Courtyard House: Home Alone

Tang Baolin brought the snuff bottle to his nose, took a gentle puff, and let out a long sneeze. He took out a plain white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the corner of his eye, his movements as composed as if he were appraising antiques in Liulichang.

"Mr. Shimizu, please have a seat. I am seventy-two years old and have a weak heart; I cannot withstand any fright."

Shimizu Tosan stood frozen in place, his chest heaving violently. He ultimately did not lash out. Years of espionage experience had taught him that anger at this moment was pointless. He slowly sat back down on the sofa, his fingers unconsciously tracing the carved details on the edge of the low table.

"Mr. Tang," he lowered his voice, like a tightening snake, "what exactly is your relationship with 'The Ghost'?"

Tang Baolin tucked the snuff bottle back into his sleeve, his gaze falling on the pine tree outside the window, bent low by the weight of snow. The heating in the Six Nations Hotel was on full blast, and a thin layer of mist condensed on the windows, blurring the outside world into a hazy ink painting.

"Mr. Shimizu, you might not believe it, but I'm still searching for 'Ghost'. As for why 'Ghost' let me temporarily govern Beiping, perhaps they admire my character."

Shimizu Tosan's fingers paused at the edge of the carving, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He stared at the old man before him, trying to find a clue in those cloudy eyes, but only saw an unfathomable calm.

"As a person?"

He suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with malice. "Mr. Tang, in all your years in the martial arts world of Beiping, have you ever seen anyone gamble an entire city on a single act of 'character'?"

Tang Baolin did not answer. He took out the plain white handkerchief from his bosom, carefully folded it, and then slowly unfolded it, as if he were admiring a rare treasure.

"Mr. Shimizu, that's the truth. Even I still don't understand it." His voice was so soft it was as if he were talking to himself.

"Forget it, if I can't figure it out, I won't think about it anymore. As long as I can do something for the people of Beiping, then this old man's life won't have been in vain."

Shimizu Tosan stared at him for a long time, then suddenly stood up and walked to the window. The morning mist was dissipating, and the outline of Jingshan Mountain in the distance was gradually becoming clear. The eaves of Wanchun Pavilion looked like a sword drawn from its sheath, piercing the gray sky.

"Three days."

With his back to Tang Baolin, his voice seemed to come from a great distance, "The Empire needs three days to discuss this."

"The deadline given by the ghost,"

Tang Baolin slowly rose, his cane tapping on the Persian carpet. "Seven days. Diplomatic and intelligence personnel evacuate, military forces clear out of the buffer zone—ten days. If they don't evacuate, 'Ghost' will clear itself out."

Shimizu Tosan whirled around, his eyes bloodshot like a spiderweb: "Mr. Tang, are you threatening me?"

"I am delivering a message."

Tang Baolin bowed slightly, the folds of his robe rippling calmly at his waist. "Mr. Shimizu, you know better than I that Ghost's words are the rule."

He pointed his cane out the window, at the snow-covered street, and at the distant, faintly visible clock tower: "Tongrentang is still dispensing medicine, Quanjude is still carving duck, and the shops in Liulichang are still open. Why? Because the ghosts keep this city alive, instead of making it live on its knees."

Shimizu Tosan's chest heaved violently, like a wild beast trapped in a snare. He knew Tang Baolin was telling the truth.

In the past year, the North China Expeditionary Army has had five different commanders, and now even the most arrogant and fierce generals in the military are terrified of North China.

"Very well," he finally managed to squeeze out the word through gritted teeth. "I will report this to my superiors. But Mr. Tang, please tell Ghost—the Empire will not yield forever."

Tang Baolin nodded, turned and walked towards the door: "Mr. Shimizu, 'Ghost' also sent a message. 'Ghost' said: It's best if the Japanese don't agree, because they haven't killed enough yet."

He didn't turn around; his voice drifted from the doorway, like a fallen leaf dropping into an ancient well.

"Not enough killing yet..."

Shimizu Tosan put down his teacup, the porcelain bottom striking the wooden saucer with a crisp sound. He walked to the wall, drew back the heavy velvet curtains, and let in the hazy sunlight.

"Someone come here."

The assistant outside the door entered in response.

"Send a telegram immediately, reporting 'Ghost's' conditions to headquarters. Request a prompt reply from headquarters."

"Hai!" The assistant turned and left.

The door slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. Shimizu Tosan stood alone by the window, watching Tang Baolin's figure disappear through the revolving doors of the Six Nations Hotel. His dark blue robe was quickly swallowed by the snow at the street corner, like a drop of ink falling into white water, leaving no trace in an instant.

"Not enough killing yet..."

He repeated those four words in a low voice, the Japanese pronunciation rolling across his tongue with a strange, rough quality. The files of the generals of the North China Expeditionary Army flashed through his mind.

The Ghosts' methods of killing were never repeated, yet each kill was remarkably precise. Crucially, they also possessed an unknown quantity of special cigarettes, which were the most lethal element. The Ghosts were already elusive, and if they used these special cigarettes...

Upon receiving the telegram, the Japanese General Headquarters, Army Minister Terauchi Hisahi, upon seeing the "Ghost's" conditions, dared not make a decision on his own. He took the telegram and rushed to the Imperial Palace, for this matter had to be decided by the fool himself.

Inside the Imperial Study, the charcoal fire burned brightly, yet it couldn't dispel the stagnant chill in the air. Terauchi Hisaichi knelt on the tatami mat, his forehead almost touching the ground, holding the copied telegram high above his head with both hands.

The fool took the telegram but did not read it immediately. His gaze fell on the Duan inkstone on the table—a gift from Emperor Meiji, the ink in which had long since dried and solidified into cracked lumps.

"Minister Terauchi," his voice seemed to come from afar, "what were the casualties of the North China Expeditionary Army last year?"

Terauchi Hisaichi's back stiffened: "Your Majesty, three officers were killed in action, and the number of soldiers...more than 1,200."

What about this year?

"This year...so far this year, 819 officers and soldiers have died in battle, and the number of soldiers...including pilots, has reached over 113,100."

The fool finally unfolded the telegram. He read it so slowly that Terauchi Hisaichi could hear the snapping of dry branches outside the window. When his gaze fell on the words "not enough killing yet," his fingers paused slightly, and his knuckles turned pale.

"ghost……"

He uttered the code name softly, as if savoring a bitter pill, "I remember, at this time last year, Tada Shun said that he could pacify North China within three months."

A bead of sweat appeared on Terauchi Hisaichi's forehead: "Your Majesty... Your Majesty is guilty."

"Guilty?" The Fool suddenly laughed, a strange emptiness in his voice. "What crime has my Minister of War committed? Are my soldiers not brave enough, or my generals not astute enough?"

He gently placed the telegram on the table, then got up and walked to the window. The early cherry blossoms in the courtyard had already budded, but half of them were damaged by a sudden cold snap.