Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Abe paused, his fingers holding the teaspoon. The television in the tea restaurant was showing the midday news, and the female anchor was reporting in a clear and articulate voice on the accidental crash of a wealthy businessman's yacht. When the camera cut to white roses floating on the sea, two men in suits at the next table suddenly fell silent, their eyes exchanging silent sparks.

"That's right!" The shop assistant wiped his wet hands on his apron, his voice even lower. "More than thirty people died in a week, all big shots! The newspapers say it was an accident, but who believes that?" He suddenly leaned closer, a whiff of sweat mixed with cheap tobacco wafting over him. "I have a friend who works at Jardine Matheson, and he said that when their boss died—"

Abe's pupils suddenly contracted.

"The whole building lost power. The backup generator was spinning like crazy, but it just wouldn't produce any electricity," the employee said, his voice trembling. "The next day, we found the boss sitting in his office, facing the floor-to-ceiling window, a pen in his hand, and... a smile on his face!"

The metal teaspoon clinked against the side of the cup. Abe felt the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end, as if a cold snake's tongue was licking his skin. The sunlight outside the window was clearly bright, but he felt as if countless eyes were hiding in the shadows of the tea restaurant.

This was the clue he was looking for.

Just as he was about to press for details about the trading company owner's death, a chill suddenly ran down the back of his neck. It wasn't the cold air from the air conditioner, but rather the feeling of someone pressing an ice cube directly onto his spine. Abe tried to turn around abruptly, but found his neck like a rusted hinge, and could only stare helplessly at his stiff face reflected in the glass window—there was no one behind him, but in the reflection, it seemed as if a pale hand was resting on his shoulder.

"From Japan?"

The sound was very soft, like a feather brushing against the ear, or like a deep-sea current exploding on the eardrum. Abe opened his mouth, but his throat felt like it was stuffed with a wad of waterlogged cotton, and he could only let out a hoarse, leaking sound. That icy breath climbed up his spine, solidifying into two icicles at his temples, making his vision go black.

"Since you're here, why not stay?"

Abe saw a strange smile on his face in the glass window, exactly like the trading company owner the shop assistant had described. He wanted to scream, but instead heard himself chuckle. The milk tea cup slipped from his fingers, and the brown liquid spread across the table like a pool of congealed blood.

The neon lights of Mong Kok lit up at four in the afternoon, casting a hazy purplish-blue hue over the shadows under the footbridge. Kamo Mitsuo squatted beside a trash can, the hem of his faded kimono stained with grease. He held a yellow talisman in his hand, his fingertips channeling spiritual energy like wisps of silk into the talisman's patterns, the damp air blurring the cinnabar runes into indistinct red dots.

"Buzz—"

The talisman suddenly trembled, wisps of green smoke rising from its edges. He Mao's heart skipped a beat. This was no ordinary yin energy; it contained a familiar spiritual energy fluctuation—his senior brother Abe! Just as he was about to chant the tracking incantation, the talisman suddenly burst into green flames, the flames flickering like a venomous snake's tongue, instantly licking his fingertips.

"hiss--"

Before the burning pain even reached his brain, a clamp-like grip tightened on the back of his neck. The icy touch seeped in through his collar, like a block of iron pressed against his skin in the dead of winter. He Mao tried to counterattack with hand seals, but found that the spiritual energy in his dantian was like a frozen river, unable to even move his fingertips.

"No...don't..."

He turned his head with difficulty, catching a glimpse of a pale hand out of the corner of his eye. The fingernails were bluish-black, and a faint black mist swirled around the wrist. He Mao's pupils dilated suddenly—it was the hand of a shikigami! But the sheer power of the other's spiritual energy made his very soul tremble, like an ant looking up at a mountain.

Before his consciousness sank into darkness, he heard a cracking sound of bones dislocating, followed by a muffled thud as something heavy fell to the ground. Pedestrians on the overpass continued their hurried pace, no one noticing the figure in a kimono huddled beside the trash can. Only the rustling of plastic bags in the wind sounded like someone sobbing softly.

The crumbling walls of Kowloon Walled City resembled a gigantic monster in the twilight. Fuma Kojiro pressed himself against the dilapidated brick wall, his ninja attire blending seamlessly into the surrounding shadows. He could hear rats gnawing at wood three hundred meters away, and smell the mingled odors of mold and cheap perfume in the air, but what was most distinct was the ever-approaching presence.

Like the icy currents of a deep-sea trench, it carries a pressure that can freeze the soul.

His hand pressed against the kunai at his waist, his knuckles turning white from the force. As the youngest Jonin of the Iga school, he had fought the Yuki-onna atop Mount Fuji and assassinated the leader of a rival clan at the bottom of Osaka Bay, but now, even breathing was difficult for him. The aura didn't come from any specific direction, but surged in from all directions, like viscous ink, threatening to completely assimilate him, this drop of pure water.

"Thump."

The pain slipped through his powerless fingers, bouncing crisply on the ground. The Wind Demon closed his eyes in despair, awaiting death. But the expected agony didn't come. Instead, a warm current flowed into his head—like spring snow melting into frozen earth, instantly dispelling the chill from his limbs.

He opened his eyes in surprise and saw a hand hovering above his head. The hand was long and clean, with neatly trimmed nails, and a string of ordinary sandalwood prayer beads on the wrist. Feng Mo wanted to ask a question, but found his mind blank. Yesterday's mission, the family's honor, even his own name, had all vanished without a trace, as if erased by an eraser.

In his villa atop Victoria Peak, He Damin slowly opened his eyes. On the rosewood desk, three white porcelain teacups were steaming, the tea leaves at the bottom unfurling into complete buds. He got up and walked to the French windows. The lights of Victoria Harbour stretched out like a flowing galaxy beneath his feet, and the lights of cargo ships on the water resembled scattered pearls.

"Three expendable pawns." He tapped lightly on the glass, his knuckles making a crisp sound as they struck the cool glass. "Those old foxes in Tokyo still love using such petty tricks."

Memories transmitted from the divided soul flowed through his mind: Abe Ryuichi's family lost power in the Kanto Incident, Kamo Mitsuo was a collateral descendant expelled from the main family, and Fuma Kojiro was burdened with a failed mission, waiting to commit seppuku as atonement. They were indeed the best pawns; no one would investigate their deaths.

He Damin snapped his fingers, and three figures suddenly appeared in the center of the study. Abe's cherry blossom badge was askew on his collar, Kamo's kimono was stained, and Fuma's ninja mask had slipped down to his chin—their eyes were vacant, and they wore eerie smiles, like three exquisite marionettes.

"Low-level cultivators don't even bother to collect the Soul Refining Banner." He Damin shook his head and waved his hand casually.

The French windows slid open silently, letting in the sea breeze that carried the scent of the ocean, ruffling his clothes. Three figures, like kites with broken strings, plummeted one after another from a hundred meters in the air. Three brief black shadows streaked across the night sky, followed by the muffled thud of heavy objects hitting the water, gently swallowed by the sound of the waves.

As the morning sun pierced the clouds, marine police patrol boats were salvaging floating debris in Victoria Harbour. Veteran officer Uncle Li exhaled a smoke ring, squinting at the white dot on the distant sea: "Which drunkard fell in again?"

"Officer Li, they're not drunkards!" Young Constable Zhang's voice was filled with panic. "There are three people! All dressed in strange clothes!"

Three bodies lay side by side on the deck, seawater dripping from their clothes and forming small puddles. The forensic pathologist frowned during the examination: "No external injuries, seawater in the lungs, suggests drowning. But..." He lifted Abe's eyelids; his pupils were already cloudy. "The livor mortis is wrong; it looks like he's been dead for more than twelve hours."

The news quickly reached the police headquarters, and three more unidentified body numbers appeared in the archives. A short news item appeared in the corner of the social section of the newspaper, with the headline "Three unidentified bodies found floating in Victoria Harbour, police appeal to the public for clues." The accompanying picture showed three stretchers covered with white sheets being carried ashore, the white sheets fluttering slightly in the sea breeze, resembling three eerie white flowers.

In his study atop Victoria Peak, He Damin held a celadon teacup, the steam from the tea obscuring his features. Chen Xueru quietly entered, draping a camel-colored cashmere shawl over his shoulders: "Aren't you cold standing here so early in the morning?" Her fingertips brushed against his earlobe, the cool touch causing her to furrow her brow slightly.

"It's not cold." He Damin turned around and held the teacup to her lips. "Try this year's pre-Qingming Longjing tea."

Chen Xueru took a sip of hot tea, her gaze falling on the newspaper behind him. Next to the news in the social section, the entertainment section was reporting on the sudden cancellation of a visit to Hong Kong by the president of a Japanese conglomerate. She put down her teacup and adjusted his shawl: "Those in Tokyo will understand, won't they?"

He Damin gazed out the window at the calm sea, where sunlight danced on the shimmering surface like countless golden scales. In the distance, the shadows of the marine police patrol boats had become tiny black dots as they slowly sailed into international waters.

"Yes," he said softly, his fingertip tracing an invisible line on the glass. "They are the best at understanding the language of death."

The Longjing tea in the teacup slowly unfurled in the hot water, like a sleeping green sprite. Meanwhile, beneath the surface of Victoria Harbour, three unidentified corpses drifted slowly into the deep sea with the ocean currents, their empty eye sockets staring at the azure water, and an eerie smile frozen on their lips.