Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

April 4, 1956, the 4rd day of the second month of the lunar calendar, the eve of Qingming Festival.

A chilly breeze swept through the dense forest atop Victoria Peak, whistling softly against the villa's floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, warm yellow light, like melted butter, gently bathed the living room. The mahogany table gleamed, reflecting the dappled light of the crystal chandelier overhead. The air was filled with the sweet scent of fresh grass and the rich aroma of red bean paste—the freshly made qingtuan (sweet green rice dumplings) by Chen Xueru.

The He family sat together, on the table besides a large plate of emerald green glutinous rice balls, several dishes of exquisite Cantonese dim sum, and a pot of warm Pu'er tea. The glutinous rice balls were round and shiny, like jade beads just picked from the morning dew. The glutinous rice flour was kneaded until smooth and fine, wrapping a sweet but not cloying red bean paste filling, and steamed to perfection.

He Yushui picked one up, feeling a cool, soft touch on her fingertips. She couldn't wait to take a small bite. The soft, chewy dumpling melted in her mouth, carrying the unique fragrance of mugwort mixed with the sweetness of red bean paste. Warm, sweet juice overflowed from the corners of her mouth. Her mouth was covered in pale green, like a little rabbit that had stolen some grass. She asked indistinctly, "Auntie, tomorrow is Qingming Festival. Are we going back to Beijing to sweep the tombs?" Her voice still carried the sticky, chewy texture of the green rice dumpling.

Chen Xueru was picking at the water chestnut cake on a plate with a silver skewer when she heard this. She looked up, her gaze gently sweeping over He Yushui's nose, which was covered in green powder, before turning to He Damin, who was sitting in the main seat. Her fingers were slender, her nails neatly trimmed, and a warm jade bracelet on her wrist slid gently with her movements, making a soft clinking sound.

He Damin put down his white porcelain teacup, the bottom of which made a soft "tap" as it touched the table. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then relaxed, and he slowly shook his head: "I'm not going back. I've asked Teacher Yan to look after your mother's grave. I'll go back another time when I have the chance." His voice was not loud, but carried an undeniable steadiness, like an old pine tree in the mountains, silent yet powerful.

He Yushui's anticipation dimmed slightly, and her little mouth pouted slightly, but she was quickly attracted by the deliciousness of the green rice dumplings. She nodded, lowered her head, and continued to eat them in small bites, her cheeks bulging out as if she had two round beans stuffed inside.

He Yuzhu sat next to his sister, holding a green rice dumpling in his hand, but didn't move it much. He looked at He Damin with some hesitation in his eyes, and after a while, he muttered in a low voice, "Uncle, then my father..." His voice was so soft that it was like a mosquito's hum.

He Daqing, Qin Huairu, and their young son He Yuliang lived in a smaller detached house next door. The yard of that house was always neatly kept, planted with various flowers and plants whose names they didn't know. Since the family moved to Hong Kong, He Daqing seemed like a different person; he became increasingly quiet, spending his days tending to the plants in the yard, or sitting in a wicker chair on the porch, holding his youngest son Yuliang, staring at him for hours on end, his eyes vacant, lost in thought. The two brothers rarely visited; when they did meet, it was only a few simple greetings.

"You and your brother can go visit your father tomorrow," He Damin said calmly, picking up his chopsticks, taking a piece of crystal shrimp dumpling, "I have something to do tonight."

Upon hearing this, Chen Xueru glanced quickly at He Damin, her eyes filled with a barely perceptible hint of inquiry and worry, but she didn't ask anything. She simply lowered her head and gently stirred the sugar water in the bowl with a small spoon. She knew that asking He Damin wouldn't make a difference if he didn't want to talk about it.

Night, like a giant black velvet cloth, slowly enveloped the entire summit of Victoria Peak. The lights in the villa gradually went out, leaving only a few dim nightlights in the corridor and living room. The wind outside seemed to pick up speed, occasionally carrying the faint murmur of the city below, like distant whispers in a dream.

He Yushui had been playing all day and was so sleepy that her eyelids were drooping. She went to bed early, her little face flushed and her breathing even. He Yuzhu also went back to his room. Before closing the door, he glanced back at the light still on in the living room, hesitated for a moment, and then gently closed the door.

In the master bedroom on the second floor, Chen Xueru leaned against the headboard, holding an open book in her hands, but her eyes weren't on the pages. She looked at He Damin standing by the window. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting a hazy silver glow on him and outlining his tall, slightly lonely figure. He stood there quietly, like a silent statue, seemingly blending into the night outside the window.

"Are you going out?" Chen Xueru's soft voice broke the silence of the room.

"Hmm." He Damin didn't turn around; his voice sounded somewhat ethereal as the night wind blew in through the window.

"Is it dangerous?" she asked again, her fingers unconsciously tracing the smooth edges of the book pages. She knew that her husband would occasionally go out late at night like this over the years, and each time he came back, there seemed to be a subtle change in his aura, but she never asked for details, only worried silently.

He Damin finally turned around, walked to the bedside, and sat down beside her. He reached out and gently took her slightly cool hand in his. His palm was broad and warm, carrying a reassuring strength. "It's not dangerous," he said, looking into her eyes, his gaze deep and firm. "Come back before dawn."

Chen Xueru looked at her reflection in his eyes, where there was reassurance and promise. She nodded and didn't ask any more questions. She had long been used to this kind of waiting and vaguely guessed that it might be related to the "cultivation" he often mentioned. He always reassured her about those worlds she couldn't understand in the simplest way.

He Damin leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her smooth forehead, like a feather brushing against her skin. "Sleep."

He rose, walked to the window again, and gently pushed it open. A night breeze, carrying dampness and a faint salty smell of the sea, immediately rushed in, stirring the curtains and a few strands of hair on his forehead. In the distance, the lights of Victoria Harbour twinkled in the night, like an overturned jewelry box.

He Damin took a deep breath, and the salty wind filled his lungs, invigorating him.

A thought arises—

Without any warning, his body seemed to transform into a wisp of smoke, vanishing silently from the spot and being absorbed into the small world of Yang Yang space within his body. Meanwhile, in the spot where he stood, a nearly transparent light and shadow slowly condensed and changed, finally transforming into a magnificent, incomparably powerful, purple-gold peregrine falcon. Its feathers gleamed with a metallic sheen under the moonlight, its eyes were sharp as lightning, and its wingspan was over ten feet.

"唳——"

A clear, melodious cry escaped almost unnoticed as the golden peregrine falcon took flight, soaring through the night sky like a bolt of purple lightning, breaking through the clouds and rising straight into the heavens. Powerful air currents were torn apart beneath its wings, producing a low, guttural whistle.

This time, its destination is the distant Northeast.

……

Kudanzaka, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo.

It's three in the morning. This city, known as "the city that never sleeps," has finally fallen asleep. The streets, bustling with traffic during the day, are now empty and silent, save for the occasional passing car, its engine sound particularly clear in the still night before quickly fading away, leaving only a brief echo. In the distance, the dim lights of nightclubs and bars emanate, with faint music and laughter drifting through the air, but these are quickly swallowed by the boundless darkness. The air is filled with a mixture of car exhaust, dust, and a faint scent of cherry blossoms.

He Damin's figure silently landed on an ancient cherry blossom tree. The trunk was thick and wrinkled with the marks of time, its branches stretching outwards like giant, outstretched hands. It was cherry blossom season, and the tree was ablaze with color, the pink and white blossoms layered upon each other, appearing like clouds and snow under the cool moonlight—a scene of dreamlike beauty, yet also carrying a hint of fragile vulnerability. The petals swayed gently in the breeze, a few occasionally drifting down silently, like a gentle snowfall.

He concealed himself, as if blending into the shadows of the tree trunks and leaves. His gaze passed over the layers of pink floral shadows and landed on the massive building more than a hundred meters away.

Yasukuni Shrine.

The massive vermilion torii gate stood like a silent giant in the night, its carvings appearing ancient and mysterious under the moonlight. Stone lanterns lined the long approach, appearing solemn and dignified by day, but now, under the moonlight and the dim lamplight, they glowed with a ghostly blue light, like pairs of peering eyes. The outlines of the main hall and the worship hall appeared exceptionally large in the hazy moonlight, their flying eaves and brackets, black tiles and white walls exuding an indescribable solemnity. Yet, upon closer inspection, one could sense a chilling and oppressive atmosphere, as if an invisible resentment floated in the air.

He Damin's divine sense had already scanned this place countless times, like a radar.

Here lie the remains of soldiers who died in Japan's modern wars—from the Boshin War and the Satsuma Rebellion, to the First Sino-Japanese War and the Russo-Japanese War, to the invasion of China that brought endless disaster to the people of China and other Asian countries, and finally, the Pacific War that led to Japan's self-destruction. More than 2.46 million names are densely recorded in the so-called "Book of Spirits," receiving worship and offerings from later generations.

Among them were fourteen Class A war criminals whose hands were stained with blood.

Tojo Hideki, Doihara Kenji, Matsui Iwane, Kimura Hyoutaro, Hirota Koki, Itagaki Seishiro...

Those names, like the most vicious curses, were etched into He Damin's heart, whether he was an ordinary Chinese man in his past life or possessed extraordinary powers in this life.

But at this moment, what he was concerned about was not just those heinous names, but the resentment, unwillingness, and obsession that had accumulated for nearly a century, as if they were tangible, and the countless souls that had been forcibly suppressed and distorted by the name of "Yasukuni".

Shrines should be quiet places to comfort the spirits of the dead and to express grief.

But the Yasukuni Shrine, from its inception, was not built to "pacify the souls." It was built for "exploitation"—to use the sacrifices of the fallen to revive militarism, to endorse wars of aggression, to glorify the killers as "heroes," and to whitewash aggression as a "holy war." Those soldiers who died in battle were driven by the state apparatus to burn, kill, and plunder in foreign lands during their lives, and after death, they were enshrined as so-called "heroic spirits," continuing to be used as tools to incite nationalism and glorify the history of aggression.

This is not a way to soothe the soul.

This is a prisoner of souls.

He Damin's divine sense, like the most precise instrument, clearly "saw" a vast and complex "barrier" deep beneath the shrine. This barrier, constructed from the faith and power of countless believers, the energy of annual official Japanese rituals, and some deeper force, resembled a massive, invisible cage. Within this barrier, countless fragmented and distorted souls were imprisoned, unable to transcend or reincarnate. Day after day, year after year, they endured the energy surges from those rituals—energy that the living perceived as respect and remembrance, but for these distorted dead, it was an endless torment and lashing, deepening and purifying their resentment.

A century of accumulated resentment has long since transformed into a bottomless sea of ​​grievances in this place.

His Soul Refining Banner is craving such "food".

He Damin drifted down from the cherry blossom tree, landing silently, his footsteps as light as a feather. Like a ghost, he silently passed the massive torii gate and stepped onto the approach to the temple. The stone path beneath his feet was cold and hard, damp with night dew. The stone lanterns on both sides of the path emitted a faint light, casting his shadow long and thin, which was quickly swallowed by darkness after he passed.

The shrine was deserted at night, eerily silent. Only a few eternal lamps flickered faintly in a distant corner, like will-o'-the-wisps. The chilling atmosphere in the air grew stronger, and faint, indistinct sobs could be heard, as if emanating from the depths of the earth.

He Damin stopped in front of the worship hall. The wooden structure of the worship hall appeared a deep black under the moonlight, and the huge doors were tightly closed, with intricate patterns carved on them, exuding an ancient and oppressive atmosphere.