Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Early winter, 1959, Tokyo.

The wind carried a harsh chill, stinging his face like tiny knives. He Damin stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse suite at the Imperial Hotel, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cold glass. Outside, the entire city of Tokyo resembled a massive construction site with a hornet's nest stirred up, a cacophony of clanging, hammering, and crane roars that could be faintly heard even through the glass.

He looked down; the construction sites were densely packed, crammed full. Tower cranes, high in the gray sky, their long booms slowly turning, resembled a herd of steel giraffes pacing back and forth after a good grazing. In the distance, the Shinkansen construction site was even more bustling, with massive concrete bridge piers standing solidly, stretching as far as the eye could see along the railway line, like the spine of a giant dragon slowly awakening. Looking further towards Ginza, before it was even completely dark, the neon lights had already eagerly lit up—red, blue, and yellow, flashing. Although it wasn't quite the kind of dazzling prosperity that would later illuminate half the sky, the vibrant, almost bursting-out energy already gave the impression that a society that valued spending money and enjoyment was quietly emerging on this land.

He Damin turned around and walked to the low table in the center of the room. On the table sat an elegant ceramic teacup, next to a small tea caddy, its mouth still open, emitting a faint, delicate fragrance. He picked up the teacup, gently skimmed off the foam with the lid, brought it to his lips, and took a small sip. It was Gyokuro tea from Uji, with a very authentic flavor. It was refreshingly cool upon first sip, but after swallowing, a faint bitterness lingered in his throat, much like the feeling in his heart at that moment.

"It's developing so fast..." he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, almost drowned out by the faint noise coming from outside the window.

In the past three days, he had been constantly on the go, seeing and experiencing a great deal. This country, to him, felt like someone recovering from a serious illness, desperately trying to catch up on missed lessons. On the surface, it seemed like a rising star, determined to catch up with its Western counterparts, displaying an indomitable spirit. But what was its true nature? He Damin discerned something—it was more like a tightly wound, incredibly precise machine, the entire nation united as one, focused solely on expanding and strengthening its industrial sector.

Just yesterday, he visited the Toshiba factory in Shibaura, Tokyo. The factory was enormous, large enough for a horse to run through, brightly lit, with rows of assembly lines like long dragons, constantly turning and clicking. The workers were all wearing uniform navy blue work clothes and hats, heads down, working quickly and efficiently, their faces expressionless, like part of the machine. The section chief accompanying him, surnamed Yamada, was in his forties, with a completely bald head. When he spoke, he stood ramrod straight, his face radiating undisguised pride. Pointing to the small, exquisite transistor radios on the assembly line, he said in a loud voice, "Mr. He, look, these are all Toshiba products. They've already been sold to the United States, hundreds of thousands a year!"

At this point, Section Chief Yamada lowered his voice, but his smugness only intensified: "To be honest, our workers earn less than thirty dollars a month." He paused, his eyes gleaming, "I've heard that workers in America earn three hundred and eighty dollars a month! Mr. He, that's our advantage!"

He Damin merely grinned, offering no reply. But he understood perfectly. He knew exactly what this meant. Cheap workers, high-quality equipment, and the technology learned from the Americans—Japanese gadgets like radios and semiconductors were flooding the world. He knew that in 1959 alone, Japan produced 86 million transistors. Good heavens, that number surpassed even the United States, the birthplace of transistors. That speed was truly astonishing.

Yesterday afternoon, he went straight to Osaka to visit Sumitomo Metal's steelworks. The place was so hot that you could feel a wave of heat as soon as you got close; the air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and molten iron. The enormous blast furnaces, black and menacing, looked like monsters crouching on the ground, their mouths agape, occasionally spewing out large plumes of orange-red flames that stained half the sky red. The factory's data stated that this blast furnace alone could produce over a thousand tons of molten iron a day, with a coke ratio below 600 kJ/kg – technical specifications that would rank among the best in the world.

This morning, he went to the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, handed over his business card, and said he was there to investigate the investment environment, and also to review some publicly available economic data. The numbers on those papers, row after row, column after column, made his heart pound. In 1959, Japan's spending on research and development out of its gross national income was already comparable to that of established capitalist countries like France and West Germany. What was even more unsettling was that the government seemed to be brewing a major initiative—a plan called the "National Income Doubling Plan," which aimed to double the country's GDP within the next ten years. That was quite an ambitious goal.

He Damin put down his teacup, the bottom of which made a soft "tap" as it touched the table. A slight, enigmatic smile appeared on his lips.

"Very good..." he said softly again, his voice so soft that only he could hear it.

These factories, these technologies, these colorful products... they will all be his in the future. Once he has drained the soul from this country, the remaining shell and wealth will naturally be taken over by new owners.

However, he has more important work to do right now.

Night fell like a giant black cloth, slowly enveloping Tokyo. As the city lights came on, it transformed, taking on a more ambiguous and restless atmosphere than during the day.

He Damin changed into inconspicuous dark casual clothes and left the Imperial Hotel. He didn't call a taxi; he simply walked alone, following the bustling crowd into the Tokyo night. He walked through the dazzling Ginza street, lined with department stores, cafes, and cinemas, all brightly lit, bustling with people—well-dressed men and women chatting and laughing, the air thick with the mingled scents of perfume and food. Further on was Kabukicho, its neon lights blinding, the sounds of street vendors soliciting customers and the noise from bars mingling together, almost excessively so.

He Damin had little interest in the hustle and bustle. He kept walking, winding his way through the streets until he finally arrived at a residential area quite far from the city center. It was much quieter here. The streets were narrow, lined with small buildings, mostly two-story wooden structures, each with a small yard filled with unidentifiable flowers, trees, and shrubs. The streetlights were old-fashioned, emitting a dim, yellowish light that barely illuminated the path and cast long, long shadows.

He stopped and stood in the shadows across the street. The shadows fell directly under an old camphor tree; many leaves had fallen, but the branches were still quite dense, completely shading him. He looked up at a seemingly ordinary two-story building across the street. The house had off-white walls, a dark gray tiled roof, and a small, dimly lit door lamp hanging in the entrance.

He Damin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everything around him seemed to quiet down, except for the sound of his own heartbeat and the occasional sound of a tram passing by in the distance. His consciousness, like an invisible net, silently spread out and instantly covered the entire small house.

The scene inside the house appeared clearly in his "field of vision." The first floor consisted of a living room and kitchen, quiet and still. In the master bedroom on the second floor, a dim bedside lamp was on. A young couple lay on the bed. The woman was lying on her side, her belly high and protruding, seemingly close to her due date. She slept soundly, her breathing even, her chest rising and falling gently. The man was facing away from her, also sleeping soundly, occasionally letting out soft snores, a faint smile seemingly playing on his lips, lost in some sweet dream.

He Damin withdrew his divine sense, and the corners of his mouth slightly turned up again.

"This is the one," he decided.

He closed his eyes again, and a thought flashed through his mind—

That invisible divine consciousness instantly traversed thousands of mountains and rivers, returning to the quiet villa on Victoria Peak in Hong Kong, and then went straight into that mysterious Yin-Yang space.

It's the same as always. Before the gates of hell, on the road to the underworld, shadowy figures are everywhere. No, they should be called souls. They move slowly forward in long lines, each with a blank expression and empty eyes, as if they don't know where they're going or why they're there. These are ordinary people who have recently died on Japanese soil: elderly people with gray hair, middle-aged people who look quite robust, and some young people who seem to have died in accidents.

He Damin's divine sense did not linger on the queuing souls, but passed directly through them and entered the vibrant Valley of New Life.

The gleaming golden gate still stood there silently, like an entrance to another world. Inside, a soft, warm light emanated, and one could vaguely see green mountains and clear waters, hear birdsong and insect chirps, and smell a faint fragrance of flowers—a world completely different from the eerie and cold underworld outside.

But at this moment, a person was standing in front of the gate of light.

That was a Chinese soul that had just arrived here. Judging from his appearance, he must have been an ordinary farmer in his previous life, wearing old clothes covered in patches, with dark skin and calloused hands. He stood there all alone before the gate of light, his eyes filled with confusion and bewilderment, not knowing how he had suddenly appeared in this place, nor what to do next.

He Damin's consciousness coalesced into a blurry human figure before him.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice ringing out directly in the soul's consciousness.

The soul was startled by the sudden voice, trembling all over. It looked around blankly before finally fixing its gaze on the humanoid figure He Damin had conjured. It stood there stunned for a long while before stammering in heavily accented words, "I...I'm called Li Dashan...Where am I? What kind of place is this?"

"You're dead." He Damin's voice was calm and devoid of any emotion. "This is the underworld."

"Dead?" Li Dashan was stunned, his expression as if he hadn't understood. He stood there blankly for a long time, his eyes slowly filling with tears, and then, as if suddenly realizing something, he burst into tears. It wasn't a loud wail, but a suppressed, heart-wrenching sob. He thought of his wife at home, his toddler who had just learned to walk, the few acres of wheat in the fields that hadn't been harvested yet, his elderly parents lying sick in bed at the edge of the village... He cried, his whole body trembling, tears falling like broken beads, but he couldn't make a sound; only that silent sorrow surged forth like a tide.

He Damin just watched him quietly until he had cried enough and calmed down a bit, then slowly said, "I can give you a chance."

Li Dashan slowly raised his head, his red and swollen eyes looking at He Damin, his gaze filled with confusion and a hint of barely perceptible expectation.

"Reincarnation," He Damin said, enunciating each word clearly. "Take your current memories and go into a new body."

"What?" Li Dashan was stunned, his eyes widening in disbelief. "I... I can still remember things from the past? Remember my wife, remember my child?"

"Yes," He Damin replied decisively.

A glimmer of light flashed in Li Dashan's eyes, but it quickly dimmed again. He asked cautiously, "Then...can I still go back to see my wife and my child? My parents are still waiting for me to take care of them in their old age and see them off in their final days..."

He Damin shook his head: "No. You can only live on with a new identity. But you can remember them, remember who you used to be, and remember where you came from."

Li Dashan fell silent. He lowered his head, looking at his ethereal hands, as if deep in thought. A long, long time passed, so long that He Damin was almost losing patience, before he slowly raised his head, his eyes filled with a calm and resolute resolve born of having died once, and nodded: "I...I'm willing. As long as I can live, anything is fine."

He Damin reached out his hand, and the hand formed from divine consciousness gently pressed it on Li Dashan's forehead.

"Go."

As soon as he finished speaking, a soft golden light suddenly surged from the portal in the Valley of New Life, like a warm blanket gently enveloping Li Dashan's soul. Li Dashan felt his body become light and airy, as if flying in the sky or swimming in water, passing through layer after layer of mist, the scenery before him rapidly changing…

Then, he saw a blinding light.

Tokyo, that two-story building.

It was past three in the morning, and all was quiet. Suddenly, a low gasp came from the master bedroom. The pregnant woman awoke with a start, her forehead instantly covered in cold sweat. She felt a sharp, cramping pain in her abdomen, and a gush of warm fluid gushed out uncontrollably—her water had broken.

"Husband! Wake up! Quick! I...I think I'm going into labor!" Her voice was trembling with tears, filled with anxiety and fear.

The man sleeping next to her, Kenichi Yamamoto, sprang from the bed, his groggy mind instantly clearing. He hurriedly dressed, comforting his wife while shakily picking up the phone on the table and dialing for an ambulance. His voice trembled as he spoke rapidly in Japanese, interspersed with anxious interjections.

About half an hour later, an ambulance with its red lights flashing came to a screeching halt in front of the building. Several medical staff in white coats rushed in with a stretcher, carefully lifted the pregnant woman onto it, and then hurriedly carried her away. Kenichi Yamamoto followed behind, jogging along, constantly muttering, "It's okay, it's okay."

More than an hour later, a loud cry from a newborn broke the silence of the early morning in the hospital's delivery room. The cry was bright and strong, as if announcing the arrival of a new life.

"Congratulations! It's a boy! Very healthy!" A nurse, holding the newly cleaned newborn, handed the baby to the exhausted mother with a professional smile.