Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

With the acquisitions of Wing On Bank and Union Bank finalized, the ripples in Hong Kong's financial sector gradually subsided, much like the surface of a lake tossed with a pebble. Ho Ta-min's life also seemed to return to its usual routine, appearing outwardly calm and uneventful.

Every morning, just as dawn breaks and the waters of Victoria Harbour still carry the chill of the night, He Damin is already standing before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window in his study. The windowpane is spotless, like a giant crystal, framing the view outside as a flowing painting. He watches the cargo ships slowly move in the distance, like sleeping giants awakening, and watches the seawater gradually change from deep blue to a soft bluish-gray, then be tinged with a warm golden-red by the rising sun. The sea breeze, carrying a salty, damp scent, drifts through the half-open window, gently brushing his face, carrying a hint of coolness.

In the backyard, He Yuzhu's shouts as he practiced his boxing rang out precisely on time. "Hah! Hah!" Each shout was full of energy, carrying a fierce force, and the sound of his fists cutting through the air was clearly audible, each strike like a tap on the tranquility of the morning. The sound wasn't noisy; instead, it gave people a sense of peace and was full of power.

Next to the training ground was a small lawn, where He Yushui was learning Cantonese from Li Sanmei. The little girl's voice was as clear as a wind chime, each word spoken earnestly yet with a touch of childishness: "Dad, Mom, good morning..." Li Sanmei patiently corrected her pronunciation, occasionally laughing at her, her laughter as warm and comforting as sunshine.

In the living room, Chen Xueru and Chen Wenhua were practicing their English conversation. Her pronunciation was becoming more and more standard, with a unique charm. Chen Wenhua, having studied abroad, would occasionally point out subtle issues with her intonation. The two spoke softly, one sentence at a time, but their voices were high-spirited and energetic.

Everything proceeded smoothly, like a well-wound clock ticking steadily. The maids were cleaning quietly, and the aroma of breakfast wafted from the kitchen—the rich scent of milk and the crispy aroma of toasted bread.

But He Damin's heart, like that cargo ship sailing into the distance, was no longer in this peaceful harbor. His thoughts, carried by the wind, crossed the mountains of Hong Kong Island, crossed the South China Sea, and flew towards a more distant, broader, and more indistinct future. That future was a fragment deep in his memory, the meaning of his rebirth.

That night, all was quiet. Chen Xueru got up to use the bathroom and found the light in her husband's study still on. She put on a soft silk robe, went barefoot, and quietly walked to the study door. The door was ajar, letting in warm light, which also illuminated He Damin's solitary figure standing by the window. His figure appeared somewhat thin in the light, yet unusually upright, as if bearing a heavy burden.

Chen Xueru gently pushed open the door and walked over, leaning softly against his shoulder from behind. Her cheek was pressed against his back, and she could feel the warmth of his body and his steady heartbeat. The sleeve of her robe slipped down, revealing her smooth arms, which were slightly cool.

"What are you thinking about? You've been standing here for so long." Her voice was very soft, like a feather brushing against the heart.

He Damin didn't turn around, but simply reached out and took her hand that was resting on his waist. Her hand was slightly cool, and he enveloped it with the warmth of his palm.

"Xue Ru," he began, his voice low and calm, "do you think it's convenient to do business at banks these days?"

Chen Xueru was taken aback; the question was a bit sudden. She thought for a moment and honestly replied, "It's convenient. You go to the counter, fill out a form, and wait in line. Compared to banks in Beijing, it's much better; at least it's regulated and safe." In her view, wasn't that what banks were all about?

"What if one day," He Damin said slowly, his gaze still fixed on the deep night outside the window and the scattered lights in the distance, "you could handle all your business from home without having to go to the bank?"

Chen Xueru was completely stunned. She lifted her head from He Damin's shoulder, her face full of doubt: "At home? How do you do it? There's a wall between us, how do you deposit the money and how do you withdraw it?" It sounded like a fantasy.

"Use this." He Damin turned his head and pointed to the black telephone with a dial pad on the desk. It was the most advanced communication tool of the time, with sleek lines and a matte finish under the light. "Or use something even more advanced than a telephone."

He turned to face Chen Xueru. Her eyes were large and bright, filled with confusion and curiosity. He Damin knew that explaining concepts like "Internet," "digital banking," and "mobile payment" to her now was like describing how airplanes fly to an ancient person—too distant and too abstract.

But he knew very well that the real future was not built by the manual service at counter after counter, nor by the records in paper passbooks.

What should the banks of the future be like? He envisioned it in his mind: no more queues, long lines would disappear; no more forms to fill out, cumbersome forms would be replaced by the touch of a fingertip; and banks would become invisible, requiring no step into a branch. Customers could sit on their sofas at home, or anywhere else, and simply tap a few buttons on a glowing screen to complete account opening, transfers, wealth management, loans—everything you could imagine.

That's called a digital bank. An invisible and intangible bank, yet it's everywhere.

The foundation of digital banking is the internet—a vast network connecting the entire world. The backbone of the internet is fiber optic cables—those thick cables buried underground and laid on the seabed. And at the core of these cables is glass fiber—a type of glass fiber much thinner than a human hair. This incredibly thin material can transmit data equivalent to thousands of movies in a single second, a speed beyond imagination.

Chen Xueru doesn't need to understand these things now. All she needs to know is that her husband is planning something amazing again.

But He Damin knew that time waits for no one. If he waited until someone else invented fiber optics and fiber optic cables became widespread before he started laying the groundwork, it would be too late. Opportunities often lie hidden before others even realize them. What he needed to do was to quietly plant the seeds, water them, and wait for them to take root and sprout while everyone else was still groping in the dark.

The next day, He Damin locked himself in his study for the entire day. Even his lunch was brought in by Chen Xueru, but he only ate a few bites hastily, his mind completely elsewhere.

The study was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of his pages and the faint sounds of city noise drifting in from outside. He took a stack of clean white drawing paper from the drawer, along with several pencils and erasers of different sizes. Then, he took a deep breath and began to draw.

In his past life, his identity was more than just a top assassin. Perfect disguise was essential for completing special missions. He had infiltrated research institutions in multiple countries as a leading physicist. He studied profound theories, operated sophisticated instruments, and even published papers in top academic journals, exploring the propagation of light and the microscopic structure of matter. The theoretical knowledge of fiber optic communication—the principle of total internal reflection, how to make light continuously reflect within glass filaments without escaping; how to precisely control the refractive index difference between the core and cladding; the differences between single-mode and multimode fibers, and their respective applications; and fiber optic amplification technology doped with rare earth elements, how to prevent light signals from attenuating during long-distance transmission—this knowledge was etched into his mind, crystal clear and flawless.

He didn't need to invent fiber optics from scratch, nor did he need to grope in the dark and experience countless failures like the scientists of his predecessors. He only needed to reproduce the proven and effective knowledge from his memory, draw it on paper, and turn it into reality.

But problems soon arose.

Manufacturing optical fibers, especially high-quality fibers for long-distance communication, requires extremely precise equipment. High-temperature furnaces must be able to precisely control the temperature, reaching thousands of degrees Celsius, while ensuring uniform and stable temperature distribution. Drawing towers must be able to draw molten glass into fibers thinner than a human hair, maintaining a uniform diameter. Coating devices must evenly coat the surface of the drawn fibers with a protective layer. And there are screening machines used to test the fiber's strength and transmission performance. These devices simply did not exist in 1955. Even if similar prototypes existed, their precision would be far from meeting the requirements for producing communication optical fibers.

With his divine sense and true essence at the Nascent Soul stage, he could directly manipulate the arrangement of matter at the microscopic level, and perhaps barely be able to create optical fiber samples a few meters or tens of meters long to verify the theory. However, for large-scale production and to lay optical cables connecting the world, a massive amount of optical fiber would be needed, which would require industrialized production tools.

Tools don't appear out of thin air. Even the most skilled cook can't cook without rice; no matter how advanced a theory is, without the tools to implement it, it's just empty talk.

He Damin put down his pencil and rubbed his slightly sore temples. His gaze fell on the huge world map on the wall, hand-drawn based on his memories of his past life. On the map, the borders of various countries were marked with different colors, and the ocean was a deep blue. His gaze slowly moved, across the South China Sea, across the Taiwan Strait, and landed on the several islands arranged in an arc in the northeast—Japan.

Post-war Japan was in ruins, but also in the early stages of economic recovery. Numerous factories had closed due to the war and subsequent turmoil, leaving countless skilled workers unemployed and homeless. Among them were highly skilled technicians who had previously worked in top-tier optical instrument and precision machinery factories. They possessed exquisite glassmaking techniques, were familiar with the machining processes of precision parts, and understood complex mechanical principles. These were precisely the people he now lacked most.

More importantly, he didn't need to go through the normal recruitment process, explain to them why he wanted to manufacture this "uninvented" fiber optic equipment in 1955, worry about them leaking secrets, or pay them high salaries.

All he needs to do is—grab.

In the simplest, most direct way, and in line with his past style of doing things.