Courtyard House: Home Alone

He stared at the empty sweet potato stall, then looked at the half-open window on the second floor of the teahouse—the curtains were still, as if no one had ever spied on him there.

"Mr. Tang," he turned around, a barely perceptible tension in his voice, "was this your work?"

"My handiwork?" Tang Baolin shook his head, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. "Mr. Shimizu, you overestimate this old man. How could an old man like me possess such abilities?"

Shimizu Tosan stared at him for a long time, trying to find a flaw in those cloudy yet clear eyes. But he only saw an almost calm tranquility, like the moon reflected in a deep pool, leaving no trace after the wind.

"Who is that?" he pressed, his voice no longer as gentle as before.

Tang Baolin did not answer directly. He walked slowly to the south window and looked at the old locust tree at the end of Xizhuan Hutong. The shadows of the tree swayed, and a few sparrows hopped among the bare branches, chirping softly.

"Mr. Shimizu, you just asked me, 'This ancient city has a history of seven hundred years, can I bear to watch it be destroyed in an instant?'"

With his back to the visitors, his voice was deep and resonant, "I'm telling you, this city cannot be destroyed. Not because of its thick walls, not because of its powerful guns, but because it is guarded."

He turned around, his gaze piercing: "The people you sent to spy on me are probably on their way to meet your Aunt Amaterasu by now. Don't worry, 'Ghost' will never let anyone with ambitions towards Beiping go unpunished!"

Shimizu Tosan's pupils suddenly contracted. He suddenly realized that the moment he stepped into this elegant room, he had fallen into some kind of carefully woven net.

Those seemingly lax surveillance and deliberately exposed informants may have been nothing more than bait from the very beginning.

"You have a connection with the 'ghost'." This is not a question, but a conclusion.

Tang Baolin remained noncommittal. He walked back to the main seat, picked up the cup of Longjing tea that had long since gone cold, and took a small sip.

"The tea has gone cold."

He said, "But the flavor remains. Mr. Shimizu, you islanders value 'once in a lifetime,' and this tea party today may be our last."

Shimizu Tosan remained silent for a long time. He put his glasses back on, "Mr. Tang!"

He concluded, his voice tinged with a strange weariness, "You know, I've come here truly seeking peace. I hope you can ask 'Ghost' what conditions are necessary for him to cease his actions against my empire?"

Tang Baolin put down his teacup, the celadon bottom making a soft sound as it touched the sandalwood table. He looked out the window; the March sunlight was slanting across Xizhuan Hutong, casting a long shadow of the old locust tree that stretched all the way into the ashes of the sweet potato roasting stall.

"Mr. Shimizu," he began slowly, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, "you just said that you came for peace."

He stood up, his cane tapping out a steady rhythm on the blue brick floor, and walked step by step to the painting of withered lotus. The brushstrokes of the withered lotus in the painting were vigorous and stubborn, as if they might break in the wind at any moment, yet they stood there stubbornly.

"In the twenty-sixth year of the Guangxu Emperor's reign, my master was shot three times and died at the entrance of Rongxian Hutong. I was twelve years old that year, and I hid through the crack in the door watching as foreign soldiers' leather boots stepped over his old man's fingers."

Tang Baolin's voice was as calm as if he were telling someone else's story, "Later I learned that there were Japanese among those foreign soldiers. They, like the others in the Eight-Nation Alliance, burned, killed, looted, and committed all sorts of atrocities."

He turned around, his gaze as still as a deep well: "Forty-three years have passed. You've changed your uniforms, your rhetoric, and your banner of 'Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.' But I can still smell it—"

He leaned forward slightly, as if sniffing something, "That smell, it's exactly the same as it was back then."

Shimizu Tosan's Adam's apple bobbed. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Tang Baolin stopped him with a raised hand.

"You asked me what conditions 'Ghost' wants?"

The old man suddenly smiled, a smile that held a profound wisdom born of experience. "To tell you the truth, I don't know, but I will pass it on to him."

Furthermore, I can tell you that your damned Third Division is nothing in front of the "Ghost." I hope they live to see tomorrow's sun.

At that moment, Shimizu Tousan's face drained of all color. His fingers, which were gripping the edge of the table, trembled slightly, and his round-framed glasses slipped down to the middle of his nose, but he forgot to push them back up.

"Mr. Tang," his voice seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, "do you know what you're saying? The 3rd Division is a well-organized unit of 24,000 men, equipped with a heavy artillery regiment and armored vehicle convoys—"

"I know."

Tang Baolin interrupted him, tapping his cane lightly on the blue brick beneath the painting of withered lotus. "I also know that your division commander is named Fujita Susumu, a short, stout man who loves sake."

A flicker of shock crossed Shimizu Tozo's eyes behind his glasses. "You—"

"What about me?" Tang Baolin's smile faded. "Mr. Shimizu, do you think 'Ghost' is just one person? Do you think he's just shooting snipers in the alleys of Beiping?"

You haven't forgotten how Xiyuan Airport and Nanyuan Airport turned into a wasteland overnight, have you? And you shouldn't forget how the 1st, 4th, and 118th Divisions were destroyed.

Of course, there are also your five commanders of the expeditionary forces, including that so-called prince. How tight were their guards? Yet, in front of the "Ghost," they were as fragile as paper. As for that so-called Third Division you mentioned, I think their fate won't be any better than the divisions I just mentioned.

Tang Baolin's voice echoed in the private room, like a deep, ancient bell. Shimizu Tosan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Let me tell you, trying to coerce 'Ghost' with force is a miscalculation. You are nothing but a joke in front of 'Ghost.'"

Tang Baolin slammed his cane down heavily, the sound of sandalwood striking blue bricks echoing in the private room. "The people you sent, the net you laid, those tricks you thought were flawless—"

He leaned forward slightly, a sharp glint suddenly flashing in his cloudy eyes. "In the eyes of 'Ghost,' it's nothing more than children playing house."

"You...you've seen him?" Shimizu Tosan's voice was dry and unlike his own.

Tang Baolin did not answer.

"Mr. Tang," he tried to keep his voice steady, "if the 'Ghost' is truly as you say, then why does he never show himself? Why does he never contact any power? What exactly does he want?"

Tang Baolin placed his cane across his knees and gently stroked the back of the jade tiger with his fingers.

"What do you want, Mr. Shimizu?"

He countered, his voice as soft as a sigh, "You want Manchuria, you want North China, you want all of China. You want resources, you want markets, you want slaves. You package all of this as 'co-prosperity,' as 'liberation,' as 'holy war'—"

He suddenly raised his voice, "But have you asked the Chinese what they want?"