Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Night deepened, and the silvery moonlight shone even brighter, traversing the deep blue night sky, becoming a beautiful sight in the summer night. The wind atop Victoria Peak carried the scent of the sea, seeping in through the cracks in the villa's blinds, rustling softly on the floor. In the distance, most of the lights in Victoria Harbour had long since gone out, leaving only a few navigation lights flickering on the dark sea. The waves lapped against the rocks with a muffled, labored sound, like the panting of an old ox in a mountain valley.

In the second-floor bedroom, He Yushui's breathing was as light as a feather. Her hand, draped over the corner of the blanket, twitched occasionally, probably dreaming of the red dress she had seen at the department store that day. He Yuzhu's room was also dark, with only a sliver of light from the corridor seeping through the crack in the door. Chen Xueru's head rested on He Damin's shoulder, her hair brushing against his neck, carrying the jasmine scent of shampoo. Her breathing was even, her chest rising and falling like a quiet little rabbit, her warm breath tickling his collarbone.

He Damin, however, was not sleepy at all.

His arm was already numb, and he dared not move it. Chen Xueru was a light sleeper; she would wake up at the slightest turn. He stared at the shadow of the chandelier on the ceiling, which swayed in the night breeze like a small, menacing monster. He didn't know how much time had passed, until Chen Xueru's breathing had completely calmed down, before he carefully withdrew his arm—a tingling, numb feeling ran through his bones, as if countless tiny needles were pricking him. He rubbed his numb fingers, then tucked the blanket around her, tucking it under her chin, revealing half of her rosy, sleeping face.

The study door clicked softly. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out even moonlight. The computer screen was lit, its soft blue light casting a cool hue throughout the room. A model of the Earth rotated slowly in the center of the screen, marked with sixty small green dots—the satellites he had launched, now moving slowly through the blackness of space like patrolling sentinels.

He Damin sat cross-legged on the floor, the cool wooden floorboards pressing against his lower back. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, the man was gone.

The little world was dazzlingly bright.

The sun was fake, but the light and heat were real. The machines in the industrial area hummed, their muffled sounds echoing like distant thunder within the factory buildings. Silver conveyor belts carried parts, clicking and clacking with a rhythm more precise than a clock. In a corner, an arc welder sizzled, sending golden-red sparks flying that solidified into tiny iron beads on the ground, like scattered gold dust. In a distant warehouse, twenty gold bricks were stacked neatly, reflecting a soft light that hurt the eyes—they were forged from scrap iron, heavy enough to sink a small section of the concrete floor.

He Damin didn't look around much and walked straight into the Yin-Yang Space. His feet rustled softly on the grass, and the dew on the blades of grass clung to his trouser legs, feeling cool and refreshing.

The entrance to the cathode space was like a black hole. As soon as you stepped inside, a chill crept up from the soles of your feet, colder than well water in the twelfth lunar month. An indescribable smell filled the air, somewhat like damp earth, yet also like burnt paper ash; inhaling it made your chest feel tight. The black stones on the ground were smooth, as if waxed, reflecting the hazy light overhead, making even your own shadow appear eerie.

As you walk further in, suddenly there's no ground beneath your feet.

Looking down, the scene of the eighteen levels of hell unfolded beneath my feet, like watching a 3D movie. The first level was a mountain of knives, the white blades pointing upwards, and the souls crawled barefoot on them, blood dripping down the blades, "drip, drip," accumulating into pools of blood at the bottom. The second level was a sea of ​​fire, bluish-green flames licking at the bodies of the souls, crackling and popping. The souls opened their mouths and screamed, but no sound could be heard, only the "hoarse" gasps from their throats. Further down, a cauldron of boiling oil bubbled, and the souls writhed and rolled inside, fried until their skin was torn and their flesh torn apart, just as they were pulled out, they fell back in, endlessly.

He Damin frowned. He had seen these scenes countless times, but every time he saw them, he still felt a tightness in his heart.

A dark banner floated above hell, the Soul-Refining Banner. It turned slowly, like a lotus leaf in a pond. The banner was covered with countless ghostly figures, huddled together. Some reached out as if trying to grab something, others wailed with muffled cries, as if muffled by a layer of cotton—these were three hundred evil spirits collected from the Yasukuni Shrine. He Damin immediately spotted the remnant soul of Tojo Hideki, only half a body remaining, still struggling and brandishing its claws; Matsui Iwane's soul was huddled in a ball, like a burnt walnut, occasionally emitting mournful "woo-woo" sounds. These souls were tightly bound by the patterns on the banner, gradually being ground into soul power, climbing up the banner pole, finally turning into wisps of green smoke, drifting towards the center of the small world—nutrients nourishing He Damin's primordial spirit.

"It'll be soon," He Damin muttered to himself. "In another six months, these bastards should be completely gone."

But that's not what he came to see tonight.

He reached out his hand, thinking, "Come here."

As if it had heard him, the Soul Refining Banner trembled slightly, emitting a low "hum," and then transformed into a black light, slowly drifting down and landing in his palm.

It was cool to the touch, like touching a piece of iron that had been soaked in water, and it also had a slightly sticky feel, as if it were covered with the resentment of countless souls. The banner swayed gently in his palm, and the tassels along the edge brushed against his fingers, tickling them as if tiny insects were crawling on them.

He Damin stared at the banner and suddenly an idea popped into his head.

"It would be great if there were more," he muttered casually, his voice echoing in the empty cathode space. "It's too much trouble to have to make the trip myself every time."

Last time he went to Yasukuni Shrine, he sneaked in at midnight. It wasn't too difficult, but the jet lag was exhausting. He also personally went to each of the Hong Kong triad bosses to collect their souls, wearing out his shoes by the time he returned. If only the Soul-Refining Banner could grow legs or split into smaller ones so they could find their own food…

The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. For example, he could throw the koban (banners) into Japan and let them attach themselves to those right-wing politicians, constantly chanting "confess your guilt" in their minds; or he could go into the Yasukuni Shrine and devour all the memorial tablets, leaving no trace of those war criminals.

Just as he was deep in thought, the Soul Refining Banner in his palm suddenly hummed and began to shake violently!

He Damin was startled and looked down—the originally dim patterns on the banner suddenly lit up! It wasn't the usual dark blue, but a pure black light, so black it shone, as if it had absorbed the sun, so bright it hurt the eyes, yet it was impossible to see through, like staring into a bottomless well.

"Buzz—"

Another sound, deeper than before, made He Damin's eardrums ring painfully. The sound was very strange, like thousands of people crying, or like a giant beast roaring. Even the eighteen levels of hell beneath his feet shook. The souls being tortured suddenly stopped struggling, and one by one they raised their heads and stared straight at him, their eyes filled with terror.

He Damin felt the Soul Refining Banner in his palm getting hotter and hotter, as if he were holding a red-hot branding iron! The banner bounced "thump thump" as if he had a rabbit in his hand, and it almost slipped out of his grasp.

"What the hell?" He frowned and probed in with his divine sense.

He was stunned when he saw it.

Inside the core of the Soul Refining Banner, the three hundred evil souls suddenly stopped causing trouble. As if drawn by a magnet, they all knelt down in the same direction, making a hissing sound that sounded somewhat like... worship? The refined soul power bubbled up like boiling water, swirling in the heart of the banner, getting faster and faster, and finally condensing into a black vortex.

"This is... about to advance?" Before He Damin could react, the Soul Refining Banner suddenly exploded with a "boom"!

It wasn't a real explosion; the banner itself cracked! A crack started in the middle and spread outwards with a "crackling" sound, like ice breaking apart. More and more cracks appeared, slicing the banner into countless fragments. Those fragments spun in the air, flashing with black light, making one dizzy just looking at them.

He Damin was dumbfounded. He had just said it casually, but the banner could really split on its own?

While he was still in a daze, the fragments suddenly flew up with a "whoosh" and reassembled in the air. When he saw them clearly, there were nine small banners floating in the spot—not much bigger than the palm of his hand, dark and dark, looking exactly like the original body, only smaller, and the soul shadows on the banners were sparse, as if they hadn't eaten enough.

The large banner, after splitting into smaller banners, swayed and solidified again, only its color was a little lighter, floating in mid-air like a wilted leaf.

He Damin looked up at the nine small banners, his heart pounding like a rabbit's. He stretched out his hand and softly called out, "Come here."

Nine small banners flew over with a "whoosh," circling him like a flock of fledgling sparrows just learning to fly, still carrying a hint of timidity. He grabbed one and held it in his palm—much lighter than the large banner, weighing only two ounces, the patterns on its surface much shallower, but the chilling aura remained undiminished. He probed it with his divine sense and immediately understood: this small banner possessed one-tenth of the large banner's power; it could release Netherworld Chains, but only one at a time; it could open a Soul Banner Domain, but only within a radius of thirty feet; and if it summoned evil spirits, it could only do so for a maximum of one hundred.

Most importantly—they can go out and collect souls on their own! The collected soul power will travel back to the banner along invisible threads, and finally reach his brain.

He Damin held the small banner, and the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up.

Nine small banners, representing nine different locations.

One must be placed at the Yasukuni Shrine. One at each of the Tokyo yakuza's strongholds—the Yamaguchi-gumi, the Sumiyoshi-kai, the Inagawa-kai. And those right-wing politicians, the military's secret bases… He Damin grew increasingly pleased with the thought. From now on, he could just sit at home and wait for soul power to come to him—easier than opening a bank.

"You're something else." He smiled at the small banner in his hand. "You really make me proud."

Xiao Fan trembled slightly in his hand, as if she were being affectionate.

He Damin laid out the nine small banners in front of him, arranged neatly like a row of soldiers waiting for orders. He stretched out his finger and pointed at each one; with each touch, the banner trembled, like a chick pecking at rice.

"All nine of you," he said in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard, "have work to do."