Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan nodded and extended his spiritual power toward Deshengmen. He saw a car parked on the side of the road outside Deshengmen, with Zhao Gang sitting in it and five or six guards scattered around him.

He withdrew his mental energy and focused on Stone and the others, finding them assigning tasks. He checked the time; it was just past nine in the morning.

People have to grow up eventually. As long as there's no danger, let them handle things themselves. After all, it's all within their own sphere of influence, and they can always offer help.

Before long, it was 9:25. Shi Tou and his chosen team members were all in position. When the clock struck 9:30, Shi Tou and his guards rushed toward their targets.

Most of the Japanese soldiers were resting, and the rest were focused on the Tang residence. They never expected that someone would launch a surprise attack on them.

The entire operation took less than two minutes. Except for one Japanese soldier who was shot in the backyard of the pharmacy, the rest had their throats slit. Lin Yifan, sitting in the main hall of the Tang residence, secretly gave them a thumbs up.

Then, he focused his attention on Deshengmen.

It wasn't until 10:20 a.m. that they "saw" Manager Zhou walking from the north with a middle-aged man in a long gown and a top hat, followed by two young men in their twenties, each carrying a rattan trunk.

Upon seeing Manager Zhou, Zhao Gang got out of the car and stood by the door, giving a slight bow in his direction. Manager Zhou quickened his pace and extended his hand from a few steps away: "Brother Zhao, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

Zhao Gang grasped his hand, but his gaze fell on the middle-aged man in the top hat. The man was about forty years old, with a thin face and round-framed glasses perched on his nose, making him look like a schoolteacher. Only his eyes were calm as an ancient well, revealing a sharpness that did not match his appearance.

"Who is this?"

"His surname is Qing."

The middle-aged man spoke first, his voice gentle, "Qingsong. A friend of Manager Zhou."

Zhao Gang nodded, stepped aside, and opened the car door: "Manager Zhou, Mr. Qingsong, please get in."

Xu Xingzhi did not get into the car immediately. He stood under the mottled city wall of Deshengmen, looked up at the gray sky, and then looked down at the potholed dirt road under his feet.

Two young men carrying wicker boxes stood quietly behind him, their breathing steady, but their knuckles showed thin calluses from years of holding guns.

"The sky in Beiping," Qingsong suddenly said, "is still so gray."

Zhao Gang didn't reply. He had seen too many people coming in from outside the city; some were so nervous their palms were sweating, others pretended to be calm but their eyes were wandering. It was rare to see someone like this who still had the leisure to look at the sky.

"Gentlemen," he whispered, "it's getting late, and Old Master Tang is still waiting at his residence."

Qingsong withdrew his gaze, a faint smile appearing on his lips. He adjusted his top hat, bent down, and climbed into the carriage with the ease of someone boarding an ordinary rickshaw.

Manager Zhou sat in the passenger seat, while the two young men put the rattan box into the trunk and sat in the back seat, one on each side.

Zhao Gang started the car, the engine emitting a deep roar. He glanced at the back seat through the rearview mirror; Mr. Qingsong was looking out the window at the rapidly receding street scene, his fingers unconsciously stroking the buttons on his long gown.

"Manager Zhou," Xu Xingzhi suddenly spoke, his voice low but clearly cutting through the engine noise, "I've heard that Beiping has become the cleanest place. Is that true?"

Shopkeeper Zhou paused for a moment, then laughed, "Of course it's true! Ever since 'The Ghost' appeared in Beiping, the Japanese have been almost wiped out completely. Otherwise, I wouldn't have dared to ask the higher-ups to send someone over!"

"That's good." Xu Xingzhi nodded, his gaze still fixed on the view outside the window.

The car came to a stop at the back gate of the Tang residence at exactly 10:45. Shi Tou was already waiting there, his eyes alertly scanning the alleyway.

"Please." Zhao Gang stepped aside to lead the way.

Xu Xingzhi stood still. He took off his top hat, gently brushed off non-existent dust from the brim with his palm, and put it back on.

This seemingly casual action prompted the two young men following behind to exchange a subtle glance—a secret signal between them indicating "safe, follow along."

Led by Zhao Gang, the group quickly arrived at the central courtyard. Old Master Tang and Lin Yifan, who were drinking tea in the main hall, were already there to greet them at the entrance.

Tang Baolin stood on the steps, his hands behind his back, his gaze lingering on Qingsong for a moment. The faded long gown, the cloth shoes covered in the dust of Beiping, and the calm, unfathomable eyes behind the round-framed glasses—all reminded him of those young people who talked loudly and passionately in the Red Building of Peking University.

"Mr. Qingsong," Tang Baolin bowed, "you must have had a long journey."

Qingsong returned the greeting, his movements neither servile nor arrogant: "Master Tang, you are too kind. I have long admired the name of Master Tang of Xingyi School; it is my great honor to meet you today."

Lin Yifan stood half a step to Tang Baolin's side, his mental energy subtly sweeping over the three of them. In the rattan trunks of the two young men, besides a few changes of clothes, each had a disassembled Browning pistol hidden at the bottom, its magazine fully loaded.

Inside the pocket of Qingsong's long robe was a booklet wrapped in oiled paper, the paper of which was not as thick as that of an ordinary book.

"Please come into the main room to talk." Tang Baolin stepped aside.

The teacups in the main room had already been removed and replaced with freshly brewed Longjing tea. As Qingsong took his seat, his gaze slowly moved over the furnishings in the room—the rosewood desk, the blue and white porcelain brush holder, the bamboo and rock painting by Zheng Banqiao on the wall, and finally landed on Lin Yifan's face.

"This is Lin Yifan, young friend Lin?" he asked, his tone indifferent, as if he were asking about an insignificant object.

"It is indeed Lin Yifan."

Tang Baolin explained, "My close friend, despite the age difference, is also a representative of 'Ghost,' and the person with whom you will discuss important matters in detail today."

Qingsong picked up his teacup but didn't drink. He gently stirred the tea leaves floating on the surface with the lid, and in the rising steam, his eyes finally met Lin Yifan's.

"Before leaving, the gentleman specifically instructed that although young Lin was still young, he had won the deep trust of the 'ghost'. At the same time, he had made great contributions to the development of our party and our army."

"Meeting you today, you certainly have an extraordinary bearing."

Qingsong set down the cup lid, the porcelain lid tapping against the rim with a crisp, light sound. "I wonder how old my young friend Lin is this year?"

"I'll be eight years old after the New Year," Lin Yifan answered readily.

Qingsong nodded slightly, the sleeve of his long robe slipping down half an inch with the movement, revealing an old scar on his wrist: "Young friend Lin, at such a young age, you are able to represent 'Ghost' and deal with all parties; you must possess extraordinary abilities."

These words, seemingly a compliment, were actually a test. Lin Yifan remained unmoved: "You flatter me, sir. I'm merely relying on the legacy of my ancestors to do some errands and deliver messages."

"Running errands and delivering messages?" Qingsong suddenly smiled, a fine line appearing at the corner of his eye. He put down his teacup, took out the oil paper package from his pocket, but didn't open it immediately.