Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

While bending over to sort and classify the broken tiles, the father methodically arranged follow-up matters for his children. The disaster in the village was still ongoing, the injured needed care, and there were many other matters to attend to. The eldest brother, unable to teach recently, had given the school children a few days off to stay home and help with post-disaster reconstruction. Xingbao and Guixiang still had heavy responsibilities, staying home to take turns caring for the injured and managing the family's shop in their spare time to ensure a stable livelihood. Only the youngest, Weibao, seemed oblivious to the hardships of the post-disaster work, squatting to the side playing with broken tiles, mischievously throwing them around. Everyone watched with a mixture of helplessness and amusement, hoping he wouldn't cause any trouble or make things worse.

Night fell quietly, and with most of the household chores settled, everyone was exhausted after a long day. Xingbao, as usual, went to the backyard to close the chicken coop and count the hens. He suddenly realized the coop was quite empty; two laying hens were missing. Slightly surprised, he immediately called out into the house, "Mom, Mom, two hens are missing! They haven't come back to their coop yet, it's dark."

"Oh dear!" Mother stomped her foot angrily, sighing with a face full of frustration. "I was so busy with the aftermath of the disaster that I completely forgot about the chickens in the backyard! You siblings, hurry up and split up to look for them. See if you can find them. The village has been in chaos all day, everyone is exhausted, so it's fine if we can't find them! But those damned Japanese devils, they do nothing right, causing trouble for everyone!"

As soon as they finished speaking, the siblings immediately split up. Xingbao and Guixiang, carrying snake-scare and bird-scare sticks, carefully searched the bushes and edges of the fields behind the mountain, afraid that the two hens might be frightened and hiding in the shadows. The eldest brother went door to door, asking the neighbors quietly if anyone had accidentally seen their chickens. Even the youngest, Weibao, gripped his small stick and tapped and checked every corner of the shop, the cracks in the woodpile, and the eaves. They searched for almost half an hour, looking everywhere, but ultimately found nothing and had to return disappointed.

In rural villages, neighbors live in close-knit communities. Everyone knows how many poultry each household raises, their plumage, and appearance. No one dares to openly steal chickens to keep at home, as doing so would inevitably lead to discord and endless disputes among neighbors. In the past, if someone in the village secretly slaughtered and ate another's chicken, it would be impossible to hide, and nine times out of ten, it would cause a huge uproar.

But today's situation was special. The air raid had killed dozens of chickens and ducks in the village, some blown to death, others terrified. Father had even specially selected a few well-preserved dead chickens, cleaned them, and used them to feed the wounded. In this chaotic situation, it was highly likely that the two hens that had gone missing had been picked up and eaten by someone else, making it impossible to verify. Mother sighed helplessly, called her four children, who had scattered to search for the chickens, back to the front door, and uttered a few harsh words towards the village road in the night, which somewhat relieved her frustration.

The sudden loss of two laying hens has left everyone feeling somewhat disheartened, but with several elderly villagers still needing farewells, the funeral arrangements have already been properly made. For the elderly victims of the air raid, the villagers have worked together to erect a makeshift mourning hall in the threshing ground at the village entrance.

The entire village is currently in a state of chaos, juggling the tasks of caring for the wounded, providing medical treatment, clearing debris, repairing damaged houses, and restoring the village's appearance. With everyone stretched thin, they have had to simplify everything, reducing all funeral procedures. As night falls, villagers will gradually gather at the threshing ground to bow and pay their respects, expressing their deepest sorrow in the simplest way. The next morning, the coffins of the elderly will be taken to the mountains for a peaceful burial.

In the chaos of war, human life was as fragile as grass. There were no grand funerals, no lavish offerings. On this devastated land, to find a peaceful and quiet place to rest in peace was the greatest comfort and final dignity for the deceased during those difficult years. The entire village silently etched this deep sorrow in their hearts, secretly hoping that when the Japanese invaders were completely driven out, the country would be at peace, and future generations would be able to establish stable lives, they would then properly hold funerals for the elders, rebuild their graves, and properly comfort the spirits of the departed.

For some time afterward, Japanese warplanes continued to occasionally fly over the mountain village, their low roars repeatedly breaking the tranquility of the mountains. However, after several reconnaissance flights, the enemy planes never encountered any more transport convoys and, finding no targets, eventually had to leave disappointed. Each time the planes roared, the entire village tensed up, and every household hurriedly closed their doors for safety, but each time it was a false alarm. The villagers privately remarked that the Japanese bombs, after all, didn't come from nowhere; they had limits and wouldn't be rained down indefinitely.

The tense battle raged on, from the beginning of autumn until the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival. After more than a month of back-and-forth fighting, the invading Japanese army finally ran out of manpower and suffered heavy casualties, unable to advance further south. They ultimately chose to break out and retreat across the board, withdrawing to the north of the Xinqiang River, where they relied on the riverbank's strong fortifications to hold out stubbornly. The battle lines of both sides were thus stabilized, and a new stalemate was formed on both sides of the Xinqiang River. The fierce Second Battle of Changsha had come to an end.

News of the victory reached the remote mountain village. Upon hearing of the great triumph, with the report that our army had killed over 17,000 Japanese soldiers, firmly defended the Xiangbei defense line, and protected the thousands of homes behind them, the entire village erupted in jubilation. The fear, repression, terror, and frustration that had been building up in the villagers' hearts for over a month burst forth at that moment.

The shadow of days of bombing, the devastation of ruins, the pain of separation and death, and the constant anxiety and trepidation all vanished with the news of victory. Adults and children alike rushed out of their homes, running wildly along the village roads, shouting and cheering, letting their burning joy wash away the suffering of the past days. Those who have experienced war truly understand the preciousness of peace; the homes they fought so hard to protect, the victory won through bloodshed, were enough to bring tears to everyone's eyes and allow them to express their overwhelming emotions.

The village's post-disaster reconstruction is progressing steadily, and the wounded are gradually stabilizing. A few days ago, Xingbao found a safe excuse: his family's supply of Panax notoginseng for preparing traditional Chinese medicine had run out, and the village's medical facilities were inadequate; lingering would only delay the wounded's recovery. He then politely sent all the wounded soldiers away, allowing them to return to their units for proper medical treatment via a passing convoy. After the air raid, a large number of villagers suffered internal injuries, and every household was relying on herbal medicine for recuperation. It wasn't that Xingbao was unwilling to provide good medicine to save people; it was just that the rare Panax notoginseng in his spatial storage was too valuable. Taking out a large quantity suddenly would easily attract the attention and suspicion of others, causing unnecessary trouble.

After much deliberation, he had no choice but to dig up the several mature Panax notoginseng plants he had specially planted in the backyard to conceal their presence in front of everyone. These Panax notoginseng plants were just ripe and their medicinal properties had not yet reached their peak, but they were the only medicinal materials he could openly offer. He did not keep any seeds or hoard them, but distributed them to the villagers at a loss, half selling and half giving them away, to be used in conjunction with the herbal decoctions prescribed by his master. Thanks to this treatment, the villagers with minor injuries, although not completely healed, were able to work normally and not have their livelihoods disrupted; the seriously injured also saw their conditions stabilize completely and gradually improve, no longer needing to stay in bed all day, only needing to continue taking ordinary herbal decoctions and resting for a while to slowly recover.