Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Tokyo, Asakusa.

The afternoon sun was pressed low by thick clouds, carrying a damp, sultry heat, like a wet cotton wad pressed against one's face. The hustle and bustle of Senso-ji Temple drifted in from several streets away; one could vaguely hear the laughter of tourists and the shouts of vendors. That vibrant, everyday life, however, couldn't penetrate even a fraction of the unassuming torii gate on the street corner.

The torii gate was vermilion, but most of the lacquer had peeled off, revealing the dark wood beneath, like the dried wrinkles on an old man's face. Beyond the torii gate was a stone path half-hidden by weeds, with a few tenacious moss sprouting from the cracks, glistening with morning dew, making it slippery and cold to walk on. A faint scent of sandalwood mingled with the smell of damp earth and decaying wood, and a barely perceptible…stench of blood, deliberately masked, yet impossible to escape the keen senses of a cultivator.

The inner shrine of that nameless shrine was dimly lit. The only source of light came from a flickering oil lamp in the center of the ceiling, its dim yellow glow barely illuminating the small space. The walls were old wooden planks, on which hung a few faded ukiyo-e prints, the eyes of the monsters in the paintings seeming to move slightly in the shadows. The floor was covered with worn-out tatami mats, which made a slight "rustling" sound when stepped on, carrying the musty smell accumulated over the years.

The atmosphere was so heavy it was almost palpable, or rather, it had solidified into a cold, heavy weight on everyone's hearts, making even breathing difficult.

Saibe Daisuke sat cross-legged in the main seat, dressed in a dark kimono embroidered with barely perceptible family crests. His gray hair was meticulously combed and held in place with a wooden hairpin, but the throbbing veins on his temples betrayed his inner turmoil. Before him lay a newly delivered secret report, its paper specially made, gleaming with a cold, hard sheen, its edges slightly curled. The report's contents were simple—the three monks sent to Hong Kong had been confirmed dead.

Saibu's fingers were rough, his knuckles white from the force he exerted. He stroked the paper again and again, as if trying to discern something from it. The handwriting on the secret report was in special ink, carrying a faint rusty smell. Location of death: Victoria Harbour. Cause of death: Drowning.

But everyone present knew that it couldn't have been drowning.

Three cultivators at least at the peak of the Qi Refining stage wouldn't drown even if they fell into the Pacific Ocean, so how could they possibly drown in a small Victoria Harbour? Moreover, they were on a secret mission, so how could they be exposed so easily and die in such a... suspicious way?

“Three hours,” Zhai Bu slowly began, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded, each word carrying a heavy weight, “they all died within three hours of entering Hong Kong.”

His voice echoed in the silent inner chamber, carrying a chilling emptiness. The flame of the oil lamp flickered, lengthening and shortening the shadows on everyone's faces.

Hattori Hanzo stood by the window, his back to the crowd. The window was covered with paper, and the light from outside filtered in, outlining a blurry black silhouette against him. He wore a tight-fitting black outfit, and a simple, ancient-looking short sword hung at his waist, the cloth strips wrapped around the hilt faded. His body stood ramrod straight, like a javelin driven into the ground, completely still. The occasional hoarse cawing of crows outside the window added to the chilling atmosphere.

His voice came from the shadows, low and cold, like a winter wind sweeping across bare treetops: "What does this mean?"

"This proves that there are indeed cultivators in Hong Kong." A young voice rang out. The speaker was an Onmyoji sitting at the end of the table, probably in his early twenties, with a somewhat youthful face but sharp eyes. He wore traditional Onmyoji attire, his white hunting robe embroidered with simple incantations. His fingers unconsciously tapped his knees, his tone carrying a barely suppressed excitement and tension, "And their cultivation is extremely high. Anyone who could find and kill us within three hours must be at least at the Foundation Establishment stage."

"Foundation Establishment stage?" Hattori whirled around, a mocking sneer on his face. His face was hidden in shadow, only his eyes, gleaming with a cold light like poisoned daggers, were visible. "To be able to simultaneously detect three low-level cultivators infiltrating from different directions, and to kill them without leaving any trace of the battle—you think it's just Foundation Establishment?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable air of authority. The young Onmyoji's face paled, he opened his mouth, but ultimately lowered his head and remained silent.

Silence fell once more in the inner chamber, broken only by the occasional crackling of the oil lamp. The air seemed to grow colder, and the faint smell of blood seemed to intensify.

"At least the Golden Core stage." Zhai Bu slowly uttered two words, each one seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a heavy sense of determination.

Golden Core Stage.

These three words, like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, stirred up ripples in everyone's heart.

Following the 1949 covenant, all cultivators at the Golden Core stage and above retired from the world. That covenant was forged through lessons learned in blood and fire, and its conclusion was marked by the lives of countless cultivators. The covenant stipulated that Golden Core cultivators must not interfere in worldly affairs or display their divine abilities in the mortal realm; otherwise, they would face a joint annihilation by all forces in the cultivation world.

But what if someone breaks the contract?

This thought, like a venomous snake, burrowed into everyone's mind, bringing a chill to the bone.

"What should we do?" In the corner, a middle-aged cultivator who had been silent all along couldn't help but ask. His voice trembled slightly, clearly frightened by the words "Golden Core Stage".

Saibu remained silent for a long time, so long that everyone thought he wouldn't answer. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, his gaze had returned to calm, but beneath that calm was a deeper undercurrent.

"For the time being... we will not send any more people."

He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. His eyes were sharp as an eagle's, as if he could see through everyone's thoughts.

"Send ordinary intelligence agents. Gather intelligence on ordinary people using ordinary methods." He paused, his tone resolute, "Find out that cultivator's identity, background, cultivation level, and... why he targeted Tokyo."

"Ordinary intelligence personnel?" Hattori frowned, his brows furrowing into a deep frown. "What could they possibly find? Those ordinary mortals can't even sense spiritual energy, how could they possibly find the trace of a Golden Core cultivator?"

"At least we can find out about that monk's public activities in Hong Kong," Saibu said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "He still needs to live, he still needs to interact with people. As long as he comes into contact with ordinary people, he will leave traces. Eating, lodging, shopping... there will always be clues. We just need to collect these traces and then analyze them."

He picked up the secret report on the table and patted it lightly: "We cannot send any more cultivators to their deaths before we have figured out his background."

Everyone nodded silently. Although unwilling, this was indeed the only solution at the moment. Golden Core cultivators were beings they could no longer contend with. The atmosphere in the inner hall remained heavy, but at least there was a clear direction, and the huge weight pressing on their hearts seemed to ease somewhat.

Meanwhile, in London.

Big Ben had just struck three in the afternoon, its deep chimes echoing across the Thames and reverberating throughout London. The headquarters of the Holy Shield Council was hidden beneath an unassuming Gothic building, resembling an abandoned library, its entrance covered in dark green ivy, giving it an ancient and mysterious feel.

Fifty meters underground, inside a round table conference room.

This place is completely different from the nameless shrines in Tokyo. There are no dim oil lamps, only soft white light embedded in the walls, illuminating the entire space as if it were daytime. The conference table is made of a single, massive piece of black marble, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the shadows of the twelve high-backed chairs around it and the people sitting in them. A faint smell of disinfectant and metal mingles with the rich aroma of coffee in the air. Several maps hang on the walls, marked with red and blue markers indicating unusual events around the world.

The silver-haired elder sat in the main seat, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit. His hair was meticulously combed, like the finest silver threads. Before him lay a recent intelligence summary, the paper off-white with neatly trimmed edges. The summary contained only a few words, printed in standard Thames typeface—

"Three low-level Japanese monks infiltrated Hong Kong and died that same day. Their bodies were found floating in Victoria Harbour. They are suspected to have been killed by Hong Kong monks."

The conference room was completely silent, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning system. Everyone wore a somber expression, their fingers tapping absently on the table, or holding coffee cups but forgetting to drink.

After a long silence, a burly man with a thick beard broke the monologue. He wore a black leather jacket, which his muscles bulged out, and his beard, as thick as wild grass, almost covered most of his face. His voice was booming, with a heavy Scottish accent, as if he were arguing in a pub: "What are the Japanese trying to do? Sending monks to Hong Kong, don't they know that's Eastern territory? The waters there are murky, and they insisted on wading in. Now look what happened, they've drowned themselves!"

“Of course they know,” a middle-aged woman wearing glasses interjected. She wore a crisp white blouse and a black pencil skirt, her hair pulled back, revealing her smooth forehead. The lenses of her glasses reflected a cold, white light, obscuring her eyes. Her voice was calm and rational, precise like a scalpel. “But what they want to know more is whether those unusual events in Tokyo were the work of Hong Kong monks. Recently, the deaths of executives of British-owned companies and gang leaders in Tokyo have been too suspicious; they were all completely annihilated, as if some powerful force had instantly wiped out their life force. The Japanese suspect that someone from Hong Kong is behind it, which is why they rushed to send people to investigate.”

"And the result? Nothing was found, and three lives were lost." The bearded man curled his lip, picked up the coffee on the table and took a big gulp, but the scalding coffee seemed unable to dispel the irritation in his heart.

The silver-haired old man raised his hand to stop their argument. His long, pale fingers tapped lightly on the table, making a crisp "tap-tap" sound.

"The question now is, what do we do?"

He looked around at the crowd, his gaze calm yet carrying an undeniable air of authority.

"We still don't know the cultivation level of that cultivator from Hong Kong. But to be able to kill three low-level cultivators simultaneously without leaving a trace, he must be at least at the Golden Core stage." He paused, his tone becoming more serious, "and possibly even higher."

"Higher?" The bearded man's eyes widened, nearly spilling his coffee. "Nascent Soul? You mean... the Nascent Soul stage?"

"It cannot be ruled out," the silver-haired old man said calmly.

Another silence fell over the meeting room, even more oppressive than before.