Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

April 5, 1956, Qingming Festival.

The sky over Tokyo had been gloomy since dawn, with low-hanging, leaden clouds like a heavy, soggy cotton ball suspended over the city. The wind was damp and cold, carrying the chill of early spring, stinging the face like needles. Sunlight? It was a rare commodity, seemingly swallowed up by the boundless grayness, stinging away even a sliver of struggling light. This city, ravaged by war and rapidly rebuilt, was permeated with an oppressive atmosphere more suffocating than the smoke of battle on Qingming Festival.

At 5:30 in the morning, the sound of the newspaper delivery bicycle bells pierced the quiet streets. Housewives, still half-asleep, opened their doors and took the newspapers, their eyes damp with ink. But as their gaze swept over the headlines of the social section, their sleepy eyes were instantly filled with horror and disbelief.

"Shibuya Night Massacre: Gang Leader Murders Seven Henchmen Before Jumping to His Death—Blood Flows Like a River, Brains Splattered on the Walls!" "Shinjuku Kabukicho Fire: Suspected Gang Fight, Flames Spread to Three Shops, Casualties Unknown, Acrimonious Smell Found for Thousands!" "Six Members of a Family Hanged Themselves in Shinagawa Ward, Suicide Note with Bizarre Content—'They are calling, we must go!'"

The boldface on the newspaper was like congealed blood, shocking to the eye. Ordinary citizens sat at their tables, sipping warm miso soup while flipping through the newspaper, their brows furrowed, shaking their heads and sighing incessantly.

"Sigh, society is getting more and more chaotic these days." "Gang warfare, it was bound to happen sooner or later, it's just that this time it's gone on a huge scale." "That family of six... what a tragedy, what could they have possibly done?"

They discussed and lamented, attributing these news stories to yet another example of deteriorating public security, or the tragic misfortunes of some individuals. No one connected these events, occurring in different areas and of different types. After all, Tokyo nights, especially in those brightly lit, bustling districts, are never peaceful. Gang fights, crimes of passion, debt disputes—every year brings a few shocking cases, already commonplace topics of conversation among citizens.

But they didn't know that this was just the beginning. A long-brewing storm was only just beginning to reveal its ferocious side.

Victoria Peak, early morning.

As dawn broke, golden sunlight struggled to pierce the thin mist of Hong Kong, spilling onto the terrace of a villa on Victoria Peak overlooking the entire harbor. The wooden floor carried the cool morning air, and the air was filled with the fragrance of flowers and the salty, damp scent of the sea breeze.

Chen Xueru was awakened by the crisp chirping of several early birds outside her window. Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was the exquisite European-style chandelier on the ceiling, followed by the empty space beside her. Turning to the side, she saw He Damin already standing before the huge French windows, holding a steaming cup of green tea. The rising steam blurred his profile, but the morning sun outside cast a soft golden glow, making his already deep features even more defined. His expression was calm and composed, his gaze fixed on the distant sea, as if he were simply appreciating the tranquility of the morning, showing no sign of anything amiss.

"Awake?" He seemed to sense her gaze, slowly turned around, a faint smile on his lips, walked to the bedside, and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on her smooth forehead. The kiss carried the slight bitterness of the tea and the coolness of his fingertips, yet it instantly calmed Chen Xueru's heart.

Chen Xueru blinked, her long eyelashes like two small fans. She stretched out her arm and lazily wrapped it around his neck, her voice still hoarse and soft from just waking up: "Last night... when did you come back?" Her voice was soft, with a hint of dependence.

"It was almost dawn," He Damin answered truthfully, reaching out to tuck the blanket around her. "Seeing you sleeping soundly and breathing evenly, I didn't disturb you." His voice was deep and gentle, like a morning breeze brushing across a lake.

Chen Xueru nodded, asking no further questions. She was already used to her husband's late-night outings and vaguely knew it was related to the mysterious "spiritual practice" he spoke of. Those things were beyond her comprehension, but she chose to believe him. As long as he returned safely, she wouldn't pry into details that might make her uneasy. She simply reached out and gently smoothed the barely perceptible weariness between his brows.

The atmosphere at the breakfast table was warm and peaceful. On an exquisite white porcelain plate sat steaming hot custard buns, crystal shrimp dumplings, and steamed chicken feet, next to a bowl of congee with preserved egg and lean pork. He Yushui, a lively little girl, was holding a custard bun, taking small bites, her lips smeared with golden custard filling, like a little kitten stealing a treat. As she ate, she curiously looked up at He Damin, her eyes sparkling: "Uncle, I had a really strange dream last night. I dreamt of lots and lots of people fighting in a dark alley. They were holding knives, shouting loudly, and there was blood…it was so scary!" A trace of lingering fear still lingered on her face, and her little hands unconsciously gripped her chopsticks tightly.

He Damin put down his chopsticks, looked at her gently, his eyes deep: "Oh? What kind of people are fighting?"

"I couldn't see their faces, but there were so many people, all crammed together, like they were crazy..." He Yushui frowned, trying hard to recall, "And there was a lot of blood, all red, flowing everywhere."

"Dreams are all fake." He Damin's tone was as gentle as water. "Children have rich imaginations, don't be afraid. Maybe she played too wildly during the day." He reached out and gently ruffled He Yushui's hair, which felt soft to the touch.

He Yushui nodded as if she understood, but children are always forgetful. Soon her attention was drawn to the shrimp dumplings on the plate, and she started chattering about the new words she had learned at school, complaining about which classmate had taken her eraser, and excitedly saying that she had received a little red flower.

He Yuzhu slurped down his porridge, occasionally grinning when his younger sister teased him, and chiming in with a few words to tell her to eat slowly so she wouldn't choke. He didn't pay much attention to his sister's dream—kids, after all, whatever stories they heard or cartoons they watched during the day, they were bound to have strange dreams at night, nothing unusual. He was more concerned about the work at the construction site that day, and whether he could finish early and come home to be with his sister.

Only Chen Xueru, while refilling He Damin's tea, inadvertently touched his slightly cool fingertips. She looked up and glanced at him quickly. In that glance, there was inquiry, worry, and a hint of barely perceptible tension, but in the end, all emotions subsided, turning into a soft question: "Are you... going out again tonight?" Her voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

He Damin took the warm teacup, feeling the warmth of her palm against his fingertips. He didn't answer immediately, but gently held her hand. Her hand was soft and warm, giving him a strange sense of security. After a few seconds, he slowly nodded: "Yes. I've been busy these past few days." His tone was calm, but Chen Xueru could feel his grip on her hand tighten slightly.

Chen Xueru didn't ask any more questions. She simply nodded quietly, refilled her cup with hot water, and then lowered her head to silently eat the porridge in her bowl. Some things, if he didn't say, she wouldn't ask. She only needed to know that he would come back.

into the night.

Tokyo, Shinjuku.

The clock struck one in the morning. The daytime hustle and bustle of Kabukicho had long since faded, leaving behind a complex mix of alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, along with a faint, almost imperceptible, smell of blood. The neon lights still flickered, but seemed listless, their light filtering through the thin mist to cast an ambiguous and hazy glow. Most nightclubs had closed, with only a few still displaying their glaring signs. Occasionally, a drunken customer would stagger out, leaving behind a few incoherent curses in Japanese.

Deep in the alley, a small shop with a wooden "Izakaya" sign had just pulled down its roller shutter. A middle-aged man in a flashy silk suit staggered out. His hair was greasy, his tie was askew, and his face was flushed an unnaturally. He was cursing and reeking of alcohol. His name was Yamada Ichiro, a low-ranking member of the local yakuza "Matsuba-kai." He had been drinking with some of his men until late that night over territorial disputes, but they hadn't reached an agreement. Instead, he had been forced to drink a lot of alcohol and was now seething with anger, wondering where he could find a woman to vent his frustrations on.

The night wind carried a chill, making him shiver and slightly sobering him up. He grumbled as he pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and was about to light it when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

At the entrance of the alley, someone was standing there.

The man was dressed entirely in black, even his hat and mask were black, making him seem to blend into the darkness. He stood with his back to the only dim streetlamp at the alley entrance, the light outlining his tall and solitary figure, but his face remained obscured. Only his eyes, in the darkness, gleamed with an eerie, inhuman cold light through the gaps in his mask, like two clusters of will-o'-the-wisps burning.

Yamada Ichiro sobered up considerably in an instant, a chill running from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. Having spent over a decade in the underworld, he'd seen countless battles and bloodshed; his intuition told him this man was extremely dangerous. He instinctively reached for the pistol at his waist—an old Nambu Type 14, his trump card. But the moment his hand touched the cold grip, he froze.

It was those eyes.

Those eyes seemed to possess some kind of magic, like two bottomless whirlpools, firmly drawing his gaze. He felt something cold, sticky, and malicious was creeping into his mind like a venomous snake, following that gaze. He wanted to struggle, to look away, to scream, but his body was completely unresponsive; he could only stand there like a puppet, watching helplessly as that malice spread and took root in his brain.

Then, his eyes changed.

His eyes, which had been cloudy and intoxicated, gradually became empty, the pupils dilated, and lost focus. Then, an indescribable violence and madness erupted from the depths of his empty eyes like a volcanic eruption. The corners of his mouth began to stretch uncontrollably upwards, revealing an extremely eerie and chilling smile.

"Heh...heh heh..." A beastly growl escaped his throat.

A piercing, inhuman roar suddenly echoed through the alley, followed by a dull thud of something falling to the ground, the sickening sound of a blade piercing flesh, and the cracking sound of bones breaking. Blood splattered on the cold concrete, spreading rapidly and emitting a strong rusty smell.

A moment later, Yamada Ichiro emerged from the alley. He held a dagger stained with blood and bits of flesh, his face and flashy suit splattered with dark red bloodstains. His eyes were vacant, a strange smile playing on his lips, as he walked steadily toward his gang's headquarters at the other end of Shinjuku.

There, dozens of his sleeping "brothers" awaited him. Tonight was destined to be a sleepless night.

On the same night.

Shinagawa Ward, a slightly old apartment building.

It was 2:30 a.m. A middle-aged office worker was jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, his pajamas clinging tightly to his back, icy cold. He gasped for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. The pale moonlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, casting distorted, ghostly shadows on the floor.

His eyes were wide with terror as he stared intently at the yellowish water stains on the ceiling. He felt something stirring within him, like countless ants crawling on his mind, or like a dull saw ripping at his nerves. He remembered the newspaper article he'd read on the subway earlier that day—the tragic case of the family of six who had hanged themselves. He had remarked to his colleagues that the family must have faced some insurmountable obstacle to have acted so recklessly.

Now, he suddenly understood that impulse. A strong, uncontrollable sense of despair and destructive urge overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. Living was too exhausting. The pressure of work, the burden of family, the boss's scolding, his wife's complaints… everything was like a mountain, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. Maybe it's better to end it all. No, I can't go alone; if I'm going, I'll go together. On the road to the underworld, a family won't be alone.

Once the thought took hold, it spread like wildfire, instantly taking over his entire mind. He stood up, his eyes vacant, and staggered towards the kitchen with an unusually determined gait. The cold tiles beneath his feet felt nothing. He picked up a gleaming kitchen knife, its blade reflecting a chilling light in the pale moonlight.

Then he went to the bedroom, where his wife and two sleeping children were dreaming.

His hands were trembling slightly, and his knuckles were white from gripping the cleaver, but his steps did not falter in the slightest.

"Ichiro? What are you doing so late?" The wife was awakened by the slight noise of the door opening. She opened her eyes sleepily and when she saw her husband standing at the door with a gleaming kitchen knife in his hand, she was so frightened that her voice changed and she screamed shrilly.

The man named Ichiro stared at her blankly, his face expressionless, except for a slow, eerie smile that was exactly the same as the one Yamada Ichiro had in the alley.

"Let's go together," he said in a flat, emotionless tone. "On the road to the underworld, the whole family... will be together."

A piercing scream shattered the stillness of the night, only to fall abruptly, leaving behind a chilling silence and the rapidly spreading stench of blood in the air.

3 a.m., Shibuya.

The traffic lights at the intersection tirelessly changed colors, yet they couldn't illuminate the darkness at the street corner. Two groups, the "Inagawa-kai" and the "Sumiyoshi-kai," each numbering about twenty people, unexpectedly met here. They were all out "on business," whether collecting debts, guarding the premises, or simply patrolling their territory.

This was an utterly ordinary occurrence—the two gangs' territories intersected in Shibuya, constantly clashing. Occasionally, they would bump into each other, exchange a few glares and curse, and then go their separate ways to avoid unnecessary conflict. After all, if a real fight broke out, neither side would come out on top.