Courtyard House: Home Alone

"Three days," Lin Yifan suddenly said.

"What?"

"In those three days, have you seen a single starving corpse?"

Chen Gongshu was stunned. He recalled the scene when he first arrived in Beiping—beggars huddled against the wall outside the train station, and women selling their children had straw tags stuck in their braids.

But in the last two days, those scenes seemed to have really disappeared. He thought it was because he had changed his residence, moving from an inn in the south of the city to this quiet alley.

"Send someone..."

"I didn't send anyone." Lin Yifan shook his head. "'Ghost' just had a few grain stores open their warehouses and got a few unscrupulous merchants who were hoarding grain to 'voluntarily' donate their stored grain. It's that simple."

Furthermore, I can tell you definitively that 'Spectre' is not the Communist Party, and never will be. Their cooperation stems from a shared objective...

Therefore, I advise you that following "the ghost" is fundamentally different from joining the Red Party.

He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. A cold breeze blew in, carrying the sweet aroma of roasted chestnuts from afar.

"Station Chief Chen, stay with Long Xiaoni for the next few days and think carefully about what I told you. Once you've figured it out, come find me."

As for whether following "Ghost" will result in sanctions from the Military Intelligence Bureau, you don't need to worry about that.

Honestly, if it weren't for seeing you skinheads fighting the Japanese on the front lines, 'Ghost' would have already made his move.

"How do you think your bureau chief and Baldy's guards would compare to the guards of the North China Expeditionary Army Headquarters?"

Chen Gongshu's breath hitched.

The last piece of firewood in the fireplace was collapsing, and the firelight cast his long shadow, which stretched all the way to the closed door of the main room.

"North China Expeditionary Army Headquarters..." He heard his own voice rise as if from underwater, "You even have Okamura Yasuji..."

"Not only Okamura, but also Tada Shun, Doihara Kenji, Matsui Iwane, and their Prince Asaka Yasuhiko, who is accompanied by four Jonin who are protecting him." Lin Yifan interrupted him, his tone as calm as if he were recounting an old grievance.

Chen Gongshu's fingers finally touched the gun handle, but he found that he couldn't even muster the strength to draw the gun. It wasn't because of fear—he had seen too many life-or-death situations—but a deeper, more fundamental dizziness, as if the very foundation of his understanding had been uprooted.

"Prince Asaka Yasuhiko..." he repeated the name, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, "Nanjing..."

"Nanjing."

Lin Yifan finished speaking for him, and the word sank into the hall like a stone falling into a deep well: "December 1937, his order. Three hundred thousand. This time he has set foot on Chinese soil again. Do you think 'The Ghost' will let him leave again?"

At the time, he was protected by four Jonin, but he was still captured alive by the "Ghost" and eventually executed by slow slicing at Caishikou.

That final blow was also my doing. You're under house arrest, so you don't know a lot of news.

Also, I see you've tried a few times already. Just be a little more open-minded and pull out your Browning to see if there are any bullets inside. Of course, that includes the other two magazines on your hip as well.

Chen Gongshu's hand froze on the gun handle.

He slowly lowered his head, looking at the Browning M1911 that had been with him for ten years. The blued steel of the gun gleamed with a dark sheen in the afterglow of the furnace fire, like a sleeping snake.

His thumb released the safety, and the magazine slid out—empty. The chamber was empty. The two spare magazines in his belt were also empty.

"When...?"

"You'll know once you've made your decision."

Lin Yifan walked to the door and said to Wenxiu, who was guarding outside, "What are you doing waiting here in this cold weather? Go and get some chicken and meat for Grandma Long. She has guests, and she can't be without something to offer them."

Lin Yifan finally sat back on the daybed, picked up the now-cold tea, but didn't drink it. He just stared at the thick film on the surface of the tea. "Station Chief Chen, do you know why I'm telling you all this?"

Chen Gongshu did not answer. His gaze fell on the window frame—where there was a fresh, fine scratch, as thin as a hair, slanting across the peeling wood grain. It wasn't there when he came in.

"Because you are a talented person and a hero who kills Japanese devils, 'Ghost' doesn't want to see you die at the hands of a villain, and he doesn't want to see you defect to the Japanese because of personal grudges. I can guarantee that you won't see the sun rise the next day."

Chen Gongshu's Adam's apple bobbed. He recalled that rainy night in Hanoi, sixteen men with sixteen guns, yet they didn't even get to see Wang Jingwei.

The young man before him, or rather the "ghost" behind him, was able to remove all of his bullets without him even realizing it.

"Talented?" He gave a bitter smile. "I've been in the Military Intelligence Bureau for ten years, killing many people, but I've also wrongly killed innocent ones. The Director said it's better to kill a thousand innocent people than let one guilty person go free, and I believed him. Now that I think about it..."

He didn't continue. Outside the window, the sounds of Wenxiu and Long Xiaoni laughing and talking drifted in, along with the sizzling of chicken fat as it hit the pan. This ordinary, everyday atmosphere created a strangely absurd contrast with his current state of mind.

"Does Station Chief Chen know why the 'ghost' first appeared?"

Lin Yifan finally took a sip of the herbal tea, his brows furrowing almost imperceptibly.

"It's not for the Communist Party, nor for the Military Intelligence Bureau."

He placed the teacup back on the table, the porcelain making a soft sound as it touched the wood. "Just before the New Year, he saw the Japanese soldiers treating the people of Beiping like pigs and dogs. Since then, there have been no Japanese soldiers in Beiping. Even those who escaped can only hide in the sewers like rats."

Chen Gongshu fell silent. He recalled the plaque inscribed with "Fraternity and Sincerity" in the Director's office, the fierce competition for rewards after each operation, and how many times he had argued with Dai Li for the title of "Four Great Generals."

"Chen..." he began, his voice hoarse, "I've never met Chen before."

"So 'Ghost' wants you."

Lin Yifan stood up, walked to Chen Gongshu, and looked down at the once-powerful Kuomintang station chief. "I want you to be truly loyal to this country, loyal to the Chinese people. I want you to change your way of life. Kill those who deserve to be killed, protect those who deserve to be protected, instead of being a tool in the hands of powerful figures, used and discarded."

Chen Gongshu raised his head. In the backlight, the young man's face was blurred, only his eyes were surprisingly clear—not fanatical, not seductive, but a kind of almost cold clarity, like well water in the depths of winter, reflecting himself and seeing the bottom.

"Change my way of life..." he murmured, repeating these four words, and suddenly remembered many years ago when he was still at the Whampoa Military Academy.

At that time, he also thought about becoming a true soldier, protecting his country and its people.

But what happened next? What happened next was Dai Li's appreciation, the title of "Four Great Generals," the gold-trimmed chairs at the headquarters of the Military Intelligence Bureau, and the darkness of that rainy night in Hanoi that sixteen guns couldn't penetrate.

"I agreed," he heard his own voice, "to the Military Intelligence Bureau..."