Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

The mother, Yamamoto Mieko, smiled weakly and reached out her trembling hand to take the small, wrinkled baby. Looking at the child's rosy face, eyes tightly closed, and little mouth unconsciously smacking, a wave of maternal tenderness instantly filled her heart, her eyes brimming with love and joy.

She didn't notice that when she looked down at her child, the little life that had just entered this world, in the instant it opened its eyes, flashed a deep confusion and world-weariness that was completely out of character for its age.

Li Dashan—no, from this moment on, he should be called Yamamoto Taro—blinked, adjusting to the light. He looked at the unfamiliar woman before him; her face was gentle, and she smelled faintly of milk. He glanced around: white walls, white sheets, and some strange instruments emitting soft beeping sounds. A complex, indescribable emotion surged into his heart like a tide.

He still remembers.

I remember it very clearly.

He remembered his name was Li Dashan, an ordinary farmer on the Loess Plateau. He remembered his few acres of barren land, sowing in spring and harvesting in autumn, sweat pouring down his face. He remembered the wrinkles on his wife's face, etched by the sun and the hardships of life. He remembered his son running barefoot on the ridges of the fields, his laughter like silver bells. He also remembered the day he went to chop firewood on the mountain, slipped, and tumbled down... When he woke up, he was in a place called "the underworld."

But he also remembered that the blurry figure told him he was dead.

Now, he is alive again.

As an infant, living in this completely unfamiliar country and in this completely unfamiliar family.

He didn't know whether it was good luck or bad luck.

But he knew the voice was right; he had to live.

Live on, carrying those unforgettable memories, no matter what identity you hold.

In Victoria Peak, Hong Kong, in that villa overlooking the entire Victoria Harbour.

He Damin slowly opened his eyes. Outside the window, the sky was already beginning to lighten, and several ships could be seen silhouetted against the distant sea. The smile on his face rippled outwards like waves, growing ever deeper.

It became.

The soul of the Chinese people, carrying complete memories, was successfully reincarnated into a Japanese baby.

What does this mean?

This means that from now on, he can send the souls of China, especially those carrying memories of their homeland and the roots of their nation, to Japan like sowing seeds, allowing them to take root and sprout anew on this land. They carry memories of their past lives, a deep attachment to their homeland, and the culture and wisdom accumulated over thousands of years of Chinese civilization.

A generation later, these "special" children will grow up. They will enter various industries in Japan, becoming workers, teachers, engineers, doctors, and perhaps even officials or scholars... They will think in the Chinese way and judge with Chinese values, subtly changing the direction of this country and gradually eroding its foundation.

And what about those souls who were supposed to be reincarnated in Japan? He Damin's lips curled into a cold smile. He would intercept them all, throw them into the deepest part of hell, and refine them into the purest energy to nourish himself and strengthen his power.

This is the true way to undermine a nation's foundation, dismantling it from the very root without firing a single shot.

He stood up, walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, and looked towards the distant east.

In the direction of Tokyo, a new day should have already begun.

For the baby named Yamamoto Taro, a new day marked the beginning of a new life. For He Damin, it was also the start of a new plan.

He picked up the phone on the table and dialed a number. A slightly hoarse male voice quickly came from the other end; it was his assistant, Lawrence. "Book me a flight back to Hong Kong this afternoon." After hanging up, he looked eastward. "The experiment was a success; now for large-scale rollout."

He Damin turned and went into the bathroom. The tiled floor felt cool under his feet. He turned on the brass faucet. At first, there was a hissing sound, then hot water, steaming, rushed out and splashed into the enamel basin. The mirror quickly became fogged up, making his reflection appear ethereal, like a lump of dough.

He reached up and wiped his face, water droplets dripping from his chin onto his chest. The figure in the mirror suddenly grinned, the smile so wide that fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, like an old cat spotting a mouse scurrying around in its cage—before the claws even extend, the tip of its tail is already wagging.

The plane jolted as it passed through the clouds. He Damin opened his eyes, and outside the window stretched an endless sea of ​​white clouds, dazzlingly bright. He pulled his eye mask down again, but images kept popping into his mind: the clattering robotic arms in the Toyota factory, workers in navy blue overalls hunching over as they loaded parts onto the conveyor belt, and the eyes behind the Panasonic president's gold-rimmed glasses, shining like freshly polished copper coins.

These people had no idea that every radio and car they were painstakingly building was contributing to someone else's rice bowl. He Damin loosened his tie, his Adam's apple bobbing. Japan in 1945 was like a newly fertilized vegetable patch, lush and vibrant. Newspapers reported daily that Japan was the world's leading producer of transistors, that steel mills' blast furnaces could produce enough power in a single day to last a month, and that even in Tokyo's Ginza department stores, television sets lined walls.

He recalled the scene he witnessed at Mitsukoshi Department Store: girls in plaid skirts crowded in front of the appliance counter, chattering excitedly as they pointed at the gleaming washing machines. The newspapers called it a "consumer revolution," claiming that the "three great gadgets" would soon be available to ordinary people. But little did the common people know that the yen they held in their hands would become worthless in a few years, like withered vegetable leaves.

"Sir, would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant's voice interrupted his thoughts. He Damin waved his hand, pulled a gleaming lighter from his pocket, but didn't light a cigarette; he just twirled it between his fingers. The ten-year plan to double national income, six billion US dollars to import technology, and the government's continuous interest rate and tax cuts... these impressive figures were nothing more than gears in a harvester in his eyes; the faster they turned, the cleaner the harvest.

The clouds outside the window dispersed a bit, revealing the dark blue Pacific Ocean beneath. He Damin pressed his face against the porthole, the cold glass making his cheekbones tingle. The Japanese archipelago across the sea looked like a plump fish, foolishly swimming into a fishing net. He remembered the night before he left Tokyo, in a bar in Shinjuku, where several bank employees in suits were boasting about making the yen the world's hardest currency.

"Soon," he murmured to his blurry reflection in the glass, a cat-like smile returning to his lips. When this season's rice ripens, people with sickles will come. Then, these roaring machines, these busy workers, and the wealth hidden behind the ledgers will all find new owners.

The plane lurched slightly. He Damin put the lighter back in his pocket and closed his eyes again. The cabin air conditioning was a bit cold, so he pulled the blanket over himself. In his dream, he seemed to be back on the streets of Tokyo, where a proprietress in a kimono was bending down to pour him tea. The neon lights reflected in the teacup, flashing like scattered gold dust.

In 1959, Japan was like a rice stalk that had just been watered, striving to grow taller. Scaffolding was everywhere on the streets, the corrugated iron roofs of newly built factories gleamed coldly in the sunlight, and the air was always filled with the smell of a mixture of machine oil and cement dust.

He Damin was awakened by the noise on deck. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The sky outside the porthole was just beginning to lighten. The cargo ship was slowly approaching Yokohama Port. Scattered sawdust and plastic bottles floated in the murky water. The distant coastline looked like a blurry gray line, gradually revealing the outline of factory chimneys.

"Have you heard? Toshiba has opened its third transistor production line now." A sailor in the next berth was wiping the railing with a rag. "My nephew from my hometown is an apprentice at a radio factory in Tokyo, and he earns two thousand yen a month."

He Damin didn't reply, but pulled out half a pack of Heping brand cigarettes from under his pillow. The moment the match was struck, he saw his reflection in the windowpane—wearing a faded khaki shirt, his hair sticking up in a messy mess, only his eyes, bright as if they were tempered nails.

The deck gradually became lively. Customs officers in navy blue uniforms came up the gangway, their leather shoes clattering on the metal deck. He Damin stubbed out his cigarette in the dust on the porthole ledge and pulled a brown paper document bag from his canvas bag. Inside, besides a forged identity card, were several yellowed newspaper clippings—one from the Asahi Shimbun about the "National Income Doubling Plan," in which a bespectacled official held up a chart, his mouth agape; and another from the Yomiuri Shimbun's social section, in which a housewife in a kimono was stuffing her newly bought Toshiba refrigerator into the entryway, accompanied by the headline in cursive script: "Three Great Gadgets Enter Ordinary Homes."

"Sir, here's your declaration form." The young man in uniform bowed, speaking Japanese with an Osaka accent. As He Damin handed over the document, he caught a glimpse of the pen on the man's chest—a Sakura brand, with the company name engraved on the cap. This type of plastic-barreled pen had only started production in Kobe last year, and now even junior customs officials were wearing it in their pockets.

It was nearly noon when the ship docked. He Damin followed the crowd out of the harbor, squinting at the blinding sunlight. Trams clanged past on the streets, their sides emblazoned with the slogan "Hitachi TVs, ushering in a new era of color." Office workers in suits hurried by, their briefcases emblazoned with the gold-embossed logos of Mitsubishi and Mitsui. Women in high heels peeked out from under their skirts, their nylon stockings shimmering in the sunlight.

He ordered a bowl of miso ramen at the noodle shop on the street corner. NHK's midday news was playing on TV, and the bespectacled anchor was speaking rapidly: "According to statistics from the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, Japan's steel production has exceeded 30 million tons, with an average daily output of 1200 tons from blast furnaces..." He Damin picked at his noodles with his chopsticks, glancing at two girls in school uniforms at the next table chattering away over a magazine featuring a washing machine. The cover bore three large, gold-embossed characters: "Consumer Revolution."

"Have you heard? Panasonic is building a new factory in Shiga Prefecture." The noodle shop owner, his voice booming, brought over free pickled radishes. "My wife keeps nagging me to buy a double-door refrigerator, saying that the Sato family next door even upgraded their TV to a color one."

When He Damin paid the bill, he deliberately spread several 10,000 yen banknotes on the counter. The shopkeeper's fingers, which were counting the money, paused, and a barely perceptible glint of greed flashed in his eyes. This new version of banknotes, issued only in 1958, was now circulating more and more on the streets of Tokyo, like the desire that permeated the air—visible but intangible, yet undeniably expanding.

As evening fell, he stood beneath Tokyo Tower. The setting sun bathed the tower in a golden-red hue. In the park below, an elderly woman in a kimono pushed a stroller, while the radio played "Cherry Blossom Ballad." He Damin pulled out his pocket watch, on the inside of which was a faded photograph—the Bund in Shanghai in 1945. He was a student with a parted hairstyle, and behind him stood the HSBC building, blackened by the flames of war.

"Almost there," he whispered to himself in the watch face. The sea breeze tousled his hair, and the neon lights in the distance lit up one after another. In the windows of Mitsukoshi Department Store, washing machines, refrigerators, and televisions were lined up like three gleaming silver altars.

As night deepened, He Damin entered a café in Ginza. A waiter in a black uniform led him to a window seat. Outside, men in suits were pouring out of office buildings, their briefcases bulging with contracts and reports. He ordered a Blue Mountain coffee and opened the Nikkei Shimbun the waiter handed him. In the corner of the social section was a small news item: "The U.S. Treasury Department announced today that it will adjust its intervention policy on the yen's exchange rate."

The steam from the coffee cup blurred his face. He Damin stirred gently with a silver spoon; the brown liquid reflected the myriad lights outside the window, like scattered diamonds on black velvet. He remembered his superior's words before he left: "Those ordinary people frantically carrying refrigerators and washing machines home don't realize they're actually bringing back a time bomb."

Firecrackers suddenly went off at the department store across the street, and colorful confetti rained down from the rooftop. He Damin looked up and saw a huge GG sign with a mannequin in a kimono smiling as it held up a Toshiba television, the screen displaying a silhouette of Mount Fuji. He picked up his coffee cup and gently touched the rim to the illusory image.

"A toast to your consumer revolution," he said softly, a cold smile playing on his lips. The bitterness of the coffee spread across his tongue, much like the bitter tea he had drunk in Shanghai years ago.