the third floor alone. He knew this room very well. On the north wall hung a painting of withered lotus by Bada Shanren, and the south window faced the gray tile roof of Xizhuan Hutong.

He personally opened the window, letting the cold December wind rush into the room and disperse the wisps of smoke rising from the sandalwood incense burner.

"Islanders like enclosed rooms, so that negotiators can't breathe," he muttered to himself. "I'll leave the window open and let him see the sun over Beiping."

At exactly ten o'clock, a series of steady footsteps echoed downstairs. Tang Baolin didn't turn around, only hearing Zhao Gang's deep voice from the stairwell: "Mr. Qingshui, please. My master has been waiting for you for some time."

The curtain was lifted, and a figure in a dark blue long gown stepped into the private room. The man was not tall, wore round-framed glasses, and held a copy of the *Shen Bao* newspaper in his hand. Upon entering, he bowed deeply to Tang Baolin: "Mr. Tang, I have long admired your name. It is truly an honor for Qingshui to meet you today."

Tang Baolin slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the newcomer like an old boxer scrutinizing his opponent. This Qingshui Dong San looked to be under forty, with a lean face and a humble smile. If one did not know his identity beforehand, anyone would mistake him for a schoolteacher or a newspaper editor.

"Mr. Shimizu, you're too kind." Tang Baolin didn't return the courtesy, but simply tapped his cane on the ground. "Please sit. The tea is ready; it's this year's pre-Qingming Longjing. I wonder if it suits your taste?"

Shimizu Tungsan smiled slightly and actually sat down in the guest seat, gently placing the rolled-up copy of the *Shen Bao* newspaper on the corner of the table. His gaze swept across the open south window, a hint of admiration flashing in his eyes: "Mr. Tang truly lives up to his reputation. I had originally thought that today's negotiations would take place in a dark room."

"A dark room is only suitable for telling ghost stories."

Tang Baolin took his seat at the head of the table. "What I, Tang, say is human language, so naturally it should be brought to light."

Shimizu Tosan wasn't offended at all; instead, he clapped his hands and chuckled, "Excellent. Mr. Tang is straightforward, and Shimizu doesn't need to beat around the bush either."

He picked up his teacup, but didn't drink it immediately. He gently pried open the lid a crack, inhaled the aroma of the tea, and said, "I have come here for the safety of the 300,000 people of Beiping."

"The safety of the people?" Tang Baolin's voice suddenly turned somber. "Mr. Shimizu, were the three hundred corpses that floated to the surface at the Tianjin docks in 37 also something your country is concerned about regarding 'the safety of the people'?"

The air in the private room seemed to freeze for a moment.

Shimizu Tosan put down his teacup, his eyes behind his glasses narrowing slightly. The smile remained on his face, but it was like a mask wrinkled by the wind, revealing something hard beneath.

"Mr. Tang, those were accidents."

His Chinese pronunciation had a strange intonation, but his word choice was precise: "Within the Imperial Army, there are inevitably a few individuals with poor discipline. I have come here precisely to prevent such incidents from happening again."

"An isolated case?" Tang Baolin sneered. "Three villages on the outskirts of Shicheng were reduced to ashes overnight, and that's considered an 'isolated case'?"

Shimizu Tozo remained silent for a moment, then suddenly took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slowly unfolded it on the table. It was a document written in both Chinese and Japanese, stamped with the bright red seal of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

"Mr. Tang, this is the 'Outline for Maintaining Security in the Special Municipality of Beiping' drafted by the Imperial Government. If you are willing to cooperate, the Imperial Army can guarantee—"

His finger tapped on the paper, "First, there will be no more violent incidents against civilians in Beiping;

Second, the railway freight route from Tianjin to Beiping was opened to ensure the supply of essential goods for people's livelihood;

third,"

He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting Tang Baolin's directly. "'Ghost' must cease all actions against the Imperial Army. In exchange, the Empire will recognize you as the sole arbitrator of civil affairs in Beiping."

Tang Baolin stared at the document, then suddenly burst into laughter. The laughter shook the windowpanes, making them vibrate and even silencing the hustle and bustle of the street below.

"Mr. Shimizu," he stopped laughing, but there was no trace of amusement in his eyes, "what do you take me for, Tang Baolin? A traitor who sells out his friends for personal gain, or a petty person who abandons principles for profit?"

You've misunderstood.

Shimizu Tousan's voice remained gentle, but with an added hint of urgency that was barely perceptible: "I don't want you to betray anyone."

I simply hope you can convey this message—the Empire is willing to negotiate and resolve disputes peacefully. The existence of 'Ghost' will only worsen the situation and drag more innocent civilians into the war.

He stood up, walked to the south window, and stood side by side with Tang Baolin. From this angle, they could clearly see the sweet potato stall in Xizhuan Hutong, and the gray-tiled roofs in the distance.

"Mr. Tang, look at this ancient city," Qingshui Dongsan's voice suddenly became ethereal, "Seven hundred years of history, countless dynasties have risen and fallen, yet it has stood firm. Can you bear to watch it be destroyed in an instant?"

Tang Baolin's knuckles, gripping his cane, turned slightly white. He gazed out the window at the familiar streets and alleys, the cobblestone paths he had walked countless times, and the neighbors whose names he knew. The March sunlight filtered through the thin mist, casting a faint golden hue on the gray rooftops.