Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan put away the list, a cold glint in his eyes that belied his age appearing on his lips. "The foreigners understand best that the highest bidder wins. We hold sulfonamides and penicillin in our hands, which means we hold their lifeline—they know better than we do how many people die on the battlefield every day."

He turned and took out a sandalwood box from his pocket (space), opened the lid, and inside were several glass bottles neatly stacked. The pale yellow liquid shimmered under the oil lamp, like solidified amber.

"This is the latest batch of purified penicillin."

Lin Yifan took out one and examined it under the light. "Ninety-five percent purity, twenty percent higher than what the Americans produce in their own labs. Old man, how much gold do you think one of these could be exchanged for on the London black market?"

Tang Baolin didn't guess. He stared at the small glass bottle. "How do you plan to negotiate?"

"Talk to them in batches, cross-talk them, so they can't figure out each other's bottom line."

Lin Yifan put the ampoule back into the box. "Whether the British want exclusive distribution rights, the Americans want technical cooperation, or the Germans want to have stock on hand for emergencies..."

Especially the Germans and the Soviets, they were both sharpening their knives, and in the end, only we, and only we, would benefit.

He closed the box, his voice lowering slightly: "Most importantly, what we need in exchange isn't gold, it's machinery. Sulfonamide synthesis equipment, penicillin fermentation tanks, centrifuges, refrigeration units… the Japanese won't give us these, Chongqing can't get them either, only the foreign devils have them."

Tang Baolin remained silent for a long time, then suddenly reached out and pressed down on the sandalwood box: "Xiao Fan, have you ever considered how much of this medicine will end up in the hands of the Japanese?"

"I've thought about it."

Lin Yifan met the old man's gaze. "So we only sell the finished product, not the formula. And..."

He pulled another piece of paper from his sleeve. "This is the 'blacklist' drawn up by 'Ghost.' Any foreign firm or individual that trades with the Japanese will have their supplies cut off. If the foreign devils want to make money, they'll have to choose sides first."

Tang Baolin took the paper and saw dozens of names written on it, some marked with "suspected" or "pending investigation." He suddenly realized that this eight-year-old child had already calculated a grand strategy ten moves ahead of him.

"The banquet on February 1st," Lin Yifan continued, "was ostensibly to announce the establishment of the Municipal Committee, but in reality, it was for these foreign devils to see. To let them know that the rules in Beiping have changed—from now on, if they want to do business here, they have to ask 'Ghost' first."

"They asked me about it too," Tang Baolin added.

"Yes."

Lin Yifan nodded. "You are the public representative of 'Ghost,' so you don't need to say much. Just sitting here is enough to convey your presence."

Suddenly, a pigeon whistle came from outside the window, sharp and long, like a silver needle piercing the solidified air.

Lin Yifan paused slightly. Tang Baolin, however, had already strode to the window, his withered hand pressing against the window frame, his knuckles turning white from the force.

His gaze swept across the courtyard like a hawk's—blue bricks and gray tiles, withered branches and lingering snow, a few gray pigeons flapping their wings and landing on the roof of the west wing, the lingering sound of their whistles still echoing between the beams.

"It's 'Greyback'," Tang Baolin said in a very low voice. "Old Zhou's pigeons are usually only released in the east of the city."

Lin Yifan walked to his side, his figure just hidden by the shadow of the window frame. His spiritual energy spread out...

"Someone come here," a slight smile appeared on his lips, "who doesn't seem to harbor any hostility."

Before he could finish speaking, a soft clattering sound came from the roof of the east wing. The sound was extremely faint, like a wildcat treading on snow, yet it didn't escape Tang Baolin's ears. The old man moved swiftly, leaping out of the window, his soft whip cracking crisply in the air—

"Snapped!"

A dark figure tumbled down from the eaves, but twisted its body abruptly in mid-air, its toes barely touching a pillar, and leaped several feet higher. Tang Baolin's whip brushed past the hem of his clothes, shaving a piece of blue cloth to the ground.

"Impressive skills."

The dark figure landed, his voice hoarse as if grinding sand, "Old Master Tang, it's been three years, and your whip skills have improved even more."

Tang Baolin's whip hovered in mid-air, he didn't continue the pursuit. His pupils contracted slightly, as if he recognized something: "You are... 'Night Owl'?"

"The old man has a good memory."

The dark figure slowly straightened up, revealing a face covered in scars. The scars crisscrossed, severing the original features into fragments, with only the eyes remaining intact—the pupils were as black as ink, gleaming with a cold, eerie light in the dim light of the day.

"Isn't 'Night Owl' dead?"

Tang Baolin's whip drooped slightly, but he didn't completely retract it. "When Beiping fell, I heard you were riddled with bullets by the Japanese..."

"Dead." The man grinned, his scar contorting in pain. "Good riddance. At least I don't have to watch helplessly as the Japanese commit atrocities."

He took two steps forward, his boots crunching over the broken tiles on the ground. "Too bad the King of Hell wouldn't take me; he threw me back here."

He turned to Lin Yifan, his intact right eye slightly narrowed: "This is the spokesperson for 'Ghost'? He's even smaller than I imagined."

"It's harder to kill than you thought." Lin Yifan put the copper coin into his sleeve, his expression unchanged. "Did you release the pigeon whistle?"

"The 'Greyback' dog has recognized its master; Old Zhou fed it to the Japanese soldiers' wolfhounds three years ago."

'Night Owl' took out a small bamboo whistle from his pocket, twirled it between his fingers, and said, "I brought this pigeon from Baoding. It followed Qingsong and his gang all the way there—they set off from the Red Army base area, and someone immediately went to warn them."

Tang Baolin's whip finally fell, but he still stood half a foot in front of Lin Yifan: "What message are you sending?"

"The news that 'Ghost' intended to hand over Beiping to the Red Party has already leaked."

'Night Owl' tucked the bamboo whistle back into his pocket: "They sent someone from Chongqing, on today's Jinpu Railway. Ostensibly, he's an observer for the Military Intelligence Bureau, but actually, he's Boss Dai's confidant. His surname is Xu, and his given name is 'Zheng'."

Lin Yifan and Tang Baolin exchanged a glance. The old man slightly turned to the side, giving way by half a step, but still maintained a position where he could make a move at any moment.

"Why did you tell us about the Military Intelligence Bureau's information?" Lin Yifan blamed himself inwardly, having been so focused on the ground that he had overlooked the feathered beast that could fly in the sky.

Another issue is the leak of information about cooperation with the Red Party. Where exactly did the problem originate? If it happened in Beiping, it would be somewhat better, but if it happened on Mr. [Name]'s side, the problem would be much bigger.

The fact that their mole had access to information about the top brass of the Communist Party is alarming. If this bomb explodes, the consequences...

"'Night Owl' never does favors for nothing."

The scarred man untied an oilcloth bundle from his waist and tossed it onto the desk. The bundle landed with a dull thud, like metal clashing. "My family is all in Beiping. I'm repaying their debt on their behalf. Without your grain, they wouldn't have survived this long."